just like i wanted

chapter6

just like i wanted

"it isn't what you think!" i protest.

it's obvious to me that Carter thinks i'm rejecting a part of him. and it makes sense that he would feel spurned and judged when i distance from his habit. honestly, there isn’t another way to interpret my dissociation from his perspective, but it is the intention and motive for my pushback that i wish to give my personal definition to.

“it’s just hard for me to be around because i get squeamish. you know that," i rebuke and, 100%, am not entertaining his contention, “and the stress of what my mother would think if she thought that was going on... it's complicated enough already,” i dress my face with concern as i touch my defense with a little bit of guilt for full emphasis.

guilt circulates throughout my body, starting in my stomach as i place the capstone of my seemingly justified condemnation. with it, discomfort is left behind, sticking to my skin like syrup. but if i back down now, then i compromise my probity. i can’t give him that sort of upper hand. it's best to stand firm in my judgment

the truth is somewhere in the middle of both sides of our debate. i am squeamish. i can’t even watch myself get a shot or getting blood drawn.

but also, he does make a production of it. sometimes he seems to position himself before me in a conspicuously unavoidable way, and he knows it is only a matter of time before i react. even more of a rub, the rush and gratification he seeks often remain elusive and unmet. the whole staged performance leaves us both frustrated and uneasy.

by his own account, while he can find satisfaction, he wants to make it a part of his past.

I wonder in the following silence, “does he want me to accept it for the validation? Does he really think i am trying to control him or is it just his insecurity? this thing that he, himself claims he wishes to put behind him?”

if that is the case, i do judge that harshly.

he frames my protests as if it is hypocrisy because i smoke, “just like” his shots and involvement with some of the company he keeps. we have debated and argued about it more frequently since we have been spending more time together.

but i told him from the start what i wanted, what i have been limiting, and the hard lines that i have set in my life. he doesn’t have to do what i do. but i need a partner who supports my choices and my growth.

“doesn't he want me to be happy and healthy?”

most of these things i have no personal issue with. but as it is, living in my family’s home, i have to maintain a certain rapport.

he knew that. he agreed to limit certain things. i trusted him to respect that when he said he wanted to move from his home, a few hours north of Albuquerque, to be here with me. i made sure he knew. i asked, and i asked again if he could live by those expectations.

other parts of the dispute revolve around the mental health journey i have set myself upon. And these are much less negotiable.

all together, situations like this have left me defending my boundaries. as if i must justify why my feelings are hurt.

my resentment grows a little every time i explain why i have a reaction. it takes me right back into why i originally had to set those boundaries. those prime traumas begin to feel like an inescapable prison at a certain point, with him as the warden.

i also judge that rather harshly.

i could make a whole list of things i don’t like and what i think he does wrong. i certainly have, but we are both aware of each other’s apprehension. there is no question that among our various goals and interests, we seem to be in a gridlock of conflict.

but, right now, it’s better to be diplomatic since we still have another hour of driving until we reach home.

we both already know where the other stands. if we start keeping score, it will never end well. and it can be a lengthy and uncertain process to recover dignity and a moral advantage. reestablishing authority is rarely a simple assignment and a descent into conflict could make it one very long hour home.

so, we dance, with our words, and our wits, around what we don’t want to say. things can often be delicate, but with finesse and forgiveness, so many things are possible.

after what feels like the entire hour within a mile or two of driving, Carter inhales for what i expect to be his rebuttal.

“i know, Evan. i get it,” Carter assures me, momentarily glancing at my face to see subtle confusion replace my pleading and pitiful expression.

we make short of eye contact before he quickly darts his attention out the window, turning his entire body away from me.

i have made it no secret that mistrust governs my social litmus testing, and why it does. for so many years, that mistrust was my rule. contrary to common practice i used excessive vulnerability as if it was armor. when people judged or distanced from me, it was a perfect excuse to identify as a victim of unjust penalty.

our connection has been the first time in a decade that i have truly opened myself to intimacy.

much like my distaste for the prevalent sense of exposure, he is not shy to protest in his defense when my boundaries clash with his autonomy.

i note his closed posture and i keep driving, patiently paused with our shared silence.

i release a weighted breath and muse silently with an internal chuckle, “what a noble thing i am doing to encourage us both to grow” knowing he will never feel the weight of that responsibility.

if i can’t take time to laugh at myself, my arrogance, where will my smile go?

we pass the lonely silhouette of a dilapidated billboard, outlined by the glowing sunset beyond it.

i break my gaze from the oncoming pavement stretching out in front of our car to look in the rearview mirror, as if i was expecting headlights of someone following. but there hasn’t been anyone for miles. all i see is the same lonely billboard i just passed fading into the darkness in the distance.

part of me wishes i could stay there with it, fading out of view. forgotten. alone together. remembered, maybe, for what we once were. but now, like the weathered sign, divorced from the admiration of our primes.

as the billboard recedes into the encroaching twilight haze behind us, my gaze drifts and i search the reflection for his eyes. i am struck with a desperate resistance as i see what i swear is a glimmer of a smirk.

"what is he smirking at? great. here we go," i tell myself and i bury my concern.

i know already that nothing i do now is going to stop it. i am sure it can’t be good. but i won’t ask. it's been such a good day.

despite my disciplined reticence, i can already feel the conversation and the mood shifting, and my grip tightens on the steering wheel. as if holding on will help me avoid the growing tension between us. as if anything could ease the friction between the words we exchange.

no doubt, the conversation will be even more of a fight. it’s an understatement to say that the hesitant trust we share is an uneasy gamble. nobody wants to be vulnerable. but there is no courage without vulnerability.

my eyes follow his as they lead to find dark and captivatingly rainy clouds dampening the typical fiery hues of the sunset in the distance outside the window.

i love the shortening light and longing of summer evenings. the growing nights force a tentative appreciation upon us. a daily reminder that the march of seasons stops for nobody.

the time we have now, the peace in this moment - finite and conditional - feels so fleeting.

we are obliged to enjoy the warmth while it is here and prepare for the coming autumn chills, already creeping in with the extending nights. it would be rude and ungrateful if we don’t.

“i need a cold drink. can we stop somewhere?” Carter probes, changing the topic with intention, still looking away.

it’s a subtle and deliberate shift.

my eyes stay fixed on the road, as silent as my voiceless lips. the desert stretches out like a held breath, and the hum of the tires feels louder than his voice and the sound feels as if it wraps around my entire body to protect me from his deceptive inquisition.

i wait to answer as i weigh my choices.

this doesn’t seem like the mountain i want to make a stand on right now. the request isn’t unreasonable, at face value. even if it’s not about the drink. even if it’s about the pause. the interruption. the way he always knows how to steer without having to touch the wheel.

there’s a gas station up ahead - sun-bleached, fading, half-forgotten. nostalgic for a possibility. it's the kind of place that sells drinks colder than they should be.

“sure,” i say, voice neutral, flicking the turn signal as i release the gas pedal.

i pull in, just past the front door, parking between an out-of-service gas pump and a freezer containing bags of ice for sale. i notice the cooler is locked, presumably for loss prevention, and a significant leak of, what i guess to be, melt water flowing from underneath the icebox.

“but do you, really?” i suddenly gush as i come to a stop, halfway hoping to start a fight so he’ll want to leave.

but then he will go and do that shit, anyway, and lie about it.. more.

the other part of that fight is hoping that he’ll stay. even i haven’t decided if i am joking or not, or on which side of in or out we will weigh in on by the end of tonight.

he gets out without looking back. i stay in the car, hands still on the wheel, knuckles pale.

i don’t need a drink. i need to remember why i’m driving. why this road, this silence, this moment - is just like i wanted.

we act like we have it all. and maybe we do.

maybe this is what “all” looks like - a car that keeps moving, a silence that doesn’t break, a drink that’s colder than it needs to be, and two people trying to love each other while we avoid saying what matters.

maybe it is the talking orange in the room, my version of the elephant nobody acknowledges.

bright. loud. unmissable. but, somehow, still ignored.

it rolls between us every time we speak - a citrus-colored truth we pretend isn’t sticky with nuance and sweet implied promises.

i think Carter sees it too. i think he hears it. feels it. i think he tastes the sweet and sour pulp of juicy promises passed between us. but he’s better at pretending the residue doesn’t keep us stuck in place, even as we speed down this road.

i hope the candor of the audacious color isn’t just what i want to think it is.

i’m the one who keeps trying to peel it open, hoping there’s something sweeter inside. unsatisfied with the obvious, hoping the vibrant hue is not a caution. hoping there is something worth tasting. for something that doesn’t sting or cause a bitter recoil.

“is it too late t...,” i wearily beg aloud to nobody, to know some secret that we have both been subtly teasing at before trailing off into more contingent plans for the hypothetical outcomes forming from my worrisome imagination.

i grip the steering wheel tighter as the urge to speed off builds from the pit of my stomach, like it might anchor me. the gas station lights flicker. the strobes of fluorescent light intermittently filling the cab, indifferent.

Carter is still inside. probably deciding between flavors. or texting someone. or maybe just standing there, waiting for me to finish my sentence.

“is it too late?”, i interrogate myself, “too late for what?”

i don’t even know what i was going to say.

"to try again? to leave? to believe him? to know where we are going?" my thoughts flutter like a homemade animated flip-book - each frame drawn in panic, each page illustrated thinner than the last.

i want to laugh. i want to scream. i want to ask him if he even knows what i meant.

but even i don’t know.

instead, i stare at the dashboard, watching the numbers blink like they’re counting down to something still undecided. like a beacon drawing me into depths previously inaccessible.

the path is open now, and i have learned to willingly lean into my rabbit holes. 'resistance is ill-advised,' as some lawyer somewhere would thank me for saying.

even still, my mind escapes me sometimes. sometimes, i can see it coming and finesse the elements. sometimes, i am not as prepared as i would like to be.

this one feels like a wildcard.

i take a few deep breaths and try to relax.

the air in the car is hot and stale with patience. the kind of patience that doesn’t ask for permission - that just settles in, uninvited, like dust on the dashboard.

it doesn’t wait for approval. it doesn’t check the temperature. it just is – layered, dense, quiet, and vaguely accusatory.

i sit with it. let its presence press against my chest like a weighted blanket i didn’t ask for.

Carter is still inside. still deciding. still pretending this isn’t a moment. still.

i glance at the rearview mirror, half expecting to see something behind me worth turning around for, wishing for a distraction to ensnare my attention.

but there’s nothing. just the road we’ve already survived, and the orange we still refuse to name staring back at me in the mirror.

another sigh hisses out from between my lips and the orange begins to roll out of my mirror’s view. it leaves me, wondering where between us it will come to rest finally.

i tap my foot again. some moments later, i notice my leg rapidly bouncing from the tense and fatigued muscles moving my limb? the tick is back. a reflexive knee-jerk as my subconscious curiosity exposes itself through the cracks in my restraint. nobody knows or sees it before i still the restless appendage, but i feel my face turn warm and flush, embarrassed and vulnerable.

the rabbit hole is open. and i’m already halfway down. i only have endurance and my experience now.

rapping my fingers against the steering wheel, i try to find a rhythm that feels like mine and ease the burden on my tiring leg. as if either one propels my consciousness forward from the snare of this sticky yet elusive trap.

but everything feels borrowed, even the energy to understand what it all means. even the stale breath exhaling from my body. each moment spent piecing together some meaning from between the lines of uncertainty.

the passenger door creaks open and the car rocks to the far side as Carter slides into the seat.

he is holding a bottle of something blue. he doesn’t speak right away. just unscrews the cap, takes a sip, and places it in the cup holder between us like it’s a peace offering.

i glance at it. it’s sweating. like it knows it’s not enough to satisfy both of our needs.

“i got your favorite,” he says, even though it isn’t.

even though i haven’t even thought about a favorite anything in months.

i nod. not because i believe him, but because i don’t want to correct him. it is easier than the battle of wills and wits it takes to maintain my authority.

the silence returns, but it’s different now. not heavier. just sharper. more precise and exact.

the suspension settles and we soak in the stillness together before Carter reaches for the ignition, turns the key forward, and starts the engine.

static from the radio fills the rabbit hole i found myself diving head-long into and i am brought back to myself. along with my fatigued senses, the orange rolls up to the floorboard between us.

i am too jet-lagged from the extra exploration in my head to consider bringing up the captivatingly brilliant ball at our feet or the promises of commitment we stuck to each.

i am jet-lagged, but present. i am ready.

“ready?” i ask Carter.

“ready,” he answers and moves his hand to hold mine as it grips the gearshift, moving from park to drive.

my foot releases the brake and the dependable car automatically lurches forward before i push down on the gas pedal once again and accelerate, merging back onto the highway.

as i do, the orange rolls somewhere under the seat. still unpeeled. still mumbling to itself. still waiting to be understood.