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He releases an uneasy laugh. “Whew,” he says in that adorable way he has. “I mean, I figured it wasn’t that you didn’t want to mess around because clearly you enjoyed that, but there are other aspects here, and we haven’t really discussed any of them.”
“The bi impulse?”
“No, the fact that you know Sigma Alpha is gonna lose the TaskFrat this year, and you’re gonna be such a sore loser about it. Of course the bi impulse—and is that what we’re calling it?”
I laugh. “Shut the hell up, dork. I’m definitely sorting through all that too, but about what you said—the worry that you’d tell anyone—that hasn’t even crossed my mind, and I hope you know I feel the same. I won’t say anything until you’re ready to talk about it. You understand?”
He nods, studying my face as though trying to figure out where else my discomfort could be. How does a guy I don’t even spend that much time around know me well enough to see right through me?
“It’s some shit in my life,” I admit. “Nothing to do with messing with you, so if you think you’re getting out of that BJ you owe me, you got another thing coming.”
“Sounds like that’ll be another thing coming anyway,” he teases, twisting his face into a goofy expression. “Well, if there is anything—and I do mean anything—you want to talk about, I’ll have you know I’m a very good listener.”
Since I saw that Memory pop up on my phone earlier tonight, I’ve felt so guarded. Clutched it tight against my chest as I’ve pretended to have fun throughout the night. But feeling so at ease in this bed with him, so relaxed after what we did, I find the words tensing up my throat, like they’re trying to burst free, some part of me screaming for me to tell someone. No, to tellhim.
“I have an uncle,” I spit out quickly, as though if I didn’t, I’d just keep this locked away in me forever.
I’m waiting for him to look shocked that I’m revealing something personal, but he simply sits there, listening, his gaze on me.
“Hadan uncle,” I clarify, nearly choking on the words. “Ididn’t have much of a dad. I actually have a half brother through him, who’s only a year older than me. Mom only found out about her husband’s other kid a few months after I was born, and you can imagine she didn’t take it well, but my half brother’s mom didn’t seem to mind, so my dad left and started a new family. Mom got some checks, until she didn’t. Sorry, it’s probably weird that I was telling you about my uncle and then now I’m giving you the backstory with my dad, but it’s important because Mom’s brother stepped in after Dad left. He was doing well in his tech job, and she wanted to finish school so she could provide for us, so he basically helped raise me.”
Lance reaches out and rests his hand on my shoulder, gripping gently, and I can see the care in his expression. It reminds me of that evening in the library when he was worried about the bruise on my arm. It’s a side of Lance that assures me he’s the right person to share this with.
As my gaze travels from his hand back to his face, he notices and pulls back. “Sorry, that was weird, wasn’t it?”
“It was actually kind of nice,” I admit, and he rests his hand back on my shoulder, giving me another burst of comfort.
There’s a part of me clinging to my memories like a precious secret, fearing that if I speak about what happened, it’ll somehow make it more real. Even though there’s no undoing what’s been done.
But the relief of sharing even what little I did is a drug, and I want more.
“It started when I was in high school. Grant would forget things, use wrong words for shit, which was strange for him. He was the smartest guy I knew. Still to this day. And he’d say the wrong person’s name when he told a story. Then he wouldget confused by directions or when we were driving to familiar places. Sometimes we could be walking in a store, and he’d stop and look around as though he’d just woken up there. Mom pushed him to see a neurologist, and they ran some tests…FTD. Know anything about it?”
Lance shakes his head.
“Frontotemporal dementia. When people ask, I say it’s similar to Alzheimer’s—there are differences, for sure—but basically, it happens earlier in life than other forms of dementia. My uncle…he got it really young, and it didn’t go easy on him.”
I quiet. I tell myself it’s to let Lance adjust to the information, but I know it’s because I need a break as the memories of those early days creep back.
“Ty, I’m so sorry.”
Hearing those words of comfort is like a warm cloth to my chest, easing up this ball of tension.
“Nothing you need to be sorry about. That’s life, right? It’s been three years since he passed. I don’t turn off the notifications for photos we had on my phone. Sometimes they make me smile, like when we were hanging out at a frozen yogurt place or bowling…or trivia nights, which he killed at. But tonight, before the party, one came up, and it was from shortly before he passed. He’d had a fall, and we were at home—us and his caretaker—and he couldn’t do much other than watch movies or watch us play solitaire. One day, toward the end, he said my name. Looked right at me and said it, and he hadn’t in months. And he was talking to me about things that made me hope maybe something had turned. Despite knowing how it worked, this part of me wanted to believe it was gonna get better. And I took a picture.” My chin quivers, my face spasming as I fight back the tears. “Because I wanted to have that moment where I felt like I saw him again. That was the last time he remembered my name.”
I feel so raw, exposed, but also relieved to have gotten that out, to have said that to someone.
And yet, I hate myself for sharing it too.
And I feel like a fucking asshole. “Now I should apologize. I took what was supposed to be a fun, sexy night and fucked it up.”
“You didn’t fuck it up,” Lance says, firming his grip on my shoulder and resting his free hand on my side. Unlike that first time, he doesn’t even seem to notice himself do it, and I don’t draw attention to it, since I don’t want him to stop.
“That sounds like a lot,” he adds. “I’m sorry you’re having to deal with that.”
I study his expression as he stares off, his mind clearly elsewhere. “Lance?”
As he makes eye contact, I say, “Where’d you go?”