Page 46 of The Time It Takes

Chapter twenty

"Okay, Mom. Talk toyou later. Love you." I hung up and massaged my temples. Still. Still, I wasn't brave enough.

Arlie, who'd been sitting at our tiny kitchen table, working on trying to repair a toaster that had gone kaput—I was pretty sure we were going to have to throw it out—looked up sharply. He could always tell when I was upset.

"What is it?"

"I still didn't tell her," I admitted.

Instead of saying "no shit," which would be fair, since obviously he'd heard my side of the conversation—and possibly hers, with his amazing wolf shifter hearing—he looked alarmed. "Were you planning to? I thought that could wait till we can do it in person. Eventually." He looked at me quizzically.

"I should be able to tell her," I said. My mother was a nice person. I doubted she'd suddenly start spouting homophobic nonsense. But she might have some questions about me being bi, and it might be awkward. Even if it wasn't, I was awkward. That was the truth: I was still awkward about this. "I hate being scared," I admitted. "I should be able to be proud and open and just...talk about it."

If I couldn't even tell my own mother, what kind of progress was I actually making with all my therapy and such?

He got up and moved to my side, gingerly putting an arm around me, like he had to be extra careful not to break me by accident. As if I was that fragile. "Well, maybe someday, but...I'd really rather you do it in person, and when I'm there, you know? I don't want them making you feel like shit and you having to deal with it alone. I'm part of this, right? You were there when I told the pack. You'd have been there with me when I told my parents, if they were still alive, right?"

"Sure," I said vaguely, letting myself be drawn to lean against him, and into a hug. It was no good complaining more about how weak and foolish I felt. The truth was, I just wasn't there yet—and maybe that was okay. My parents might take it well and they might not, but either way, I was spiraling about it before that even happened. I needed to have a plan in place if it went poorly, and not just push through.

"We'll see them near Christmas. If you feel good about it by then, we can talk to them. If not, it can wait a little longer, right? I mean, there's not really any hurry. Not on my end."

He threaded his fingers through my hair, holding onto me loosely. Leaning against him, relaxed like this, I was well aware of the solid strength of him. Someone I could lean on in so many ways. I wanted to be that for him, too. "Okay. I guess you're right."

"There's nothing to prove here. We're just figuring out how to live and be happy, okay?"

I nodded against him, wishing my eyes weren't so damn wet.

There had always been something to prove. Some destination, some benchmark to hit, something to cross off the list. The need to prove my love, myself, my commitment, my worthiness as a partner. But not with Arlie. He accepted the weak side of me, the insecurities, the fragile parts of my brain.

"We'll get there," he said. "If you want to. But no hurry. It takes the time it takes."

I thought about the ways that was true. Finally, I smiled up at him. "Thanks. You're so good to me."

"You have a really low bar," he informed me, but he kissed me all the same.

#

The antique mall wasn'tour usual thing, but Arlie had wanted to go and check out the furniture. He said sometimes they had weird little end tables, and we needed something to go beside our bed. Something sturdier and less ugly than the one we'd had, which was about as strong as cardboard.

It hadn't occurred to me how much Arlie needed to take the strength of furniture into consideration. He always had to think about his size, his strength. He moved gingerly when he didn't know how fragile things were. Even here, in widely-spaced aisles, he was walking gingerly, staying close to me, avoiding brushing against anything in the booths.

Then again, maybe he just wanted to be close to me. He let his shoulder brush against mine. I glanced at him, and then smiled. I let my arm press against his briefly, our hands brush lightly. Maybe I wasn't brave enough to hold his hand in public yet. But it was a 'yet.' I would be, someday.

Sure enough, he found something he liked—something sturdy and squat, made of heavy ornate wood, with a drawer in it—and it didn't cost any more than a new bedside table would have. Probably less. He carried it and we made our way to the checkout. There was a bit of a tangle there, as it was too big for the countertop, and the people at the checkout needed to see the little tag before they could ring us up.