“Maybe I had pretty boy syndrome and wanted to hear you say it first, cuz you were the only one who never did.”
I clutch the box until it dents - can’t help but fire back, “What if I had ugly girl syndrome, and I needed to hear you say it because nobody ever did?”
That same knowing nod - almost like a chastised child, apologetic and penitent.
“I’m sorry-” he starts to say - but I cut him off, feeling the anger and hurt spill out like sentencefuls of vomit-
“You spent your entire life being fawned over by everyone because you were so beautiful - so charismatic. I just wanted a little bit of assurance, a little bit of proof that somebody - anybody wanted me - that I was more than just the charity and leftovers everybody threw at me. Were you ever going to tell me?”
The pain in his expression is agonizing.
“I guess I thought I had time,” he whispers meekly, “I guess I thought that if you liked anyone at all, it would be me….” his hands tremble, clutching the blankets until his knuckles turn white, his voice drops to an almost inaudible breath, “and I was scared.”
He smooths the covers nervously, his sentences running together as he avoids my gaze, “Scared that my mother was rubbing off on you. That you would come to the conclusion that you were too talented for ‘that sort of nonsense’ - that you didn't have time to waste on a guy.”
I lower my head.
Kattar shakes his head at the blankets, trying desperately to explain - to defend himself - as he falls to pieces “Don’t get me wrong, Lise, I love my mom. But she’s always been all about how much guys are a waste of time. “They drain you dry.” “They hold you back” “They get in your way.” I didn’t want to hear you say you didn’t need me. I thought I’d prove myself useful - worth your time, and then someday, maybe I’d have the daring…to...”
“You? Lacking daring?” the words slip out before I can stop them, “Mr. extreme sports, bicycle motor-cross, professional stunt driver-”
He looks at me miserably, his lashes lowering until his eyes are nothing but a line of shadow.
“There’s a big difference between the guts it takes to do extreme sports and the ones it takes to tell your best friend that you want…want to…” he looks back at the blankets, “And how did you expect me to say anything now? Now that I’m good for nothing - being washed and tended to by caregivers like an infant! Living off my mom’s money! I’m supposed to pitch myself like that?! Well then ‘Hi! I’m useless! Do you want me?!’”
His eyes are locked on me now, burning with years of frustration and anger tied ‘round with a silent plea. Is that what I looked like when Mrs. Moon asked him to tell me I was beautiful?
I meet all of the rancor and pain in the eyes with my own and don’t flinch.
“Yes.”
Mamma, I think I broke it…
