Deep breath.

I know I can’t swallow back down the words I just let spill out.

Once you start being honest, you have to keep being honest, or start spinning lies to cover it up.

I’ve already said ‘I’m fine’ enough times today.

I’m ‘lied out.’ I’m dulled out - tired of trying to soften the blow - if I’m the blow.

I am what I am. Vibrantly insane, in fully saturated colors.

Every kind of ‘mad.’ Furious, mental, bewilderingly in love with a love that makes no sense.

The words seem to lag - hanging in space between the time when my lips move and when I hear them.

Honestly.

“I knew Emelia made her statements about my not being married or a mother yet because she knew it would bother me. But I still couldn’t even fight the frustration and the shame. Maybe it’s not justified but…”

That wary expression - three - a dozen different kinds of wary and stunned and shaken and afraid - are still on his face as I glance up at him slowly, but it also seems to be painted with a decisive, almost sickened, kind of determination at the same time.

"Do you…want to be a mother, Lise?"

The look on his face seems to mellow my own misery, and I just smile exhaustedly, aware that my drama is making him uncomfortable, maybe even worse than uncomfortable, but I can’t lie.

“Yes.” 

That’s such a heavy word to say with all the thousands of memories I have tied up with the word ‘mother’ and the painful reality that I’m so far behind the lives everyone else seems to have started living ages ago. Maybe irredeemably far.

“I think it’s something most women think about once they get to my age, and we watch the possibility slipping away.” 

I force myself to laugh slightly, but the sound seems to echo too much in the silence of the room and Kattar is dead-serious, watching my face. He nods slowly, that determined look increasing, but with a sort of grayed-out resolution mixed into it, that I don’t think I want to see.

Why is this wrong? There’s something wrong here.

But I don’t know how to ask, or say, or bring it up, and just sigh shakily as the tears flow into the edges of my eyes and sit there like tremulous pools.

“Why did I have to grow old, Kat, before I had the guts to say what I wanted?”

“You are not old,” he smiles a little bitterly, as the irritation from earlier seems to be returning with muted force.

“You’re just saying that because that would mean you’re old too,” I smile feebly, as he shakes his head, looking off to the side.

“No, it’s because no old woman is as s…” his statement trails off for a minute as he stares vaguely at the carpet like there are words written on it, “as stunning as you.”

I wish I could feel something at hearing him say that, but he says it so absently, without emotion, as he stares at his hand, rubbing his fingertips together like he’s trying to sand away the prints that I can’t even feel happy about it.

I force myself to smile, slightly, in response, thinking of a joke, “They probably are, to old men, like you.”

He rolls his eyes slightly and scoffs but he doesn’t say anything else. 

I like quiet. But not this quiet.

I feel the need to change the subject, or rekindle a bygone subject, anything but sit here in silence beside him.

With a sigh as if I’m really feeling more relaxed, I shake my curls vaguely, sliding them off my shoulders where they’ve wormed their way under the straps of my tank top.

“I’m sorry Kat, I shouldn’t be such a…”

What?

I don’t know.

Regardless.

“I’m sure you don’t want to think about things like that.”

The way he glances up at me, dark brows furrowing just slightly, somehow screams of suspicion, however far hidden it might be behind this wash of irritated exhaustion. I’m sure he’s more confused by this turn of topics than he was by the start of the first one, but he stays quiet as I lean forward with as much sweetness as I can manage, laying my hand on his knee.

“There are only a few days left until your birthday now. Are you excited for it?”

“Should I be?” He raises one eyebrow just slightly, back to playing with the rubber band, and there’s a thinly concealed agitation in the subtlety of his motions, the way he shakes his head just slightly like he’s feeling an uncomfortable shiver.

I force myself to smirk, trying to draw him back out again before he recedes entirely into his shadow. I don’t think about anything but the way his gaze seems to drop in increments until he’s just staring at his lap, his hands resting on his legs, but I hear my voice say teasingly, “I’ll give you one hint about what you’re getting. It’s your favorite color.”

“Boo,” he frowns, still not looking up, “the pink chocolates are the worst.”

“I never said I was getting you chocolate,” I start to laugh, this time genuinely, however subtle.

“But why not?” He looks up now, turning his palms upwards and shaking his head mildly at the ceiling like he’s pleading, albeit half-heartedly.

“You said I could get you anything, remember?” I smile, stealing the bag of pretzels from him casually as I sit back on my end of the couch.

“But when I said anything, I meant any flavor of chocolate, that wasn’t a pink one,” he tilts his head at me with just the trace of a pout.

“Well, that’s what you get for not saying what you want,” I grin, and stick my tongue out at him, before selecting a pretzel daintily.

Oh, these look like a combination of milk and dark chocolate…

I’ll leave the bitter ones for Kat.

Kattar smiles, now, just slightly, but sincerely, and I feel a warmth like mild sunshine wash me in comfort, if only for an instant, even as I recognize that sly energy that I pretend not to.

“Fine, do you know what I really want?” He tilts his head with that same subtle smile, crossing his arms over his cable-knit chest.

“What?” I ask slowly, as I cram as much of the pretzel as I can manage into my mouth to try to avoid dropping any crumbs on his couch.

“The other half of that pretzel you’re eating.” 

He grins roguishly, and before I can say anything in response, he leans forward across the cushions, and bites off the other half of my pretzel, with a sort of half-kiss that turns my whole face burning red.

“Get your own!” I bluster, embarrassed and flustered in a sort of butterfly-ish flutter as he re-steals the pretzel bag and plops back against his pillows on the opposite end of the couch, “Give me that back!”

“Not on your life,” he grins, placing one of the pretzels between his teeth teasingly. “If you want it, come and get it.”

He raises his chin just slightly with a flirtatious smile, and I feel myself hesitate for a minute, as something less than pleasant, but too potent goes rampaging through my feelings.

I don’t…

Don’t think…

But I force myself to shake that off.

It’s just me.

Being…

Overthinking.

Over-remembering and under-trusting for a dozen and one reasons.

He loves me. I know he loves me.

Nothing will change that, right?

All the nonsense that ties itself up in my feelings with his secrets - our - my secrets - and the time that it’s taken him to admit that he wants me get shoved in a closet as I try to convince myself, and nearly succeed, in believing I have no doubts.

But I think he can feel them.

And I can feel them, either way.

I see his expression change when I kiss him, stealing the pretzel, and I want nothing more than to collapse onto him and bury my face in his chest, beg - him not to let me go-

But I can't - I’m not going to do that again.

I’ve resisted it for years.

There are things he needs to know first, and my conscience fights with my honesty. My honesty fights with my integrity.

So I blur everything into this miserable middle ground as I sit back on my end of the couch and put my head in my hands.

This is all too familiar too.

There’s a look on Kat’s face like a thousand kinds of love, but tonight I’m not his girlfriend, I’m his best friend again, and he remembers…

We can’t shake it off, can we?

I don't have an answer this time, for all these hurricanes I’m melting into.

He thinks it’s because of him, but it isn’t mostly because of him.

We need…something…but I don’t even know what…

I just don’t like this as much as I wish I could. And he can see it, even if I hide my face.

“Lise…”

I look up when he says my name, and see him motioning to his medical bag on the end table.

“Could you…do me a favor?”

You can’t be serious…

I feel a sigh that comes from the bottom of my being, but I don’t say anything, just get up and retrieve the bag from its little nook, but before I can hand it over to him he stops me.

“There’s something for you in the top - don’t open it here-,” he adds quickly before I can even unzip the bag, “the present I mean. It’s...”

His face reddens slightly as he stops and takes a deep breath.

“I want…”

Please say ‘you.’

“Wanted…”

I just watch the color paint itself across his face, fading from scared and pale to a pained flush a thousand and one times.

I just want him to be honest. With me and with his mother.

I want him to trust me, and love me enough…

But maybe I have no right to judge how much love it’s taken him to get this far.

I’ve never been him and known this breed of fear, but honesty is…

Honestly… 

“I want to be what you need.”

When it finally comes out, I look up at him baffled, and just watch the wary affection on his face as he smiles at me miserably.

“Please be patient with me…I’m trying.”

I’m sorry, I’m not good at that.

I think the kinds of scared we both know best seem to clash.

But I’ll try to…

“Alright.” I say it not knowing exactly what else to say. Then, I kiss the outside of the velveteen present box with a sort of shy smile and force myself to take a deep breath.

“I believe you.”

I’m going to keep believing you - in you - trusting you.

The relief in his eyes is enough…

“I love you. So much, Kitty Kat…”

He smiles slightly but there’s so much fear in that expression. He mouths the words back like he’s trying to make sure he understands what he’s hearing.

It’s enough.

I know. 

Love doesn’t look pretty from this stage of the chaos, but we’re still real.

“I have to go home so I can open this present now,” I let myself laugh, just slightly. “I’ll see you later.”

He nods.

I could just go to the door.

But I have to turn back and kiss his forehead first, letting it linger almost as much as if it were a kiss on the lips.

This is still real too.

It doesn’t represent any less love.

Kattar raises his hand slightly as I stand up straight again, but then lowers it vaguely, putting it to his head, furrowing his eyebrows slightly, like he’s fighting back a headache.

“I’m sorry I didn’t comfort you when you came in today, Lise.” He’s not looking at me, wincing, and there’s something in his voice almost like tears. “I w...I’m not sure how to explain…”

Wanting you and not wanting you close at the same time.

I believe you.

I’m laying on my bed, staring at the little pink thumb drive in the present box he gave me, trying to make sense of it myself - make sense of myself -

And him.

We’re too complicated.

My name is embossed on the top of the box in curly script, and there’s a note on a 3.5 x 2 piece of glossy pink paper that reads-

For moments at a time - we are as clear as diamonds and tears - 

“This isn’t the key to my heart, but it’s close. I’m going to let you in. I promise.”