Exotic - Chapter 43: Chapter 43

Alba was, thankfully, alone when I burst through her office door looking a hot mess. She looked up from her desk in surprise, but her expression quickly shifted to concern. She stood quickly, tall and beautiful and graceful as ever, and waved me inside. She was wearing a silver dress with a delicate little belt, and her nails matched. The sight of her alone calmed my racing heart.
Her perfect eyebrows were scrunched together in a hard V. "Miles? Are you alright?"
Knowing the question would be asked hadn't prepared me for it in the slightest. I tried for a deep breath, wound up making a strangled noise, and slumped forward, my backpack still hanging halfway out the door. My head was spinning, and the floor seemed to be vibrating beneath my feet.
"No."
I stood there, dripping onto her freshly vacuumed carpet until I felt a gentle hand resting on my shoulder.
"Sit down," she encouraged.
I let her lead me to my usual seat and I collapsed into it, bag and all. I opened my mouth to speak, to apologise for bursting in on her when she probably had other things to get done, only to find a box of tissues forced under my nose.
I grabbed a handful and hid my undoubtedly blotchy face in them/ "Thank you."
She remained standing, her feet strapped into sensible yet stylish black heels. I focused on the cute little buckle resting above her ankles, sitting on the slender bone bleeding into her calf. It reminded me of my own knobbly ankles, and other undesirable features.
I wiped my face and bunched the tissues in my fist, which rested under my chin. Alba watched me with her glossy lips downturned. One slender hand was spread out on the table, and up close I could see each nail was decorated in an inkblot design.
I cleared my throat before I was completely ready to talk, but she was a busy woman and I didn't want to waste her time. "You shouldn't have called my house last week."
She had the decency to look bashful. "I know we agreed that your guardian would not be involved in your treatment, but I was quite worried when you missed our session last week. When I saw you had been marked absent in your afternoon classes... I wanted to make sure you were safe."
"So you called my house?" I demanded weakly. I didn't have the energy to start a real fight with my therapist.
"I didn't disclose anything other than your absence. Which he would have received a message about regardless," she was being surprisingly stubborn on the issue. She wasn't usually so insistent. "Miles, we need to talk about..."
"Am I allowed to be here?" I asked anxiously. "It's not my slot. I should have knocked before coming in. I can come back tomorrow."
"Miles, it's fine," she said firmly, as I started to climb out of my seat. "I have someone coming in a little while, but I have time now. Sit down. Sit down."
I did, legs splayed out in front of me, head in my hands. Alba rose and walked to shut the door, which immediately made my panic spike. No way out. The walls, decked in their cheerful, neon posters telling me Everything, at the end of the day, will be fine. The sun will rise tomorrow, pressed in around me. I'd never been claustrophobic, but the combined colours and enclosed space made my head spin and my stomach tighten.
"Does your mum knows you're gay?" I asked her bluntly. Before she could answer, likely with a deflection because my question was way out of line, I kept talking, confessions tumbling out of me. "Mine doesn't. Didn't. I never got to tell her. I knew, and I never told her and I've been thinking about it and I cannot think why I fucking lied to her. While she was dying."
"Miles..."
"It's why no one could ever love me," I concluded. "I lie to them. I lie to everyone."
* "Miles, stop," her tone was gentle but firm. I obeyed, sealing my lips. A ball of panic had travelled from my gut up into my throat, blocking my airways. I placed a hand underneath my Adam's apple, gulping down a ball of air. It caught in the back of my throat, creating a wall behind my tongue.
I must have looked alarmed because my expression was mirrored by Alba. "Breathe, Miles. Just take deep breaths."
I was doing my best, but my body didn't want to respond. It seemed quite content choking to death. "I can't breathe."
"Yes, you can. You're having a panic attack," Alba told me, a picture of calm. She dropped to her knees in front of me, not touching me but meeting my fuzzy gaze. "You're safe here, Miles. I'm not going to leave you alone. This feeling won't last long. Deep breaths, now."
"I can't."
"Try," she encouraged, gently.
I ducked my head between my thighs and focused on sipping air. When my mouth wouldn't open, I heaved air through my nose loudly.
"That's good, you're doing great," Alba praised me. "Just keep that up, Miles."
I did, with her gentle encouragement, as my anxiety hit its peak and the carpet churned under my feet like a grey meat grinder. My eyes felt dry and stung as my performed breathing, dragging in and out without really taking in much air, slowly deepened as my constricted throat relaxed. I let out an embarrassing little moan of relief as I returned to a state of normalcy, body exhausted, the roof of my mouth burning and my chest aching.
* Alba, after she was sure my hands were capable of gripping things, pushed a glass of water into my hands. I had no idea where she'd gotten it. I gulped it down gratefully, all the same.
"How are you feeling now?" her tone was so calming. I wondered how many panic attacks she'd dealt with over the years. How many heaving students who thought their lives were over, blubbering all over her office. Humiliation came over me in waves, as quickly as the panic attack had hit.
"I'm sorry," I muttered into my glass.
Alba's expression was uncannily similar to the look I'd gotten from Aaron more than once; a mix of exasperation and concern like she wasn't sure whether to hug me or slap me upside the head. Although I was pretty sure her position forbade her from doing either. "Why is your first instinct to apologise, Miles?"
We were diving straight in, then. I took a long gulp of water. "I'm... embarrassed."
"You are aware that you can't stave off a panic attack voluntarily any more than you can bring one on, right?"
I squeezed my eyes shut. Alba was still crouched in front of me, and I couldn't deal with her dissecting eyes. "Could you please give me some space?"
She seemed to notice how close she was sitting and nodded apologetically, pushing to her feet, and returning behind her desk. She took a seat and clasped her fingers on the desk in front of her. Her head was tilted in trepidation, one silver nail tapping out a line of Morse code on her bottom lip. Maybe not as many people had lost their shit so thoroughly in her office before. That thought made me even more embarrassed. What a disaster patient. I gave her virtually nothing, and when I did it, I sobbed all over her probably-designer shoes. I was surprised her fingers weren't searching for the panic button under her desk as I stammered.
"I... I... don't know... what... is happening... to me," I choked out, nails denting my shins, top teeth gnawing my bottom lip until I could taste blood. "I've fucked up everything... so... bad."
Alba didn't speak at first, giving me ample space to elaborate. When it became clear I had nothing else to say, she breathed out a long sigh through her nose. My head shot up, half expecting her to be laughing at my exaggeration, or raising an eyebrow at me. But her dark eyes were warm, kind, like dark chocolate tempering over boiling water. Her face painted a picture for her thoughts, Jesus Christ, this kid needs help.
I wasn't about to disagree with that. Not while my nose was still dripping, leaking over my chapped lips. I wiped furiously at it with my fistful of tissues.
"Are you able to tell me what you believe you've fucked up so badly?" she asked gently.
I shrugged useless, letting out another hideous, ungodly sniffle. "How much time have you got?"
She granted me a close-lipped smile, but she wasn't letting me joke my way out of this hole. I considered getting up, leaving her with her million questions, and continuing about my day. I was feeling markedly better. But since that was probably down to her, I decided I remain.
That, and I couldn't make my legs work for the life of me. It was almost like they wanted to stay, working in tandem with my tongue, which suddenly began spilling everything like milk. I couldn't do a thing to hold it back. I think, unconsciously, I didn't want to anymore.
I told her about Saturday. I didn't even bother concealing the fact we'd gone to a club, something that without a valid ID should have been very tricky for me. I told her about Zsa Zsa, and Peter, and the stop off at Max's party before the hospital. I told her – excluding names – about the drunken kiss and the struggle of pulling away and the come back to me. I told her about the decision I'd made at the hospital, abandoning any hope I'd ever had of being with 'unnamed classmate' in even a physical sense.
I told her about Reece and the car he'd bought me. The sense of coming to an understanding, despite the secrets between us. Feeling at home in my house again. The joy of telling Max, and Aaron's bitter advice.
I told her about the other day.
I wiped furiously at my tears, free-falling into my lap, as I told her about Caleb, still unnamed, driving away from me after assuring me that whatever we'd had was as one-sided as any crush could be.
I turned away my face as I told her about Reece, and the car ride that morning.
By the time I trailed off, Alba's face had set like concrete. One cheek was hollowed as she chewed the inside, her eyes were heavy-lidded and her lips were pressed in a thoughtful frown. Her fingers tapped away in the palm of her free palm. She hadn't written a single thing down.
I cleared my thoughts of the clog that had stuck there through the majority of my storytelling. "How was your weekend?"
She quirked both eyebrows to acknowledge my joke, but her expression remained sombre. "That's a lot to unpack."
Oh god, I'd given her too much. I'd spouted off my entire life story, and she had another student coming in minutes. They could already be stationed outside the door. I should have kept things short, sweet, put her at ease, and then waited for my next session like a normal person.
I must have looked like I was on the verge of making a break for it because Alba leaned forwards and stopped me with a stern voice. "Miles. Thank you for trusting me with this."
I let out a shaky breath I hadn't realised I had been holding.
"How would you like to proceed from here?"
I was sure my voice displayed my confusion. In all my sessions with Alba, she'd never really pushed for me to find a solution. This was probably a next-level thing, teaching me to deal with my own shit. "I'm... not sure."
"There are a couple of options. I will need to make a report, but whether you want to make a statement is up to you."
I felt the blood leave my face. "What? You can't do that."
I'd promised Zsa Zsa that police involvement would be entirely up to him. Even after two days of being fussed over in his mother's house, he hadn't changed his mind. If I'd just inadvertently forced his hand by blabbing to my counsellor, he would never forgive me.
They still couldn't press charges without his say so, but if I'd made things harder for him, sent police to his mother's house while he was still recovering, I mightn't be able to forgive myself.
Alba's lips parted in concern. "I have a Duty of Care, Miles."
"I didn't get hurt!" I insisted. When her expression showed scepticism, I threw myself forward in my chair. "I didn't. He doesn't want police at his doorstep. He'll kill me if he finds out I sent them there."
Her eyes narrowed, suddenly becoming irrationally angry. I'd never seen Alba angry before, and she was clearly trying to mask it, but it shone through her features like a beacon. "He doesn't get a choice here, Miles. You've trusted me with this information, and now I have a duty to protect you from further harm."
I leapt out of my seat, slamming my hands down on the desk. I was sure I looked half-crazed. "Listen. You can't. Jesus, would you have some sympathy for him? He didn't choose to get the crap kicked out of him."
Alba's anger melted into confusion. "Who kicked the crap out of him?"
Jesus, had she heard a word I had said after I'd mentioned illegal activity? "His dickhole boyfriend."
Alba blinked hard, twice. She spread her fingers on the desk and squinted one eye. "Wait. What do you think I'm talking about?"
I stared incredulously. "Grayson. My friend. He doesn't want the police involved..."
I trailed off as Alba's shoulders relaxed, and she huffed out an almost-laugh; if you could count a sad puff of air as a laugh. She rubbed her temple. "Miles, I wasn't talking about your friend. I'm talking about Reece."
I stilled. I had to replay her words a few times, to make sure I'd heard them completely right. "Reece?"
"Yes, Miles. Your guardian," she began picking up her glasses and sliding them up her nose. With them on, her eyes were all the better to stare at me with. "He struck you this morning, correct?"
I was so shocked by the events unfolding before me that I almost forgot to answer. "He... pushed me. I hit my head."
She seemed to take my honesty as a retraction and laced her fingers together again. "But he has hit you before."
Where she'd gotten that implication, I had no idea. I'd been under the impression she would listen, maybe offering advice or maybe just letting me pace it out and draw my own conclusions from my long weekend from hell.
Her eyes were fixed on a spot above my eyebrow, and I automatically raised a hand to touch it. The tips of my fingers brushed the gauze patch over my eyebrow. My eyes went wide immediately as I caught Alba's implication. "No-ooo! What? This was an acc – "
I hesitated halfway through the word which would vindicate Reece from her suspicions. The fall in the workshop had been far from Reece's fault – he was only guilty of taking someone as balance inept as me into a place with loose cabling – but the push in the car had been a strike in anger, a side of Reece I hadn't seen before despite our terse relationship.
I had been outlandishly stupid in the car, grabbing the brake as I had, but the hit had rattled me. I could still feel the pressure point on the back of my head where it had hit the window. The immediate regret in Reece did nothing to numb that sting.
Then again, I could have flipped the car, could have killed us both, in my own moment of anger. A tiny shove was nothing in comparison. I knew he hadn't hit me wilfully. I wasn't so vindictive that I held him accountable for my actions.
Was I?
I had been wanting to make a break from Reece for upwards of two years. I had started my own illegal freelancing performance career to prepare for it. What Alba was offering – a clean break, no questions asked, and Reece would feel the full force of the law rain down on his head – I should have jumped at. Before, it had been my word against Reece's, and it fell in his favour. But something of this magnitude... Reece had nothing and no one to corroborate his story. We'd been alone in the workshop.
A flutter of emotions beat against my chest. Malice. Righteous wrath. Smug satisfaction.
Do you think it'll make you feel better, treating the people around you as expendable? Does it make you feel like a man?
Overpowering shame.
Inescapable guilt.
Do you like proving me wrong, or something?
"Reece didn't hit me," I said, quite insistently. Slowly, surely, so she could see clearly that I wasn't being driven by fear or despair. "I tripped in his workshop. I know you're thinking, that's what they all say, but please. Just think about everything I have ever said to you about the guy. Do you really think, if he was knocking me around, I would lie for him?"
Alba still looked unsure. "But this morning, he did push you?"
"He shoved me away from the brake. We were having an argument, I fucked with the brakes, and he freaked out," I repeated the story, minus the swarming emotion. "It... I was stupid. He just responded on instinct."
Alba was shaking her head minutely.
"If he was my... Mum, or my real dad, you wouldn't be filing a report," I pleaded. "People smack their kids on accident all the time. If it wasn't malicious..."
"He's not your real dad, Miles," she cut me off with a long shake of her head. "He's your mother's boyfriend, and there are different laws..."
"Alba," I leaned forward on the desk again, raised my voice to be heard, and repeated firmly. "I am not being physically abused by Reece-goddamn-Hewitt. If I was, I'd be shouting it down the streets. I'd be sending out fucking pamphlets. I hate his 'good bloke' routine. He's... he's Reece, Greasy Reece, and he gets in my space and he eats with his mouth open on the couch so crumbs get in Mum's sofa and he smokes even though he knows what the smell does to me and he's thoughtless and nagging and such a fucking... dick, Jesus, but he's not..."
He's not Peter.
He's not Aidan McCaffrey.
He's my mum's deadbeat boyfriend. Apparently, he cares about me.
Alba's fingers had stopped drumming. Her eyes had softened throughout my stammering speech. She removed her glasses, setting them in front of her, and straightened in her seat as if a lead weight had been removed from her shoulders. I squared my shoulders, readying myself for the inevitable victims often rationalise the actions of their abuser... speech. I couldn't believe I was ready to go to war for Reece's honour. Fucking Reece.
"You're telling me the truth," she surprised me by saying.
"Yes," I deflated.
She swallowed down her next thought. Considered me for a while. "Do you feel safe, at the prospect of going home tonight?"
I didn't want to face Reece, but it wasn't because I feared him. I dreaded the lecture, now that he would have a full day to prepare, and maybe a few tone-deaf insults, and the cringe of his self-righteousness.
No fear. Based on Reece's expression when I'd told him to stay back, he might have been keen to shelve the whole event.
I shook my head fervently. "Safe as the Swedes during the Second World War."
That made her smile; just the slightest tug at her lips. "I see you're getting the most out of those tutoring sessions."
"Come on, give me some credit. I knew that before I started Mod." Thinking about tutoring made me think about Lauren, and that made me think about the message I hadn't listened to, and that made me worry about Caleb. Had it made it home the night before? He was a flight risk as it was. I should have told her to check Whitley Park. And maybe kept her number, so she could let me know when they found him safe.
And maybe kept his, to tell him he was an idiot for making his family worry. His big, beautiful, loud, impractical, overprotective family.
"Can I ask you a favour?" I asked her.
Alba's hands swept through the air, gesturing me back to my seat. I dropped into it, running a hand through my bangs and pushing them out of my nervous gaze. She sat forward in her seat, ready to receive my request.
"Do you know Caleb Proust?"
I saw her guard immediately raise, but not quick enough that I didn't see them glint in recognition. "If you're going to ask if I see him..."
"I wasn't. He doesn't," Caleb didn't view the world with any degree of self-reflection or acceptance. He clearly had not sat in a room with Ms. Albany Hassan, soon to be Pike-Hassan. "But you know the name."
"I know of the Prousts," she nodded after a pause. "His brothers are slightly infamous. His parents are highly involved in the school community. Caleb... is in your year, isn't he?"
I shifted in my seat and hoped she didn't notice how I pinked at the mention of his name. "Yes."
"He's a nice boy, from what I'd heard. If reserved," she continued. "On track to Truman's academic honours society. Mr. Troutman's star player."
"Yep, yep," I jerked my chin to pull the knot out of my throat. "Am I able to... recommend you? To him? I think he could use someone to talk to."
Three beats of silence passed between us. I felt embarrassed for having opened my mouth.
"You can inform him that the school has a counsellor service available if he doesn't know," she told me. "If he wants to make an appointment, he only has to..."
"No, no, no," I shook my head ardently. "He won't... he won't go on his own accord. Is there any way you can... approach him? Like you did with me? Just make him come in for a few... weeks?"
I stumbled over my words, growing more and more uncertain as Alba's face fell. She couldn't. I knew before she opened her mouth.
"Teachers can make recommendations and book sessions for students that agree to attend them," she explained. "But I can't single out students myself. Or force anyone to attend my sessions. I'm a voluntary service, Miles."
"Yeah, but..." I sucked on my lower lip. First Reece, now Caleb. The panic attack must have left my brain unoxygenated enough to kill a few brain cells, "... what if I think he's in danger?"
She sat forward a little, tilting her chin. "What kind of danger?"
"Self... I'm worried he might hurt himself," I rambled. "Not on purpose but... he's got so much... mess and instead of acknowledging it, he runs away. He sleeps in his car some nights. When he's upset. Because he'd rather get over it alone, in some park, than go home and explain to his parents why he's upset. And I worry... I worry about him."
Alba's fingers tightened in a knot, but her face was unreadable. "Has Caleb ever expressed a desire to self-harm? Has he disclosed to you any attempts?"
I averted my eyes, before shaking my head carefully.
"Do you know what he does, when he sleeps in the park?"
I flexed my fingers. "In his car. At the park. If you're asking whether he goes there to shoot heroin, I don't think that's his style. Just... self-loathing and social isolation."
Alba tapped her nails together in thought. "From what I've heard, he's rather popular."
"He's got the soccer team, and friends who use slurs for vocal warm-ups. Girls like him," I huffed, hating the immediate spike of jealousy. "I... I feel like he knows me. He used to be the only one in the world. I thought I knew him in return, but I think there are things he isn't telling anyone."
"Like what?"
One of the posters on Alba's wall had a spelling error. 'Prescription' was spelt 'prescripture'. "Like how much he wants to be out of this place. High school. Maybe even Perth. Because he's pretending every day of his life, and I think that must be exhausting."
Alba's smile was slight, again. She was recovering her sense of humour. "How do you seem to know exactly what he isn't telling anyone?"
"Educated guess," I told her automatically, before reconsidering my answer. "And... speaking from experience."
She stood up from her desk and came around to my side again. She kept her distance, but without the divide of the desk, I felt like we were on an equal standing. Especially since I wasn't heaving up my lungs. When I met her eyes, they were brimming with understanding. She knew exactly why I had bought up Caleb. She had figured out the identity of my 'it's complicated' guy. Confirming her suspicions verbally would feel like a betrayal, but I was sure she could see it all over my face.
"How do you feel about yourself today, Miles?" she asked gently. I was surprised by the question, but past being self-conscious about answering honestly.
"I feel hideous."
Alba's brows drew together. "And how did you feel about yourself before Caleb told you that you weren't his 'type'?"
My heart sank. I was sure I could see where she was going. "No, this isn't his fault..."
"I know," she assured me. "In fact, it's got absolutely nothing to do with Caleb. It's to do with you basing your self-worth based on how other people see you."
I opened my mouth to contradict her. Closed it. Tilt my head to the side.
"You cannot rely on other people to validate you and neither can Caleb," she told me firmly. "You need to believe in your beauty, your talent, and your worth. It's not anyone else's responsibility. Self-worth needs to be self-sufficient."
I didn't have to believe in my own beauty, I wanted to argue because I believed in Sephora's. She burned bright enough for both of us, satisfied both of our desires to be adored. I was fine with my talent and self-worth being channelled through my drag persona; she was the one who got results, after all. As I was, I got abandoned in carparks. There was no way Caleb would have left Sephora at her best standing dumb in his exhaust.
There was no way Sephora would have cared if he had. She would have pushed up her bra, tossed back her hair and hit the town, find someone with eyes two times bluer than Caleb's, and actual self-confidence and let him push up my skirt and treat me right. There's no way she would have spent that night licking her wounds and crying over the end of a relationship that had only existed in my fantasies.
But the confidence I felt as Sephora didn't come from nowhere. It came from my fans. It came from the comments on my Instagram, calling me a queen and beautiful and perfect. It came from the people in my life who were flawless in their own ways, like Aaron and Zsa Zsa and Caleb Proust. It came from the compliments I didn't get when I stumbled through my day-to-day life, swallowed by my own school uniform, looked through in the halls, lectured by my disappointed teachers, diagnosed with a myriad of esteem issues I didn't know I'd had before Alba.
"Sure. My self-worth is totally based on the validation of other people," I confessed. "Isn't everyone's? Anything else would be narcissism."
"That's not..."
"But Caleb Proust is far from my only tap for validation," I cut her off harshly. "I'm not going to wither away without his compliments. Yeah, the last few days have been confusing. Yeah, I kind of expected the guy to have more to say to me than you're not my type after he basically told me he was done playing games and yeah, I one-hundred-percent felt hotter when Caleb Proust was into me. But I'll get over it. It not like I've never been rejected in my life."
Alba digested this. She was still shaking her head softly, but at least she seemed to hear me. "It's nice to be complimented. It's nice to have people in our lives who lift us up. Vital, even. But that isn't the same as self-worth. Your perception of value needs to come from you. When we place that pressure on others, we only hurt ourselves."
I bought my hands to my shoulders, running my fingers up and down goose-bumped flesh. Closing my heart off to further criticism, while doing my best to appear nonchalant.
Diverting the conversation was my best bet. "Can you help Caleb, or not?"
She seemed to choose her next words carefully, hesitating for a few beats. "I'll ask around the office. If any of his teachers share your concerns, I'll ask them to make a recommendation, as Miss Riley did for you."
The clamping sensation in my chest eased a little, and I let out a shaky breath. "Thank you."
Her smile was gentle. "Never stop caring for people the way you do, Miles. It's a rare quality. But if I do this, I'd like you to put aside whatever Caleb decides to do. Our sessions are to talk about you. Is that fair?"
I nodded assuredly. "This will be a Miles only discussion space. God knows we have plenty to talk about."
There was a firm knock on the door. Alba startled as if waking from a long dream and checked her watch. She frowned but gestured at me to stay seated as she unfurled from her seat, approached the door, and stuck her head out. I couldn't make out the details of her muffled conversation, past won't be long and take a seat. She shut the door again quiet, and I started to drag my bag out from beneath the seat as I sensed I was cutting into the tasks she'd been paid to do.
"Stay, Miles," she implored. "We have time."
"I don't want to take up someone else's slot," I insisted. "I'll be back on Wednesday."
Alba looked torn. "Would you like to spend some time in the nurse's office? I wouldn't feel right sending you back to class if you still feel unsteady."
I tried for a laugh to demonstrate how steady I felt. When it came out fractured, I lifted one leg to demonstrate just how balanced I could be, and immediately tilted and nearly went sprawling across her desk. I gripped the side and lowered myself back carefully onto two feet. "You get the idea."
She placed a hand over her mouth to shield her smile. "I see. Well... before you go..."
The straps of my bag cut into my palms as I clenched them, slipping into restlessness. I didn't like Alba's hesitation. It was not her natural state. She crossed her hands in her lap, the tattooed circlet on her ring finger standing out against her plain clothes. It reminded me of her fiancée and our run in on Saturday and a million 'what-ifs' that made my hair stand on its ends.
However, whether that was from fear or mere anticipation, I could not tell. My heart hammered like a hummingbird, but I didn't feel ill. I didn't hear the crashing down of my livelihood like dominos at the threat of impending exposure.
Because really, if Alba did know... would that be all that bad? She'd said in our first awkward meeting in her office, that my personal life was for me to disclose to her, at my discretion. I wasn't an immediate threat to myself or anyone else. I almost jumped the gun in the pause, to beat her to the punch. I met your fiancée the other day. I was rather rude, would you apologise to her for me?
Alba was speaking before I could.
"I think you're immensely talented, compassionate, and brave," she told me. "I look forward to the day you don't need me to tell you that, but until then, I'm going to remind you wholesale at every opportunity."
My lips sealed, and I felt a blush spread across my chest. The tips of my ears burned. Alba watched me expectantly, the swinging pendant of her silver necklace swallowed by the hollow of her throat.
"You don't want to become a tap for my validation," I advised her. "I'll run you dry."
Her smile was mild. "What are you going to do with the rest of your day?"
I hadn't considered it. One foot in front of the other, and all that. "I'm going to go to class. I'm going to talk to my teachers about the last few days and get extensions for my homework. I'm going to spend a quiet lunch with my two amazing friends and I am not going to think about Caleb Proust, past feeling sorry for him. Because I am not ready for a relationship."
"And even if you were," Alba reminded me, "... Caleb sounds far from ready in that department as well."
I shrugged. There was no real question there. I wondered how much longer he'd keep Steph as a backburner girlfriend, guaranteeing no questions asked by his parents. Until they started insisting, as I'd told him yesterday. But that was his weight to bear, and when it came time, I was sure he would find another excuse to stay hidden.
I hoped one day he woke up and realised that it was all for nothing. Open the door for his family, and let them in, as he had me.
"Do you have somewhere safe to go tonight?" Alba asked next, warily. "Options outside Reece, if...?"
"I can stay at Aaron's," I assured her. "But I'm not afraid of going home."
"I'm glad. I wish I didn't even have to ask the question," she sighed. "In the twenty-first century, none-the-less."
She walked me to the door, her hand hovering just over my shoulder. As I reached for the handle, she lowered it and squeezed.
I leaned into the touch, microscopically. Her comfort was magnetic. "Alba... I just want you to know that you've done so much for me. Even if it doesn't seem like I'm making much progress... without you, I'd be in the closet to people I loved, I'd be scared and lost and failing school... what I'm trying to say is you're probably not getting paid half as much as you should be for saving my fucking life. Just by being out you... you show a lot of queer kids that it gets better. I hope... that can include Caleb."
"It does," she confirmed after a pause, closing her eyes after taking in my words. "And I can see your progress, Miles. I can feel it. One day, you're going to blow people's minds."
You're going to be really happy soon.
Caleb had said it like a promise. I'd held out hope that that happiness would come hand in hand with him. "That would be very validating."
She shook me a little, affectionately, and stepped back as I opened the door. I jerked up the straps of my backpack, and took a self-assured step forwards, with my chin held high and my whole being ten tonnes lighter.
My eyes dipped. My poise abandoned me in a violent flurry, nearly sending me to the floor.
Aidan McCaffrey was sitting on the lone seat opposite Alba's office, white form clenched in one hand, pit stains already forming under his arms. He was looking up at me, looking alarmingly like the cat who got the cream. No infamous scowl. No resentment for my part in his suspension.
He was smirking up at me, and his eyes were burning. I could tell by the calculating sweep up and down he gave me and the malicious glint in his eye, that he had been listening for god knew how long. Probably since he'd knocked on the door.
Probably since he'd heard me confirm, in no uncertain terms that Caleb Proust, his usurper, and ex-best friend, was gay. Closely followed by outing myself, serving up to him a two-course platter of cold, hard revenge fodder.
From behind me, Alba called out, "Aidan, thank you for waiting. Come on in."
Her tone made it clear they didn't know one another, but it was light, welcoming, and friendly. Despite myself, I felt betrayed. Alba didn't know all that Aidan had put me through, and even if she did, I presumed she wasn't contractually allowed to be biased against students, violent psychopaths, or not.
He stood to his full height, towering over me without effort. I was hit with a nauseating wave of Axe Body Spray and staggered to the side as not to brush up against him accidentally as he shouldered past towards Alba's office. As he passed, he caught my eye once again, and smiled broadly, flashing me his teeth.
I've got you, that smile said. It promised hell to come.
I felt my knees buckle and barely stayed on my feet as the door closed behind him with a soul-rocking slam. My jaw hung loose; my eyes bulged. Years of secrecy, years of careful anonymity in the hallways of Truman to avoid negative attention. The thought of my sexuality, my heart, being used against me, being used to demean me, made me want to throw up. Aidan would twist and distort my identity until I hated who I was, hated the only thing that had gotten me through the last two years.
Even Sephora couldn't pull me out of that.
And Caleb. Caleb. My fat fucking mouth. I'd delivered Aidan's means for retaliation straight to him. He had the ammunition to send Caleb into hiding, and it was my fault. His coming out was going to be tarnished by malevolence, spite, and defined by his lack of choice in the matter. He'd become a sexuality instead of a person, the fear he'd expressed to me only yesterday. Jake and Seth would hear from gossip, his teammates would turn on him, and he would have... no one. He would feel as if he had no one.
If sleeping in his car was his coping mechanism now, I couldn't bear to imagine how he would respond to...
I ran to the nurse's office. She wasn't in, thankfully, because I went straight to the sink and threw up liquid. My guts were churning, and my skin was clammy, long beads of sweat tracing the length of my back. I felt as if I'd contracted a rare strain of plague, bought on by immense guilt.
Half of me wanted to curl up under the nurse's cot, hide from the world as the inevitable played out. I fought it. I needed to act.
I needed to fix this.