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This bed isn’t big enough for three people.
But it is the perfect size for two, I think to myself as Nana and I lay sprawled across it, staring up at the many miniature bumps of plaster of the popcorn ceiling. I find myself doing this a lot - staring at some random object in my surroundings for an uncomfortably long period of time, trying not to make too much eye contact with her. I’m always worried that if left to my own devices, I’ll just keep staring at her.
Her hair that falls in perfect, long ringlets, that feels so soft against the skin of my fingertips whenever I run my hands through her thick waves; the way her bottom lip forms a perfect little pout when she’s thinking; her long, expertly filed nails that gently scratch my hands when she holds them.
And I suddenly realize that I am, in fact, staring at her, and she has definitely noticed. I shake myself out of my stupor, but to my surprise, she doesn’t seem to think it’s strange.
I’ve never been so infatuated with a person, but then again, I’ve never really been infatuated with a person at all. At least, not in a romantic sort of way.
No one has ever made me feel like she does.
But all I can think about is that I don’t feel that way about her. That I don’t feel enough for her.
And then she’s cupping my chin with a hand, placing her palm on my cheek, and all I can feel is the blood rushing to my cheeks, and I’m not ready for this, but I need her to…
I need her to stop.
“I can’t do this right now,” I mutter softly. “I’m sorry, Nana.”
A guilty expression spreads across her face, and I wish for a second that I just kissed her back so I don’t have to look at it. All she asks is, “Why?”
“I, uh,” I have to take a second to collect my thoughts. “I don’t know.”
“Not that you need a reason of course.” She seems like she’s trying to backtrack. “I was just wondering, I guess. ” After a moment she adds, “Is it something I did?”
I quickly shake my head. “No, no, it’s not you, I promise. I guess I just… I’ve been thinking.” I contemplate letting my honest thoughts out to her, but I don’t quite know what to say or how to say it. I know I’m terrible about expressing how I’m feeling in a healthy way, and I can’t help but think that if I let all of this bubble up inside of me until it bursts, I might find myself hurting a person I deeply care about. “I think we need to talk about something,” I finally settle on.
Nana sits up slowly, perching her legs under her. She motions for me to sit in front of her, on the edge of the bed. I comply, and she reaches over to the nightstand drawer and pulls out a little pack of hair clips. “Then let’s talk. But I have a feeling this is something you’re serious about, and that maybe makes me a little nervous.”
“So you want to do my hair?”
“If you’ll let me.”
I let out a little chuckle. She does always have a way of making every situation a little easier to deal with in her own strange, unique way. “Ok, then.”
“Talk to me, Zane.”
I take a moment to make a futile attempt at collecting my thoughts. “I love that you want to show me so much physical affection. I know I’m really inexperienced in this whole relationship thing, and I like when we kiss, I like it a lot…” I don’t know where I’m going with this. “But I’ve never felt the way I feel about you with anyone before. And I’m always so scared that when you want more from me, I’m not going to be able to give it to you, because I’m not, uh,” I take a deep breath. “I don’t know if I’ve ever felt sexually attracted to you. Or anyone. And I don’t know if I can, and I’m so scared that if we start making out, things are going to go further than that, and…”
I suddenly lose focus on my words, getting lost in the way her hands feel running through my hair, pinning up little sections with small glittery butterfly clips, and my cheeks are hot, and I’m trying so, so hard to hold back tears, and after what feels like an eternity, her voice brings me back.
“Keep talking, please. I want to hear it.” She gently encourages me.
“Nana, I’m scared that I already don’t deserve you. And I’m scared that there’s something wrong with me, because you’re the only person I’ve ever felt this way about, and I thought I wasn’t even capable of liking someone, so if I’m not attracted to you like that, there must be something wrong with me. And I’m so, so scared I’m going to lose you because of it, but I can’t fix it, and I want to, so badly, but…”
She puts the container of clips down and places her hands on my shoulders. “Zane, there’s nothing wrong with you. I hate to even hear those words come out of your mouth.” She stops for a second to run her fingers across my cheeks, and they come back damp.
“I know not everyone experiences sexual attraction, and that’s ok, and it’s normal, and you don’t have to change for someone to like you, you know that? Because I like you.
Not because I want something from you, but because you’re funny, and honest, and charming in such a weird and awkward way that I never thought I’d be attracted to, and you listen to me, and it also helps that you have a cute face.”
She’s not mad.
She’s not mad. She understands.
“This isn’t something you can change about yourself, but you don’t have to feel that way to care about someone romantically and want to be with them. Not to toot my own horn, but I know you like me, trust me. You don’t have to convince me of that. And we don’t always have to be physical with each other, I want you to tell me when you’re uncomfortable with something.”
I know I’m crying at this point, but all I can do is stare at her, and then she’s crying too, and somehow it morphs into a burst of deep, sniffly laughter. She doesn’t care. She still likes me.
I know I don’t deserve her, but this isn’t a reason why.