Better Than People - Roan Parrish Page 0,15

and righting himself in the nick of time—Simon felt like he should’ve despite Jack’s clear distaste for help. Must be nice, being accustomed to not needing it.

When Jack held two steaming mugs of coffee out to him, Simon took them and put them on the table, leaving Jack’s hands free for his crutches. Jack thunked into the chair next to him and Simon held very, very still.

“So, uh. You don’t talk much,” Jack said.

There it was.

Simon’s stomach knotted and he wanted to push his chair back and flee. Before he could, Jack went on.

“Do you not like to, or do you have stuff to say but you just don’t...talk much?”

Simon bit his lip and held up two fingers.

Jack nodded assessingly. “Wanna text me? Is that better?”

Against all odds, something tiny fluttered to life in the black hole of Simon’s stomach.

He slid his phone from his pocket cautiously in case it was a joke. But Jack took his own from his sweatshirt pocket and waited.

Simon’s fingers itched with all the unspoken words. All the questions he’d wanted to ask earlier. But those had been in the moment. Now, with the ability to write anything, what his fingers tapped out was: Sorry. It’s weird, I know.

Jack glanced at his phone and furrowed his brow.

“That you have a hard time talking? Well...yeah, I guess.” He shrugged. “Why do you?”

Simon’s face heated. In the question he couldn’t help but hear the echo of years of words.

I’m not... Simon deleted. There’s nothing wrong... Simon deleted.

He sent, I don’t know. I get really nervous and I just can’t make words come out.

Jack nodded. “Has it always been that way?”

Simon nodded miserably.

“Fuck. That really sucks.”

Simon choked on an unexpected chuckle.

“Is it like that with everyone? What about your friends, or family?”

Simon rolled his eyes. Friends. Yeah, right.

I’m fine talking with my family, Simon wrote. But I don’t see my parents much anymore. It’s better that way. They just want me to be someone I’m not. My sister’s cool and I can talk to her but she always wants to invite me to hang out with her friends or set me up. My grandma’s my best friend.

He sent the message and instantly felt awkward. What twenty-six-year-old man’s best friend was his grandmother? Then guilt swept through him at how hurt his grandmother would be to hear he felt that way.

“That’s cool about your grandma. Nice she bakes you cookies and stuff.” Jack sounded wistful.

Do you have a grandma?

He shook his head. “Well, I mean, I do, of course. But they’re dead. Everyone’s dead.”

Simon reached for his phone but before he could respond to that rather bleak pronouncement, Jack said, “Why does your sister invite you to do stuff she knows you don’t want to do?”

Simon snorted.

I know, right? Well...selfishness, I guess? She wants for me what she’d want for herself and she isn’t quite willing to imagine that I might be different and want different things.

Jack said nothing, apparently waiting for more. Simon felt his pulse flutter, but not from anxiety; from pleasure.

She’s my parents’ ideal kid, Simon went on. Ambitious, outgoing, confident. Everything I’m not.

He added a grimacing emoji but accidentally hit the scream emoji instead and sent it before he noticed.

Jack smiled.

“You’re not ambitious?” he asked.

Simon blinked at him, thinking about that, and for an unguarded moment, they were looking at each other—really looking at each other.

I guess my ambitions are just different. Less ambitious. Well, less...idk, career-y?

Jack nodded.

Mine are more like “Order a coffee without stammering” or “say ‘thank you’ at louder than a mumble when the pizza’s delivered.”

Simon couldn’t quite look at Jack to see his response to that.

“That sounds so damn hard,” Jack said, voice gruff.

Unexpected tears prickled in Simon’s eyes to hear the empathy there. Not his abhorred pity; not scorn; not embarrassment. Just empathy.

It is.

From the corner of his eye, Simon saw Jack’s phone light, knew he’d seen the message. But he still couldn’t look up.

So why don’t you draw when you can’t sleep anymore? he added.

“Ugh,” Jack grunted, and pushed back from the table with powerful arms, leaning his chair on its back legs. Simon looked up, startled, and Mayonnaise, who had crept in through the window cat door without Simon noticing, lifted her head at the disruption, but Jack was already levering his chair back down to earth. “Sorry,” he muttered.

Simon sat very still, except for his left hand, which spasmed against his will. He shoved it back under his thigh.

“I illustrate children’s books—well, I did.” And that was