Stray Fears - Gregory Ashe Page 0,5
how stupid I feel next to you?”
“You’re not old.”
“I’m almost thirty years older than you.”
“Ok, but you’re not old.”
“Please look at me when we’re talking.”
I did, but I only lasted a second before my eyes started stinging and I hid my face in my elbow.
“How would you feel?” Richard asked again.
“I wouldn’t like it.”
“And I don’t like it when you make jokes about hurting yourself because you don’t like how you look. I understand that you aren’t happy with your body, but I also know that you’re working on this with Zahra.”
My eyes were hot and sticky against the inside of my arm.
“Body dysmorphia is not an easy thing to treat,” Richard said softly, his hand light on my ankle again. “And the weight gain is one side effect of the medication. We knew that before you started it. Do you want to go off the medication?”
I shook my head.
“Ok, I support that choice. I don’t think it would be the right thing for you either.” He squeezed my ankle lightly. “Hey. Forget the paper. Let’s go for a drive. Let’s get some good food and have a picnic. We’ll find somewhere shady. We’ll drink iced tea. It’ll be perfect.”
I rolled off the couch, scrubbed my face once, and said, “I can’t. I forgot.”
“Elien, this feels like avoidance behavior. You’re not running away from me because you’re upset, are you?”
Shaking my head, I moved toward the stairs. “No, I just forgot. I told Zahra I’d check in on Ray this week.”
“Ok, I can drive you into town. Who’s Ray?”
“Just a guy from group. I’ll get an Uber.” Shoving my bare feet into tennis shoes, I was out the door and into the bayou’s heat before Richard could answer.
DAG (4)
“He’s smoking hot,” my dad said. His voice sounded tinny playing from the phone where it lay on the dash.
Mason pretended to upchuck into his takeout bag.
“Gross,” I said.
“No, Dag, you’re not listening. He’s gorgeous. He’s perfect.”
My mom’s voice came from the background: “He’s very handsome.”
“Do you hear that?” my dad said. “Your mom says he’s very handsome.”
“I heard. Thank you. I appreciate your unconditional love and support. Now, I’m officially terminating this conversation.”
“I told him I didn’t know if you preferred to host.”
I wondered if I could melt into my seat. “Dad, you cannot talk to guys about stuff like that for me.”
“Is that what it’s called when guys come over for sex? Hosting?”
“I think it’s called running a train,” my mom shouted in the background.
“You are no longer my parents,” I said. “Goodbye, strangers. I wish you the best of luck.”
“You’ve got to text him,” my dad said. “Promise me you’ll text him. I see him every week at Rouses, and I won’t be able to look him in the eyes if you don’t text him.”
“So go to another grocery store.”
“You know Rouses has the chicken salad I like.”
“Dad—”
“Promise me.”
“Fine, I’ll text him if it means we never have to talk about this again.”
“And you’ve got to put some effort in when you host, Dagobert,” my dad said.
“I really think it’s called running a train,” my mom said.
“This is the best thing of my life,” Mason whispered.
I reached for the phone to take it off speaker, and Mason wrestled me away from it.
“I’m just saying,” my dad added, “if you shave, if you pick up the place, if you put on a nice jockstrap, I think you have a chance. This guy’s right at the edge of your weight class, but I think you’ve got a chance.”
“Jesus, Dad,” I said, giving up and letting Mason force me away from the phone. “Give your only son a little credit.”
“Do not take the Lord’s name in vain, young man,” my mom said.
“I was reading on Out.com that jockstraps are highly in demand if you are a bottom,” Dad said. “But a lot of the commenters said tops or bottoms look hot in a jock.”
“You are a straight, middle-aged Republican in Louisiana. Why are you reading Out.com?”
“The world is changing,” my mom said.
“This guy, he looks a little bit like that twink you used to bring over. Gloria, what was his name?”
“Jackson,” Mom called back.
“Jackson,” my dad said. “He looks like Jackson, only hotter.” I could picture him sitting back, glowing with self-satisfaction as he added, “How’s that for father of the year?”
“Jackson?” Mason whispered. “Jackson Sanders?”
“Shut up,” I whispered back. Louder, I said, “Mom, Dad, I’ve got to go. I’m working.”
My mom’s voice came on the line now; she must have stopped