Page 50 of Playing the Backbeat

“What do you see?”

He inhales deeply and releases the breath slowly. I’m not sure I’ll get an answer at all when he finally says, “It’s a reset. Washing everything away with an intensity…a certain power. I feel it here.” He rubs his palm over the center of his chest. “It feels otherworldly. Beautiful. A little haunting.”

Another lightning strike casts him in bright light.

“There’s so much I don’t know about you,” I blurt, instantly wishing I could take it back. I don’t want him to think I’m prying about what happened earlier.

“I could say the same about you. Besides”—he shrugs—“you know more than most.”

“I doubt that.”

“Besides the guys, I keep things pretty surface level. Easier that way.”

“Sure, easier. Lonelier too.”

“Speaking from experience?” he asks, his tone light, playing it off as a joke, but I’m serious.

“Maybe a little. If I act like nothing can hurt me…then people don’t try. It’s easier to be funny than vulnerable. If I don’t take anything too seriously, I don’t miss it when it ends.”

“Even your job?” he asks.

“That’s different.”

“Seems like you miss it to me.”

“I don’t think I miss the job. I think I miss feeling needed. God,” I laugh, feeling sorry for myself instantly. “It probably sounds so egotistical, but I liked feeling important.”

“It’s not egotistical to want a purpose,” he says, his voice reassuring.

“Well, look where that got me.”

“It got you a roommate.”

“An unexpected perk,” I muse.

His eyebrows lift in surprise and he smiles. “I’m a perk? We’ve come a long way from our bylaws meeting. You want a drink?”

“Sure.”

He nods, heading into the kitchen, pulling two beers from the fridge and handing me one before he sits again.

“So why put yourself through all this for a job you’re not sure you even miss? Is it easier to put distance between you and what you really want?”

I rock my head along the back cushion, studying Dylan as he plays with the label on the side of the bottle.

When I came home to find him in the laundry room in the middle of…whatever that was. A panic attack, or something like it, I didn’t want to push. But now I wonder if I really know him at all.

Someone I’ve been friends with for years, never diving any deeper than the surface-level shit he offered, not offering him anything more in return. And suddenly, that feels like a loss. Guilt gnaws at my chest. Fear of everything I may have missed out on sinks in my gut.

Because he showed me his.

The urge to be vulnerable, here with Dylan, terrifies me, but I find myself wanting it all the same.

“I told you I was bullied growing up, but I don’t feel like I was completely honest. It was pretty bad. I guess it’s easier to pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Why did they do that?” His question sounds genuine, unable to fathom why someone would act like that. A part of me is relieved to hear he hasn’t gone through anything like what I did.

A sad laugh escapes me. “Why does anyone bully? Probably projecting their own insecurities. Pinning it all on me so they don’t become a target themselves. Seeking control over someone else to combat how out of control they might feel in their own life. I’ve spent time and money trying to figure it out in therapyover the years. But in the end, it doesn’t matter, does it? I can’t control them.” I shrug. “I can only control myself.”