Becoming Brett

12. As Old As Time

My phone vibrates against my leg. It has been every so often as I sit at the piano giving a little girl with light blond pigtails a lesson. Her name is Ayla and out of all the kids I give lessons to, she's probably the only one with a real desire to learn.

I glance at the clock on the wall, the urge to check my phone overwhelming because it's probably James. There's only five minutes left but I swear the second hand has literally slowed down. No longer ticking around the clock with the same ferocity it seems to have when I'm with James.

Ayla's fingers stumble over the last few notes, her timing off by nothing more than an eighth of a beat and if it was the beginning of the lesson I'd have her repeat it. But it's not and my heart is racing in my chest and I can't focus on Ayla right now anyway. My minds already made the short leap elsewhere.

"Not bad." I smile. "We can call it good there."

She's an adorable little girl that smiles at me with a gap in her teeth. It gives her a little lisp, her tongue poking through the empty hole as she smiles back.

"Just remember to practice those exercises we did in the beginning. It'll help with your speed and independence."

She runs her hands down the pink pants she has on as she meets her mother who likes to observe her lessons from our dining room table. Talk about nerve racking.

"Thanks Brett." Ayla says in that sweet little voice young girls have that make them seem like precious angels.

I know it's false though, I've heard Ayla give her mom what for through the open window of my house. She may be small but she's fierce.

"See ya next week." I swing my legs around the piano bench, waving to her and her mom.

As soon as I hear the front door open, I'm tugging my phone out of my jeans, my fingers eager to navigate their way to whatever has had my phone chiming. I have this habit of curling around my phone, my shoulders hunching and my head hung low as I clutch it close to me.

It is James, his name lit up on my screen with the notification that I have four unread texts from him. Happiness bubbles up inside me but before it explodes onto my face I swallow it down, my thumb hovering over the swipe button.

When it comes to James, I have this fear that one day he's going to get sick of me. He's going to tire of hiding, of being a secret and my refusal to come out is going to drive him from me. It's a tale almost as old as time.

But it's these lingering thoughts that like to hang out in the background that always make me a little hesitant to open his messages. Because right now, I can stay in blissful ignorance if the messages do contain my fear. And I like this, this happiness, the excitement, the way my blood pumps hard through my veins, heightening all my senses and how even though I'm not going to let myself all I want to do is smile as big as I can.

I'm aware that I can't live in ignorance forever though, at some point the wool gets lifted from your eyes and you see the reality of everything. That's just how life works.

"Hey, she's sounding really good." My mom startles me just as I'm about to open up James' text and I nearly fling my phone.

"Uh...Sorry. Yeah." I stutter, trying to mask the fear that's overridden the happiness I was overwhelmed with moments ago. "She's getting good."

My mom's perfectly shaped eyebrows arch into her forehead, watching me with curiosity.

"It was Wes." I lie, waving my phone in my hand slightly. "Wanted to know if I was done for the day."

Her face crinkles with warmth, my mom loves Wes because she loves Grace. Honestly though, I have to give my parents some credit. I'm sure having Wes around, especially when we were younger was an adjustment. I've come to find that adults don't accept change nearly as well as kids do. When Wes was officially diagnosed I listened to my parents talk about how tragic it was, how difficult everything would be, how grateful they were that it wasn't me.

And I remember thinking that Wes was still Wes. That a list of acronyms and labels didn't change anything for me. And when Wes' tics started to increase and become louder that he was still Wes. He'd always be Wes.

"How is he? He hasn't been over in a while." She asks. "You should invite him for dinner."

Wes would come over. That's not the issue. My house is one of the places that he's actually comfortable at beside his house. But thing there is, I'm not comfortable here. I'm constantly on edge, trying to maintain these unrealistic goals of perfection and hiding the fact that I like someone I shouldn't like. Not like that at least.

So I lie, again.

"He's having a bad day." I tell her.

Her body deflates with sympathy as she leans against the wall. "Poor Wes."

I nod along, muttering a "yeah" as I drop my eyes to the carpet below. My phone is twisted in my hand, the screen smashed into my palm and it vibrates. I make no move to check it just incase it's James.

Catching the movement of my mom leaving her post on the wall, she sits beside me on the piano bench, her arm wrapping around my shoulders as she pulls me to her. She smells like bleach and eucalyptus.

"You're a good friend." She breathes the words into my hair.

The warmth of her breath sends goosebumps across my scalp.

"I love you sweetheart."

She loves the idea of me. The person I pretend to be. The thoughts sound instantly in my mind, protruding and ugly as they seek out and destroy any faith I have in the ability to actually be me. Without holding back. Without any reservations.

Swallowing down the lump of fear that threatens to close off my airway I tell her "I love you too mom".

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We are officially moving all our stuff on Saturday! 🥳🥳 I cant wait to be completely in the house.