Title: Good Enough

Chapter 17

Spoilers: "Overload"

Warnings: This story has reference to sexual abuse. Nothing graphic.

Author's Notes: This is a short, transitional chapter. Sorry guys. The boys are fighting again. Those rascals.

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Sometimes I feel like I'm haunted.

When I was a kid, I was molested by a last-minute babysitter. It's a secret I've been carrying around with me since I was nine. The only people in the world who know are Catherine, the babysitter, and me. And my mom, sort of. The last time I was in Texas, I tried to tell my mom about it, but she got uncomfortable and wouldn't listen. Catherine's been on me to try again. She says this thing is going to bother me until I get it out in the open. I know she's right. My secret is like this ghost that's always hanging around in the background, waiting to rattle its chains.

But still, the idea of facing down my mom is terrifying. When I tried to open up to her in Texas, she got this look on her face. I don't know what it was . . . revulsion? . . . guilt? But I'm scared to see that look again.

And then there's Greg to think about. I've always had this fear in the back of my mind that my significant others would learn my secret, and that they wouldn't want to be with me anymore. That they'd see my as damaged. The rational part of me knows Greg wouldn't see it that way. But for all my trust in Greg, there's this little kernel of doubt.

Actually, he and I had a pretty lousy night last night. Greg overheard Catherine and me talking about my problems with my mom. After Catherine left, Greg and I were left with uneasy silence. We sat up for forty-five minutes just making small talk.

Right now, I'm pacing around the living room of Greg's apartment, my cell phone in one hand, a cinnamon donut in the other. Greg's still in the shower. He likes to take insanely long showers, so I figure I've got a while before he comes out.

I've dialed Mom's number. All I have to do is hit the send button.

"Might as well get it over with," I mutter under my breath.

After one ring, my mom answers the phone in her elegant Texan drawl. "Hello?"

"Mom," I say, trying to sound cheerful, "What's up?"

"My long lost son," she says dramatically, "I'm surprised to hear from you this late."

"I've been up an hour, mom," I say, dropping onto the couch, "Graveyard shift."

"Of course," she says, "How are you, son?"

"I'm all right," I lie, "I'm about to head to work." Taking in a deep breath, I say, "Listen, Mom. I was sort of wondering if you could come to Vegas for a few days."

"Aren't you the son who ran away to a different state to get away from me?"

I laugh dryly. "The same. Mom, there's some things we need to talk about, and I need to do it face to face."

"Like what, dear?"

"Like that thing we started to talk about in Texas."

My mom clears her throat. "I don't know what you mean."

Chuckling, I say, "You can play that game if want, but you know exactly what I'm talking about. Can you come?"

"I don't know if I can get away," she says awkwardly.

"That's what I thought, Mom," I say. Without waiting for a reply, I hang up and toss the phone onto the couch.

---

"Have a falling out with Mom?"

I glance up at a towel-clad Greg. A wet, towel-clad Greg.

"I had a nice, little chat with Mom," I say as I watch a droplet of water slide down Greg's shoulder. Shifting on the couch, I fight the urge to run over and help Greg dry off.

I'm amazed I can be this shallow with all the rotten crap I have going on in my mind.

Greg narrows his eyes. "Want to talk about it?"

"No, I don't, Greggo."

He sighs. "That's cool."

"It's nothing about us," I say quickly, "It's something totally different."

"No problem," Greg says.

Shutting my eyes, I rub my left temple. "Sometimes I think my mom should have stopped having kids before I was born."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

I open my eyes. "I'm just talking."

Licking his lips, the now loosely-towel-clad Greg sits down on the couch. "Nicky, I want to say something to you, and I don't want you to get mad."

"What's up?"

Greg closes his eyes. "I think you should consider talking to someone."

That's the last thing I expected Greg to say. "What?" I ask incredulously.

Greg shrugs. "Lots of people talk to the department shrink. That's what he's there for. It's not going to hurt your career."

"Wait, wait." I let his words process in my mind. "You're telling me to see a shrink."

"You could talk to him about us and your concerns about coming out."

"You've got to be joking," I snap.

Greg puts a hand on my shoulder. "Before I came out to my parents, I used to talk to my guidance counselor. It helped."

I glare at Greg's hand as if it's some kind of mutant bug. "I'm not talking to a shrink about our love life, Greg."

Greg stares at the wall for a long few seconds, and then shifts uncomfortably, grasping the towel in order to keep it in place as he moves. Taking a long breath, Greg says, "Look, Nick. I think you've got deeper problems than just your sexual orientation."

I feel my chest begin to tighten. "What?" I almost laugh, "So, you're diagnosing me now?"

"I'm just thinking—"

"You know what, Greggo?" I say harshly, "Maybe my problem is that you're pushing too damn hard. Maybe I'm not ready for this. You're so freakin' emotional and touchy-feely."

All the color drains from Greg's face. "If you think that," he says, his voice shaking, "We can slow down."

I should shut up, but I'm on a roll.

"We can stop," I snarl.

Greg glances at me, and then averts his eyes. "Nick, see what I mean? I'm trying to talk to you. You're pushing me away."

"Then take a hint and go away," I snap. As soon as the words burst out of my mouth, I shake my head. "I'm sorry, Greg. I didn't mean that."

I'm not sure why Greg's comments set me off like this.

Maybe because a part of me thinks he's right about me seeing a shrink?

Greg bites his bottom lip. "If I'm pushing you too hard—"

I cut him off. "You're not."

"Look," he says, "Just forget the whole 'coming out' thing. We need to slow down." Then he adds almost in one breath, "I still think you should talk to someone."

I swallow. "My mom and I are having a thing right now," I say, "I took it out on you."

"We need to slow things down," Greg repeats, "We've been together every night since we started this. And you've got problems right now, so you don't need this."

"Greg," I say, "I want to be with you every night."

"I have strong feelings for you," he says, "You're not ready for that yet."

Shaking my head, I say, "Don't tell me what I'm ready for and what I'm not."

I've been in love with the guy for months. I'd call those strong feelings.

Greg leans forward. "Nicky, I need more than just a physical thing. Or a guy to hang out and watch sports with. I need to be a part of your personal life, to share it with you. I need to know what's going on in your head. Yeah, I'm emotional and touchy-feely." He stands up, flustered. "And I need to get ready for work."