He set his mug down, and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, not a threat but a focusing. “Tell me,” he said.
The request felt like an offer of absolution and a dare. I opened my mouth and then closed it. How do you confess to the man who is the source of your confession? How do you arrange your words so that they don’t sound like a betrayal?
Instead, I spoke of the fear. “I’m afraid of how I feel,” I said. “I’m afraid because it’s wrong and because it’s real.”
He was silent for a long moment, watching me with a gravity that tightened and softened me at once. “Real sometimes hurts,” he said finally. “But pretending it’s not there doesn’t make it less real.”
The honesty in his voice was like a soft blow. It calmed me, and it undid me. There was something about his steadiness that invit
