Falling Under by Danielle Younge-Ullman

the beer into your room at night and try not to hear them screwing in the next room. You’re twelve, so it’s not like you don’t know about these things, but seriously, it’s gross.
    6
    Hugo and I find the bar too noisy on our sixth meeting.
    He suggests we walk.
    The word “walk” has a slightly sickening effect on me, but I can’t exactly say I don’t walk. Obviously I walk; it’s a basic skill. I roll my shoulders and breathe. I focus on Hugo, on wanting to be with Hugo.
    “You okay?” he asks.
    “Fine,” I say, and grip the edge of my chair. “You look a little... dizzy or something.”
    I swallow, then nod. “Yeah, I was for a second. I’m fine though.”
    I stand up and reach for his hand. The warmth of his grip grounds me.
    “Let’s walk,” I say.
    He gives me a cute, shy smile, squeezes my hand and we’re off.
    The air is crisp and smells of fallen leaves and wood smoke. I take full breaths. I’m okay. Air has never smelled so good.
    “So,” Hugo says, “what about your family? You said your parents are divorced. Are they both still in Toronto?”
    Something always wrecks it. I try to relax my jaw.
    “Yeah, my dad lives on Jarvis. He, um, works in the restaurant industry on and off, he’s got an on-and-off girl- friend, and generally he’s ... either on or off.”
    “I’m not sure if I should laugh at that or not. Are you serious?”
    “Dad’s got issues,” I say. “He’s all right though, he’s... we’re friends.”
    “And your mom?”
    I sigh. “She’s here too. I don’t see her very much.” “Why not?”
    “I used to know.”
    “Is this another one of those off-limits subjects?” Hugo asks. “Should we talk about...I don’t know, particle the- ory, musical theater?”
    There is an edge to his tone, which makes me feel sick in addition to tense.
    “No, it’s fine,” I say. It’ll have to be. I can’t shut him down on every personal subject and expect him to keep hanging around. “I’m sorry, I’m just out of the habit of talk- ing about any of this.”
    “Okay . . .” he says, and waits.
    “Um... my mom and I... it’s been a rocky relationship since I was a teenager, even before that. For a long time I was angry but now ... we’re just different. It doesn’t work very well between us.”
    Again, he waits, just watching me.
    I take a deep breath. “My dad was a bit of a flake, in terms of child support, reliability, all kinds of things. It’s not really his fault, he’s just always been a mess. To be fair though, my mom was on her own supporting us, raising me,
    etcetera. I was made very aware of what a strain it was for her, how disappointed she was in how her life turned out. And she wasn’t exactly the warm and fuzzy type—still isn’t. She wasn’t around a lot because she had to work so much and when she was, her parenting strategy was about making me tough and independent.”
    I pause and glance at Hugo, who is now looking far too sympathetic.
    “She succeeded,” he says.
    I make a sound that’s almost a laugh. “You don’t think so?” he says.
    I’m flattered, but he has obviously confused prickly and paranoid with tough and independent. What would he think if he saw me hiding in my house, painting the same thing over and over, running to my lover to get my fears fucked away? Would he think I was tough if he knew that the closer we get to a relationship the more terrified I am?
    “I’m glad you do,” I reply.
    6
    I hold my shit together, though between the walking and the personal conversation, it’s a challenging evening. I wave good-bye from my car and drive two blocks before the shak- ing starts and I’m forced to pull over. I rest my head on the steering wheel and wait. I try to slow my breathing and tell myself that I’m making progress, that I am, in fact, being strong. Stronger, at least.
    But when the shaking subsides it leaves a chasm of loneliness and doubt. I find myself driving, but not in the direction of home.
    I park