a sister who's actions are untamed,
and a brother who's feelings are untamed.
With complete different personalities, yet an awesome bond, the siblings join a summer camp. She plans to fix her problems, he plans to make friends.
But while she's able...
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I try to keep myself from sobbing, but it only leads to biting my lip so hard I eventually taste blood.
I press my head into my pillow. That helps, except it does make breathing harder. It already was.
I know that if I had a phone here, My Kind Of Woman by Mac DeMarco would be blasting in my ears. I'm not sure if that would help, though. This time, it would make me feel worse.
My kind of woman is in fact not a woman. I wish it was.
But it isn't. It's Newt. It's been Newt the whole time– I've known the whole time. And I've denied the whole time. I don't want it to be a boy.
Don't want to tell every girl lingering around me that I'm only interested in boys. Don't want half of my family to hate me. Don't want anyone to look at me differently. Don't want anyone to treat me differently. Don't want to prove those boys right.
Mom's culture won't accept it. That doesn't mean she won't accept it, Lyndon. I try to tell myself that, but it's hard.
It all makes me cry. I hate myself for it–not just the crying–yet I can't stop. I don't even stop when I hear someone zipping the tent open and walking in.
"Lynn?" I can sense he's crouching down next to me. I know exactly what he's going to do.
Newt doesn't say anything else after scanning my state. His hand goes to my back, where he rubs it up and down. It's meant to be reassuring and it is, but it isn't.
"Stop," my voice comes out hoarse. "Don't touch me."
I'm so stupid.
He takes his hand off. Of course he does– I didn't expect anything else.
"What's going on?" Newt asks softly.
I don't know what to tell him.
So I shake my head, hoping to indicate I either don't know or don't want to tell him. I am not sure which one is the right answer.
Lelia would've known. And she wouldn't have been crying for sure. I sometimes do really wish I'm more like her, especially in situations like these.
"Do you need me to leave you alone?" He then asks.
I shake my head again.
Like a freaking baby who's pouting and refuses to communicate in words. Toughen up.
"Well, sometimes a good cry is nice," Newt starts. "You don't need to have a reason. And touch can be too much, indeed–"
"I do have a reason," I blurt out.
Now that is what always happens when I tell myself to toughen up: I blurt the things out.
"Alright," his voice remains the same. "Do you want to talk about it?"
