I'm Not Sure

Decision Decision

Gaiman, Gallaway, Gansworth, Green... Jess pauses her finger at the edge of the book's spine. She picks it out, glances at the following books, and replaces it along with the other books marked: "GRE" in bold capital letters. Satisfied, she continues her way across the last few sections. She has been sorting the shop shelves in reverse order, checking every author's first three letters of their family names, and putting them in place by alphabetical order. Do not be mistaken, she was not assigned this tedious task; she resigns herself to this meticulous action to thoroughly distract herself from a rather persistent thought. After considering every last book in the final shelf, Jess lets out a longing sigh.

As soon as she finished her task, the thoughts came flooding back. They were not unpleasant; that was not why she suppressed them. No, Jess was desperate for distraction because she felt embarrassed that she thought of her.

"Her" being Aiden, the gal she sees in two of her classes. Aiden was short, cocky, and an absolute force of nature. She knew what she wanted and what she did not, she did not take any nonsense from anyone, and, in Jess' eyes, was adorable. Every time, she notices when she is present and when she is not, "Where is she?" or "Is she okay?" Jess wonders after Aiden when she is late or absent from class. She never asks, despite having her number, despite her worry. Every time, Aiden comes back, waves at Jess, and sits behind her. As a result, Jess is put on edge; she may like Aiden, but her presence makes her uncomfortable because she never knows what to do with the fact that she likes her because she is afraid of liking her, because...

Jess is startled back to reality by the clattering sound of one of the security gates being shut. She looks to the coworker on the other side of the room clicking the lock into place for the night. Jess briskly shakes her head, not because it makes her thoughts go away, just because she wants it to. She checks her station, makes sure that everything is in order, then laces on her grey cardigan to join her closing coworker outside of the store before she gets locked in. "Off with the fairies, Jessie?" Diarmuid comments, letting her through before locking the last gate behind her. He was intimidatingly tall, and his grey eyes were always touched by the light graces of sleep deprivation. Jess often wondered how he managed so many late shifts on top of the afternoon shifts on weekends.

"Yeah, sorry dude," Jess anxiously apologizes, "won't happen again." She purposefully avoids addressing her coworker by his name, since every time she tries to pronounce it she gets it wrong. He would laugh his rueful laugh at her, before finally straightening up and telling her the correct version, which she would always forget. He laughs at her now, though in a much more tired tone than usual, and giving her a knowing look; "Yep, sure," he changes his tone sarcastically as he says 'sure', in a manner that means: "You're gonna do it again." Jess tucks and briskly walks away to the exit to avoid further interaction, leaving Diarmuid alone at the entrance of Bolen Books. He clicks his tongue and shakes his head, almost as if he had just caught a child innocently disobedient. The young man zips up his brown leather jacket and saunters his way out into the parking lot, hands in his pockets.

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Diarmuid arrives at his doorstep to the sound of Sequoia warning anyone in the house and nearby that someone had entered her territory. "It's me, Quoia," he grumbles under his breath, "stop barking your head off!" The large, black dog playfully barks at him in response. Diarmuid kicks off his shoes in wild directions and hastily closes the door behind him to avoid the cats from going off into an escape attempt. Sequoia is suddenly still and silent behind the child-gate, ears perked up with attention, her tail whipping from side to side the closer his human gets to the gate. He does not swing it open however, merely tilting his head around the wall to greet the human sitting at the table across the room: "Go to bed!" he teases. The woman, hunched over her notebook and laptop, whisper-yells back: "Go to hell!" in a violent tone. Diarmuid quietly chuckles to himself as his hard-working sister shoots him daggers through her gaze, before returning to her work. Down from the stairs comes his mother, draped in an intricate white cardigan. She wore that at the wedding, Diarmuid thinks to himself, recalling the stained glass lighting and rainbow decorations draped across the risers. He smiles at her, she does not return the gesture.

"It's really late, Diarm," she comments with worry in her tone. Diarmuid's smile disappears, and is abruptly, violently annoyed: Not this again. He coldly turns to the hook to hang up his cloth messenger bag and his jacket, knowing that the body language would function as enough of a response. He hears a creak from the floorboard at the bottom of the stairs. Diarmuid does not turn around.

"You know you don't have to work so hard," she says in a steady voice, "we can support you, kid." She reaches for his shoulder, but he swats it away. "I'm not a kid anymore, damn it!" he snaps at her, "I can take care of myself, I don't want to use your money for my life or my tuition," he gets close to yelling, "and I am tired of having this conversation, so leave me ALONE." Danu raises her arms in defence, exasperated and hurt by his words.

"Okay," she proclaims in defeat, "I've told you before and I will tell you again: I love you, and I want you to feel supported, but I can't do that if all you do is push me away!" her voice wavers, bordering on tearing up, and Diarmuid is hit with a pang of guilt, "it isn't shameful to have help from your parents, it isn't weak to ask for support, and it isn't 'charity' to care for you!" The young adolescent watches from behind his mother as his big sister hastily packs up and leaps for the stairs to the suite downstairs, where she lives. A procession of two black cats follows her down. He returns his gaze to his Danu, who is giving him an intense look. Diarmuid concedes, slouching in his stance: "I know, I know, I just... I really..." he struggles with his words, biting back tears and trying with all his might not to shake. His mother finishes his thought: "You really value your independence." He nods briskly: "yes." Danu pulls her son in for a hug; he does not struggle. "And I know that that doesn't mean I need to do everything myself but..." Diarmuid is gently interrupted by her mother shushing him: "I know, Schatz." They stand there for a while: A son, far too tall in his mother's arms, but held nonetheless. After a quick squeeze, his Danu lets go, resting her hands on his shoulders. "I love you, Diarmuid," she hums. "I love you, too, Danu," he thrums. She squeezes his shoulders once more, before making her way back up the stairs. "Sleep well, love," she says with finality, before leaving Diarmuid standing alone in the corridor. He lets out a tired sigh, then realizes that Brígh forgot to put the dog in her crate for the night. Sequoia simply sits obediently in her metal box, waiting for her treat goodnight. Diarmuid obliges, then makes his way to his room, and shuts the door behind him with a satisfying 'click'.

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It's Wednesday, a month after the conversation with his Danu, and for the first time since 11th grade, Diarmuid took up one of his friends' many offers to hang out. He was still slow in his movements, and he was visibly worn out, but he told himself he would try to give himself a break, and lay off on his workaholic tendencies. If not for his own physical and mental health, then at least so that he has more focus in classes. After all, he told himself, can't get into a good post-secondary school if my grades are rubbish. Diarmuid drums on the top of his locker as he jams along with the rhythm of the song blasting through his earbuds. The cords bounce and sway as he pulls out homework for the night. His music is interrupted by his phone ringing. He rips out his earbuds from the audio jack and raises his phone to his unplugged ear: "Hallo, Dear-mieud speaking?" chimes an annoyingly chipper manager from the speaker. Diarmuid frowns, rubbing his eyebrows in frustration. Sensing his anxiety rising, he moves the receiver away from his face for a second to breathe deeply, before confirming that yes, Diarmuid is whom they are speaking to, and after the manager takes three gross mispronunciation attempts at saying it right, Diarmuid calmly asks why he is being called. "We need a closer tonight again, will you be our night owl again, Die-ar-mewid?" the manager requests enthusiastically. Another deep breath through the nose, this time to fight back the habitual responses he only just stopped giving last week: Of course, no problem, see you tonight. Instead, Diarmuid says matter of factly: "Sorry, I have a prior engagement. I'm afraid you'll need to ask someone else," and before the manager can protest (and before he can change his mind), he hung up. He exhaled a breath he did not know he was holding, and briskly made his way to his awaiting friends at the front of the building, messenger bag in hand, and the freeing feeling of having stood his ground. The sun was setting, dimming rays bathing their faces in golden light as they took their leave from school. Not all was solved, but a weight was lifted, and his friends beamed as they watched the light return in Diarmuid's gaze.

Lexique:

Diarmuid: Deer-mid

Danu: term for "mother", Diarmuid has two. So that's how he differentiates

Brigh: short for "Brighid", pronounced the same as Brigitte but with a "d" instead.