She made a pbblt noise in rebuttal. “Fuck manly,” she said. “I haven’t met a single self-proclaimed ‘manly man’ that wasn’t an asshole, I swear to God.”
He burst out in surprised laughter. “Well, that’s a first.”
“Trev bought into that bullshit,” she added, since the rage was still simmering, much like the cottage pie filling. “He was the stereotype. Fixed cars, drank beer. Got his six-point buck every season. Fished. Watched football with the guys down at the Trick Shot. He certainly didn’t understand having a sensitive son who seemed the opposite of all that.”
“Not into sports or cars, or hunting?”
“Decided to become vegetarian for a year when he was eleven,” she said, with a small, sad smile at the memory. “Part of it was because he was really freaked out by hunting, but I also think part of it was to piss off his dad, who couldn’t give a shit about video games or anime.”
“Sounds like Kit takes after you.”
“Couldn’t be more like me if I designed him in a lab,” she agreed with a nod.
Aiden smiled. “I’d like to meet him, then.”
She startled. It had never occurred to her to introduce Kit to any of her friends. Probably because she hadn’t had any friends.
“I’m doing all the talking,” she said, suddenly flustered. “What about you? Surely you’ve made some disastrous romantic decisions in your past. I’m gun shy because I made the most massive of all unforced errors with my previous marriage. What happened to you?”
He blinked slowly. Then he turned red.
“I . . .”
“Oh, God,” she said. “I am being a total Deb right now, aren’t I? Pushy as hell?” She was aghast. “Never mind. Don’t answer that. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“No, that’s all right,” he said, even though his tone was tentative. “I just . . . I don’t really talk about it much? To anyone?”
“That’s okay . . .”
He took a deep breath, looking like he was going to jump off a high dive. Then he blurted it out.
“I have trouble with sex.”
CHAPTER 23
YOUR NORMAL IS OUR TABOO
Aiden hadn’t meant to say that. At all.
Maybe it was the normally prickly Maggie just dropping all these truth bombs on him. Being brave. Or maybe it was the fact that he felt so unbelievably comfortable around her. He hadn’t even admitted this to Malcolm, and Malcolm was his best friend for life.
Maggie’s eyes widening slightly was her only outward show of surprise. “Okay.”
“Not like . . . I have problems doing it,” he clarified, although he was pretty sure he was just making things worse. He felt flushed, and swallowed hard. “But that attraction? Doesn’t happen that often.” He let out a little jagged laugh. “Like, really not often.”
“So . . . ,” she drawled slowly, as if she was processing it. “You’re . . . what, ace?”
This was not the reaction he was expecting. “I’m what now?”
“Asexual,” she said easily. She drained the potatoes, then took a big masher out, squashing them. If he hadn’t broken his stupid foot, he’d help, because she had to practically get on her tiptoes to get leverage on the spuds. “Familiar with the term?”
“Not really. Never came up in hospice, anyway.” Or anywhere in conversation with Malcolm, and certainly not at Fool’s Falls. Even back when he was in high school and college, he hadn’t really been cognizant of LGBT stuff, not like kids were today. He didn’t think there were any gay kids in his high school. He frowned. There probably were, actually—they were just closeted. In Fool’s Falls, he couldn’t blame them.
“Asexual, as far as I understand it,” she said, her face going pink across the bridge of her nose and the apples of her cheeks, “is when you don’t feel physical sexual desire for people the way allosexual people do. But keep in mind, I know just enough to be dangerous. I’m no expert.”
“You know more than I do,” he said. “What’s allosexual?”
“Kind of the opposite of ace—asexual,” she corrected. “Ace is also called ‘graysexual.’ Lots of people call allosexual ‘normal’ sexuality, but that’s a crock of shit.”
He frowned, rolling the term around in his mind. Asexual. “That’s not entirely true. I mean, what I said,” he quickly added. “I have liked sex in the past—a lot. Under the right circumstances, anyway.”
Why was he being this honest? He ran his fingers through his hair, no doubt turning it into a ginger-colored haystack.
She nodded encouragingly, adding butter and cheese to the potatoes. “You don’t have to prove anything to me. Trust me, I’m not judging.”
He knew that. He was just being defensive. “It just doesn’t happen very often. I’m apparently insanely picky.”
He felt like his stomach was knotting, but the words were tumbling out like snow in an avalanche. He didn’t think he could stop them if he tried.
“I thought it was, um, low sex drive,” he said. “Please, for the love of God, stop me if this is too much, by the way.”
“No, it’s fine. I mean, unless you’re uncomfortable.”
“I never talk about this,” he muttered. “But you just seem to get it. You’re a good listener too.”
She smiled—not her little grumpy smile. A genuine one.
“Anyway, I definitely felt desire in my relationships,” he said. “In the beginning of the relationships, anyway. But I’ve only had two relationships in my whole life.”
He waited for the curious look. The bafflement. Surprise. Ghoulish curiosity. Instead, she looked very unbothered.
It was nice.
“I started to become a workaholic just to have an answer when people asked why I didn’t have a girlfriend, or why I didn’t get married,” he admitted. “I just wasn’t attracted to many people. Any people. I didn’t want to find anybody. My life was fine as it was. And the idea of, like, Tinder? Or hooking up off an app?” He winced. “Yeah, no.”
She mixed a little half-and-half into the potatoes, then some salt and pepper. Whatever was going on with the beef and stuff she was cooking smelled like pure heaven, and his mouth watered in appreciation.
“Two relationships,” she repeated, again with no judgment. “When were they?”
“It’s a little complicated,” he replied. “The first was in high school . . . that is, it started in high school. Sheryl. An absolute, utter sweetheart. We were friends first, then it seemed natural when we got together. We were crazy about each other. I thought we’d get married, honestly.”
“High school sweethearts,” Maggie mused. “So what happened?”
“We broke up when I went to college,” he said. “She wanted to go to college out of state, or at least on the west side . . . anywhere but Spokane. She wanted to get away from home. Her parents were growing their car dealership, and they wanted her to go to school in Spokane because they were going to move there and really expand. Her family was kind of rich, I guess. Is kind of rich?”