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You were leaving a family reunion with your boyfriend, Charles. It just got heated so quickly. You couldn’t recall what exactly happened at this point, you just wanted to get out of there. So as your father threw his yearly fit about the food being cold or whatever petty thing he decided to throw a tantrum about, you apologized to your mother and discreetly left with Charles, unknowingly having taken his hand in yours. With a heavy heart and a chest filled to the brim with mortification, you trudged to the car and got in, slamming the door closed.
Charles got in the driver’s seat and closed the door on his side more quietly.
You both sat in silence.
Meanwhile, the thoughts in your head became more erratic and distorted. You wanted to go home, but you weren’t sure if you wanted to be in the home with your mother, father, and siblings or the one with just you and Charles. You had missed your family, but when you came home to them they just reminded you of the reason why you left: the anger. The fighting. The excessive restriction.
When your father started yelling, it reminded you of how the walls of your own bedroom felt like metal cages. Like the ones people used to keep birds in. For years and years, you would stare at those walls. Maybe you’d even talk to them. But they’d never say anything back. They were just walls.
It was you. The lonely weirdo who talked to cement and peeling paint all throughout high school.
You hated that. You hated yourself.
*Do you wanna talk?*
There was a wetness on the skin of your face. You didn’t realize that you were crying up until Charles spoke.
You sniffled. “I’m so sorry you had to see that.” Your voice was a mere whisper.
Now that you thought about it, you were just here again, shoulders slumped over as your hair covered your face. All of a sudden, it all felt like high school again. Nights spent crying, feeling helpless and hopeless. Nowhere to go. Just here. Forever.
“You don’t have to be sorry.” Charles was quiet, but intelligible. “Family can be messy.” He always gave off a calm, welcoming vibe, at least for you. Whenever you had your little episodes, he always seemed to know what exactly to do and say. He was good like that.
As you stared at your hands, you saw Charles slowly reach for them with his own. He gently held one of your hands and rubbed circles around the back of your palm. He was warm. Comfortable. For some reason, it made you cry even more, feel a little more guilty.
“I’m sorry, Charles,” you whispered.
With that, he took you in his arms. You weren’t so comfortable with other people. You were usually bubbly and comical around your friends and family, but Charles was allowed to see all of you. Previously, you’d built walls around yourself, thinking that even your closest relatives and friends wouldn’t understand. But Charles, he understood. You didn’t know why, but it was like that for him.
“It’s okay,” he told you as he rubbed circles around your back. “You’re gonna be okay.”
“It was supposed to be a happy time,” you sobbed. “We were supposed to have fun and laugh and have a good time. But instead, it was—” disappointing, infuriating, fucked up. There was every word in the English language and your mother tongue to explain how you felt, how heavy and underwhelming the “family event” was. You felt so stupid for having expected something more. Something light and fun. But this was your family. It is what it is—”this. It was just *this*.”
After some time, you calmed down. Now, Charles was driving you both down a highway and you watched as streetlights passed the car window.
You were finally going home. Away from the anger. Away from the danger that was your father, your family. Better luck next year, you guessed.
Charles slowed down and drove into the parking lot of a quaint bakery. He usually preferred going places point-to-point to save time and because he thought that stopovers heightened the chances of being jumped by an unanticipated street person, like in the movies he watched.
As Charles was about to leave the car, you grabbed his arm.
Upon the contact, he looked back at you. You didn’t expect him to have that glow in his eyes, like he had an idea.
“I’ll be back,” he told you. Before leaving, he placed a reassuring kiss on your forehead.
You watched as he walked up to the bakery and disappeared into its glass doors, going through the aisles. You were quite knowledgeable about Charles’ appeal to baked goods, recalling the time he told you about the first time he’d tried churros since coming to America from Taipei. The thought alone made you smile. He was like a little boy whenever he found a new thing that he loved. He must have loved you very much because he was so open and talkative when he was with you. You’ve observed how he is with other people, and how he reacts to you is very different. It was a good different, but it was concerning at times. When you talked about it with him, he didn’t seem to have anything on his mind. That didn’t mean that you never had lurking suspicions though.
After 30 minutes or so, you saw Charles coming back out of the bakery with a bag in his hands. You couldn’t tell what was inside aside from probably a few boxes of something.
As soon as he came back in the car, he dropped the bag on top of the cup holder and you saw that there was a box of cupcakes and other baked goods inside. Charles loved baked goods and he always loved sharing them with you because he knew you would feel much better when you had eaten. During nights like these, he’d either make some food or get some delivered. He loved the smile you’d give him when you were full. After all, this was your and Charles’ love language. As it made you feel loved, it made Charles feel it even more.