“Not much to post at the moment.”
“No. Oh, Davey.”
“I know,” he says, placatingly. “I know.”
“You type messages to me. You don’t send them.”
I hear him swallow. “No.”
“Why not?”
“It feels good to tell you things. And then…” He stops.
“And then not to tell me things?” I offer.
A pause. “Yeah. You probably think I’m weird now.”
“You believe I’ll think you’re weird if you tell me how you’re feeling?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you really believe that?” I say. “That I’ll judge you?”
“I don’t know. I’m chicken. I don’t have the guts to send them.”
“What do you say in these messages?” I ask.
“Things.”
“How many have you written? And then not sent?”
“How many have you seen me typing and not sending?” he replies.
“Two,” I say.
“Then the answer is two.”
“How many have youreallywritten and not sent?”
He laughs. “Ten. Fifteen maybe. They’re really long. And then…” He trails off.
“And then you don’t send them,” I finish, even though it’s obvious.
“I don’t send them. And after you called me on it, after you sent me that message…”
“ ‘I see you typing,’ ” I remind him.
“Yeah,” he says. “TheI see you typingmessage…I stopped after that.”
“Have you got anyone to talk to?” I ask, frightened thattyping messages to me and then hitting delete has been his only outlet.
“Not really,” he says. “Mom cries. Dad’s too…male to deal with emotion. Grant’s been good but he doesn’t understand.”
“Will I understand?” I ask.
“I doubt it.”
“Try me. Tell me what’s on your mind, other than the obvious.”
