Page 53 of Dad Next Door
“You didn’t do anything wrong.” He sighed and leaned back against the couch, finally meeting my eyes. “Relax, Tris. This is a me thing. Nothing that’s going on in my head is about you.”
“I still feel bad.”
“Don’t. Please. I know it’s your default to try and defuse situations by accepting blame for things that aren’t your responsibility, but you don’t have to do that with me.” He rubbed his hands against his thighs. “I don’t want you to do that with me. I’m responsible for my actions and my feelings. Not you, okay?”
I nodded and fiddled with my jacket buttons.
“You know how I have ADHD?”
I nodded again. He’d told me about his childhood diagnosis but hadn’t really said much about it beyond that.
“My meds wore off hours ago and I’ve had a few drinks, so my brain is spinning. I can usually shut out the noise and chaos, but it’s really loud right now.”
A little of the tension in my shoulders faded at his words and the sincerity in his tone.
“I’m cycling through all these memories, trying to find dots to connect.” He shot me a pleading look. “I know it sounds weird, but that’s how my brain works. I like patterns and connecting data points to draw conclusions from. It helps me explain and understand things. I don’t want to be thinking about any of this right now, but I can’t stop.”
“It’s okay,” I said softly, hoping to soothe him. “Will talking it out help?”
I was confused as hell about what happened, but it had to be ten times worse for him. I already knew Quinn processed things better after he discussed them. I could put my own insecurities aside and be there for him.
He blew out a shaky breath and scrubbed his hand over his face. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Knowing he needed a friend helped calm the last of my anxiety. I busied myself with pulling off my tux jacket, giving him a chance to organize his thoughts.
“I think part of what’s fucking with me the most is how I wasn’t able to keep to character.” He dropped his head back against the couch and stared at the ceiling. “I know that sounds stupid considering everything, but I’m an actor. I’ve never had issues keeping myself separated from whatever role I’m playing. But that barrier, that wall between reality and acting, wasn’t enough tonight. And I know I shouldn’t be focused on that of all things, but it’s making me question all sorts of stuff.”
“Like what?” I asked, giving him an opening to keep talking.
“Just old memories. My dad was the first person to call me a chameleon, but that’s pretty much what I’ve been my entire life. I fill the role I think people want me to, and I adapt my behavior accordingly. It’s not an act, not really. It’s more like I only show them the parts of me I think they can handle. The parts they want to see.”
He rubbed his hands on his thighs again. I’d noticed he did that when he was distressed.
“I’m so used to being someone else I sometimes feel like who I really am gets lost in the shuffle. Online, I’m Stone the porn star. When I dance, I’m Stone the stripper and sex worker. When I’m in the business world, I’m Mr. Reynolds the contractor. The only time I’m truly myself is with my friends and my family. Everyone else sees one of my masks. They see the version of me I think would be the most palatable for them. The version they can handle.”
“That sounds lonely.”
He nodded ruefully and looked at me, his eyes filled with a mess of emotions, the prominent one being sadness. “It is. I don’t like to complain because I’ve lived a pretty privileged life compared to a lot of people, but my dad and grandparents were the only people who ever let me be myself when I was a kid. Everyone else made me feel like there was something wrong with me because I was different, and all the therapy I did that was supposed to help me with my ADHD was basically just behavior modification. It didn’t give me the tools to help me navigate life as a neurodivergent kid. It just taught me ways to force myself to fit into a neurotypical world and suppress all the things I struggled with.”
He made a weird sound, sort of a laugh, but not really. “I can’t even keep my focus enough to talk about what’s important here, and instead I’m trauma dumping about shit I should have gotten over years ago.”
“You’re not trauma dumping. I know how your brain works, Quinn. I know you need to verbalize what you’re thinking so you can get your data points and make those connections. You need to start at the beginning so you can see the whole picture and the entire pattern. I’m a scientist, I get it. You’re fine.”
“Thanks, Tris.” He sighed and slumped against the couch. “Did I ever tell you how my dad and stepdad got together?”
“Not specifically. You told me they were best friends before they started dating.”
“They were. And they were both straight when they met.” He shot me a lopsided grin. “Or at least that’s what they thought.”
“Really?”
“Yup. And now I’m wondering if I was wrong about my sexuality this whole time too. This probably sounds crazy, but I’ve always felt like I’m somewhere on the demi spectrum.”
My thoughts stuttered at that.
He snort-laughed at my expression. “Yeah, I know. A porn star who identifies as demi is pretty insane.”
“No, it’s not.” I cycled through some of the things he’d said over the past few months. “You already told me how you can separate sex from intimacy. Being able to perform with strangers isn’t a measure of your sexuality. You said you weren’t attracted to your scene partners but were able to do the scenes because you were acting. That makes sense if you’re demi.”