Chapter 3: Never Have I Ever
Olivia’s eyebrow stayed lifted, that sharp little arc freezing my blood. Her dark eyes held mine just a beat too long, seeing too much in my burning face, the way I’d shredded the placemat corner into confetti. The silence crackled. My backpack pressed against my thigh, the pacifier inside suddenly feeling like a grenade pin pulled.
Chloe, oblivious, clapped her hands together. The sound made me jump. "Okay! Thirty Questions got intense. Let's switch gears!" Her smile was wide, infectious. "How about Never Have I Ever?"
My throat tightened. Never Have I Ever? Where people confessed things? Where fingers went down, lies got caught, secrets bled out? "What," I croaked, forcing the words past dry lips, "what are the limits?" I needed fences. Guardrails. Anything.
Chloe waved a dismissive hand, her silver bangles jingling. "Limits? None! Total honesty. That’s the point, right? Let loose!" She beamed at Olivia, then back at me. "Rules: we go clockwise. Olivia starts? Raise a hand, put down a finger for anything you have done. Five fingers per round, loser buys milkshakes?"
"Loser buys?" Olivia echoed, that dry tone back. "In a diner where the shakes cost more than the burgers? Ruthless, Martinez." But she shrugged, leaning back against the cracked vinyl. Her gaze flickered to me again, assessing. "Fine. Never have I ever... failed a driving test."
Safe. Relieved air rushed out of me. Chloe groaned dramatically, putting down one finger. "Twice! Parallel parking is evil." I kept my hand up, fingers splayed. Passed first try, barely. My turn. Think bland. Harmless. "Never have I ever... eaten sushi." Both Chloe and Olivia instantly lowered a finger, laughing about some raw fish adventure. Good. Neutral territory.
Chloe leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "My turn! Never have I ever... snuck into a rated-R movie when I was underage." Olivia smirked, putting down a finger. "Guilty. The Conjuring was worth the panic attack." Chloe lowered hers too. "Twice! Magic Mike, obviously." Both looked at me. My face felt warm again. I slowly lowered one finger. "Just... once. Deadpool." I mumbled the admission, focusing on a faint coffee stain on the Formica. Why did admitting that feel like confessing?
Olivia’s turn again. She stirred her water, the ice clinking. "Never have I ever... hidden a part of myself," she said, her voice quiet but clear. "Like, a hobby or interest, because I thought people wouldn't get it."
The diner noise – the sizzle from the grill, the clatter of plates, the chatter from other booths – seemed to fade into a dull roar. My heart hammered against my ribs. Hidden part of yourself. My mind screamed: The onesie. The diapers. The pacifier burning a hole in my bag. The desperate, shameful craving for softness, for safety, for someone to just… take care. The blush exploded across my face and neck, scalding hot. I couldn't look up. Couldn't move. My hand hovered, frozen mid-air.
Chloe put down a finger immediately. "Oh, totally! I played the flute secretly until tenth grade. Mortifying!" She nudged Olivia. "You?" Olivia lowered a finger slowly, her eyes still on me. "Painting. My parents wanted a doctor, not a… muralist." She paused. "Daniel?"
The pressure was immense, crushing. The pacifier pressed insistently against my leg through the backpack fabric. Say coding. Say coding. "Y-yeah," I stammered, the word thick and clumsy. My finger trembled as I forced it down. "Just… uh… coding stuff." It sounded pathetic. Hollow. A blatant lie hanging in the greasy air. Chloe nodded easily, believing. Olivia just watched. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes didn't leave my burning cheeks. She didn't press, but the silence after my stammer felt heavier than the diner’s special burger.
Chloe, bless her oblivious heart, jumped in. "Okay! My turn! Never have I ever..." She tapped her chin dramatically. "...had a crush on a professor!"
The tension broke as Olivia snorted and immediately put a finger down. "Armitage. Briefly. Before the soul-sucking lectures cured me." Chloe cackled, lowering her own finger. "Dr. Hendricks? That tweed jacket?" I kept my hand up, grateful for the shift, my pulse still thrumming wildly from Olivia’s question. Crushes were almost normal compared to… the other thing.
The food arrived then, a welcome distraction. Plates slid onto the table, burgers dripping grease, my grilled cheese looking pale and safe. The smell of onions and fried food momentarily overwhelmed everything else. As I shifted slightly in the booth to make room, my elbow jostled the backpack beside me. It tipped precariously. My breath caught. The front pocket gaped open just an inch.
And there it was. The unmistakable, rounded curve of the pacifier’s shield, pressed against the thin mesh of the pocket lining, glowing faintly under the harsh diner lights. Plastic. Infantile. Obvious.
Panic seized me. Pure, cold terror. I lunged, grabbing the backpack strap and yanking it violently upright against my side, shoving the pocket closed with a fumbling hand. My grilled cheese slid on the plate. Chloe jumped at my sudden movement. "Whoa, easy there! Hungry?" She laughed, already biting into her burger.
Olivia, however, had been looking directly at me as I reacted. Her fork, halfway to her mouth, paused. Her sharp eyes flickered from my frantic hands clutching the backpack, to my face, now crimson with utter humiliation, then down towards the pocket I’d just slammed shut. It was instantaneous. Barely a glance. But it was there. A flicker of… recognition? Calculation? Her gaze snapped back to my eyes, her expression carefully neutral, but the intensity had deepened. She didn't say a word. Just took a slow, deliberate bite of her burger, her eyes never leaving mine.
The rest of lunch became a blur of chewing, chewing, chewing, tasting like ash. Chloe chattered, Olivia offered quiet replies, and I nodded mutely, pushing my food around the plate. My backpack felt like it was radiating heat, the pacifier a brand against my leg. Every laugh from Chloe, every quiet murmur from Olivia, felt like it was happening miles away. All I could feel was the weight of Olivia’s glance, the phantom imprint of that plastic curve flashing behind my eyelids.
As we finally slid out of the sticky booth, Chloe beamed. "This was fun! We should do it again. Project meeting soon?" Olivia nodded, gathering her paint-splattered bag. "Definitely." She looked directly at me, that unnerving calm back in place. "See you in class, Daniel." Her eyes lingered for a fraction of a second on the backpack slung heavily over my shoulder before she turned to follow Chloe out into the afternoon light.
I stood there for a moment, alone in the buzzing diner, the smell of grease suddenly cloying. The relief that they hadn't said anything about the pacifier was instantly swallowed by a colder, deeper dread. Olivia had seen my panic. She’d seen the frantic grab. She’d seen something in that pocket. And those observing eyes? They missed nothing. She was putting pieces together, quiet, methodical, relentless. The walk back to my apartment wasn't crossing a minefield anymore.
It felt like waiting for the explosion.
The walk home was crawling under microscope slides. Every passing glance felt like Olivia's sharp eyes dissecting me. I hunched my shoulders, backpack straps digging in, the pacifier a guilty weight shifting with each step. My mind replayed that split-second pocket glimpse on loop—plastic curve exposed, my fumbling panic. Had she recognized it? Or just seen something hidden, shameful?
The apartment door clicked shut, muffling campus sounds. Silence pressed in, thick and heavy. I slid the backpack off like handling toxic waste, placing it carefully on the scuffed floorboards. My fingers trembled unlocking the small bottom drawer of my dresser, the one with the combination lock. Inside lay folded stacks: soft cotton onesies, thick diapers, the faint scent of powder clinging to them. Sanctuary. My safe space.
I shucked my jeans and t-shirt, the cool air raising goosebumps. Pulling on the familiar terrycloth onesie was like sinking into warm water. The soft fabric engulfed me, the three snaps at the crotch securing snugly. I reached for the pacifier from the backpack pocket, its silicone nipple finally settling between my lips. The rhythmic suckling started, a grounding anchor against the afternoon’s chaos. Deep breath in. Hold. Release. The knot in my chest loosened, fractionally.
Curled on the worn rug, a worn plush bear tucked under my arm, I tried to let go. Tried to sink into the comforting smallness. But Olivia’s observant stare invaded the quiet. That quiet “Never have I ever… hidden a part of myself.” My blush flared anew even in solitude. The pacifier felt less soothing, more like evidence. Could someone like Chloe, bright and open, ever understand this? Or would she recoil? Would Olivia tell her?
A harsh buzz shattered the fragile calm. My phone, face-down on the nightstand, vibrated violently against the wood. My heart slammed against my ribs. Olivia? Exposed already? I fumbled the pacifier out, the sudden silence loud. With trembling fingers, I flipped the phone.
> Chloe Martinez (4:22 PM): Hey Daniel! 😊 Just got back to my dorm. Lunch was fun, even with Olivia crashing haha. You kinda vanished into yourself towards the end tho? Everything ok?
Relief, cold and sharp, washed over me first. Not Olivia. Then, dread. She noticed. They both noticed. I stared at the words. Vanished into myself. Shy. Insecure. Introverted. Labels I wore, but hearing them from her stung.
The typing bubbles appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. My thumb hovered over the keyboard. What could I say? Just tired? Pathetic. Thinking about diapers? Impossible.
> Chloe Martinez (4:24 PM): Seriously tho. No pressure! Just… you seem like there’s tons going on under the surface. I like figuring people out 😉 We did only get to question 16 before Olivia arrived! Spill one thing? Anything you wouldn’t tell just anyone? A secret hobby? Deep cut music fave? Weirdest food you’ve eaten? (Please say bugs)
The earnestness punched through the screen. She was trying. Reaching out. Because she saw the shyness, the walls. The pacifier lay discarded on the rug, suddenly childish, inadequate. A secret hobby. The words pulsed. My eyes flicked to the open drawer, the soft terrycloth bunched around me. This. This is the secret. My throat tightened. Could I? Should I? The yearning for connection warred violently with the crushing fear of ridicule, of her bright smile freezing into disgust.
My fingers shook. I typed, deleted. Typed again.
> Me (4:26 PM): No bugs. Promise. Hobbies… I dunno. Mostly just coding. And… listening to old radio dramas sometimes. Like, really old. Before TV.
Weak. Safe. Cowardly. I hit send before I could overthink. The lie tasted bitter. Instantly, bubbles.
> Chloe Martinez (4:26 PM): Radio dramas?! That’s actually kinda cool! Vintage! What kind? Mystery? Sci-fi? Tell meeee. My grandma used to listen to soap operas on the radio, cried every afternoon 😭
A flicker of something warm. Interest. Not mockery. I shifted, the onesie’s softness suddenly comforting again. Maybe… maybe just a little more? Not the core secret. But something true.
> Me (4:27 PM): Detective stuff mostly. The Shadow? It’s… it’s calming. The voices, the sound effects. Lets my brain just… float.
I held my breath. Sent it. This felt riskier than admitting Deadpool.
> Chloe Martinez (4:28 PM): OMG YES! “Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?” 😈 That’s awesome, Daniel! See? Not so hard! What’s calming about it? The predictability? Or the drama?
Her enthusiasm was a lifeline, pulling me towards the surface. For a moment, the fear receded. I started typing about the rhythm of the narration, the immersive soundscapes. My thumb hovered over the keypad, crafting a sentence about how it felt like being safely tucked into a story.
Then, another text blinked up.
> Chloe Martinez (4:30 PM): Seriously tho, glad you’re opening up a little 😊 You seemed really tense earlier. Anything specific bothering you? Or just life? Either way, I’m kinda good at listening… if you ever want.
The warmth vanished. Ice water dumped down my spine. Opening up. Tense. The image of Olivia’s sharp eyes, flicking down to my backpack pocket, slammed back. Was Chloe fishing? Had Olivia already whispered suspicions? Or was this just genuine, clumsy kindness? The pacifier on the rug seemed to mock me. My carefully typed reply about radio dramas felt trivial, stupid. The drawer beckoned, a deeper retreat. I stared at her words, the offer hanging there like a trap disguised as comfort. Could I ever truly open that door? The phone felt heavy, dangerous, in my hand. The silence of the apartment roared.
The silence in my apartment pressed in, thick and suffocating after Chloe’s last text. Her words – opening up, tense, good at listening – vibrated in my skull, each one a tiny hammer blow against my fragile composure. Was it innocent concern? Or had Olivia planted seeds? I stared at the discarded pacifier on my rug, its smooth plastic surface catching the dying afternoon light filtering through the blinds. A symbol of comfort suddenly twisted into a beacon of vulnerability.
My thumb hovered, trembling, over the screen's glow. The lie about radio dramas felt flimsy, pathetic. But the truth? Impossible. My fingers, slick with sweat, finally moved.
> Me (4:32 PM): Just… college stuff. Assignments piling up. Wind turbine alarms at 3 AM. The usual grind. Radio dramas help tune it out. Found a good one yesterday about a missing heiress on a train.
I hit send, the lie tasting like ash. It wasn’t just college stuff. It was Olivia’s knowing look. It was the constant dread of exposure. It was the gnawing loneliness that the softness of the onesie couldn’t fully soothe. The phone buzzed almost immediately.
> Chloe Martinez (4:32 PM): Ugh, the grind is REAL 😩 But a mystery train? 🚂 That sounds way more exciting than Professor Hendricks droning about neurons! Spill the details! Was it murder? 👀 Secret passage? Tell me the conductor looked suspicious!
Her enthusiasm was a lifeline tossed into dark water. Pure, uncomplicated interest. No subtext, just Chloe being Chloe. A shaky breath escaped me. Maybe… just maybe…
> Me (4:33 PM): No murder… yet? Just a locked compartment, a snooty baroness, and a diplomat with shaky hands. The sound guy made the train whistle sound amazing, really crisp. Creaky doors too.
> Chloe Martinez (4:34 PM): Ooooh atmospheric! I love that! Gimme the creaky doors! 👻 And shaky-hands diplomat? DEFINITELY guilty of something. Probably stole the heiress’s pearls. Or ate her fancy chocolates. 🍫🍫
A tiny, genuine smile tugged at my lips despite everything. Her ability to dive headfirst into something so trivial, so safe, was disarming. The tightness in my chest eased a fraction. The pacifier lay forgotten for a moment.
> Me (4:35 PM): He did keep nervously clearing his throat… and there was rustling sounds near the chocolate box. You might be onto something.
> Chloe Martinez (4:36 PM): HA! Called it! 🕵️♀️🔍 Detective Chloe Martinez on the case! See? Radio dramas + texting = winning combo. Way better than stressing. You need more distractions like this. 😊 Maybe cookies? I have emergency Oreos.
We spiraled deeper into the fictional mystery, dissecting the baroness’s alibi (weak), the conductor’s accent (questionable), and the likelihood of stolen chocolates versus stolen jewels. Chloe’s texts were rapid-fire, peppered with emojis – trains, magnifying glasses, cookies, laughing faces. My responses grew slightly longer, less stilted. The rhythm of back-and-forth became its own kind of soothing white noise, momentarily drowning out the anxieties.
> Chloe Martinez (4:48 PM): Okay, final verdict: Diplomat did it, but ONLY because the baroness insulted his pocket square. Petty theft of pearls to fund a better haberdasher. Case closed! 🎩 The end! 👏
> Me (4:49 PM): Pocket square motive… I’ll allow it. Solid detective work, Martinez. Case closed. Chief Inspector Daniel Hayes… concurs. (Needs coffee).
> Chloe Martinez (4:50 PM): CHIEF INSPECTOR! Love the promotion! ☕️ Report for coffee duty tomorrow? Virtual stakeout? We can brainstorm project ideas that don’t involve neurons dying of boredom.
We segued into complaining about the Psych 101 project, brainstorming marginally more interesting topics than synaptic transmission. Chloe suggested studying the psychology of comfort foods ("Oreos are valid data!"), then pivoted to a funny story about Olivia trying to paint a squirrel that stole her bagel. The conversation flowed, easy and light, a fragile bubble of normalcy. For stretches of minutes, the backpack by the door – and what it contained – faded into the periphery. I was just Daniel, texting a girl who laughed at silly things and used too many emojis.
> Chloe Martinez (6:17 PM): OMG just realized I haven’t eaten since the diner grease-fest! 🤯 Time for my gourmet ramen dinner. 🍜 You fed? Or surviving on radio drama suspense and Chief Inspector coffee?
> Me (6:18 PM): Ramen sounds… ambitious. Might risk toast. Less potential for disaster. The suspense helps keep hunger at bay? Maybe.
> Chloe Martinez (6:19 PM): Toast? Respect the carb life, Hayes! 🍞🔥 Add peanut butter! Live a little! Gotta fuel that big brain monitoring windmills. 🌬️💨 Talk later? Don’t let the phantom whistles keep you up! 👻🚂
> Me (6:20 PM): Peanut butter… noted. Will consider the risk. Later, Martinez. Watch out for rogue squirrels.
The screen went dark. I blinked. Hours had bled away, the room now shadowed in deep twilight. The easy banter had created a warm, humming space in my head, a stark contrast to the silence that rushed back in when the texts stopped. The smile lingered on my face, genuine but fragile. It had been… nice. Really nice. Just talking. Not hiding, exactly, but existing in a space where the deeper hiding wasn't necessary.
A bone-deep exhaustion suddenly washed over me, heavy and insistent. My eyes felt gritty, my limbs leaden. The emotional whiplash of the day – the terror at the diner, the rush of texting, the constant undercurrent of fear – crashed down all at once. I pushed myself up from the floor, the terrycloth onesie soft against my skin. My gaze drifted automatically to my phone.
10:47 PM.
Bed. I needed bed. The realization was a physical pull. The unfinished project draft, the turbine logs needing review, the neatly folded diaper peeking from the dresser drawer – all of it could wait. The fragile peace of the past few hours felt precious, fleeting, and all-consuming fatigue demanded I preserve it by surrendering to sleep. The backpack, slumped by the door, seemed to watch me. Its secret felt heavier in the quiet dark.