Chapter 31
31
Tatum
Lately, whenever they don’t need me at Rita’s, I take the train into Chicago. The city isn’t exactly like New York, but there’s an energy that feels similar enough. When I walk around, I can almost convince myself I’ve once again become the person I discovered there.
Ben lives here, and he lets me pop into his place whenever I’m traveling through. He insists upon it, actually, because he likes getting any opportunity he can to know me better. It inspires me to be a better sibling to him in return. We may not have known each other for the first third of our lives, but we have a chance to be present for the rest of it.
He’s agreed to meet me and Carson at the Art Institute. Carson wants to “get some inspiration from the art.” Really I think they’re restless, and they need some sibling time to rejuvenate them, but I’m more than happy to entertain their cover story. I love an activity.
“Did you get up here all right?” Ben asks when Carson and I meet him outside the museum. “No issues?”
He asks this every time, which I find funny, because I always arrive in one piece. But it’s a sweet impulse, the way he worries. He falls between Carson and me in age. Carson and I have always treated each other more like equals than siblings of a different age. Ben’s presence throws our years apart into sharper contrast, makes the hierarchy more apparent.
“All good, Brother Ben,” Carson tells him.
As we walk inside the institute, we fill Ben in on the latest on Laney’s leg. Apparently she doesn’t tell him much over text, because she doesn’t want him to feel bad about it as her pickleball partner. Of course Ben didn’t cause the accident. No one did. But the injury was more complex than first expected, with some ligament damage to her knee in addition to the bone situation. Still, she’s healing well.
“She’s planning to run a 5K on Thanksgiving,” I add, noticing that Ben really is still taking it hard, squinting his eyes like he’s experiencing her pain secondhand. “She’s doing just fine, I promise.”
“Does she want me to do the 5K with her?” he asks.
“She’d probably like that,” Carson says. “God knows we two queers aren’t running it.”
“Gay people can run,” I say.
“Yeah, but we’re not the gay ones who do, now, are we?”
Ben laughs his good-natured laugh, never intimidated by us in the way I expect him to be. We know his wife a little better now, having learned she hosts a very popular podcast where she talks about her personal life and experiences. Shock factor is baked into a lot of what she does. Ben must be immune to it.
As we walk through the lofty corridors of the Art Institute, Carson tells us about certain pieces we pass by. They’ve always been smarter than they let people know, and it’s a nice treat to see them willing to flex their art knowledge around Ben instead of pretending to be ignorant so as not to seem like a know-it-all. Ben and I both like to know the history of things, and Carson is someone who can tell us. It works out for all involved.
“By the way, how’s it going with Eleanor?” Ben asks.
“Oh, we’re just friends,” Carson says. “Have you ever seen a Degas? They have On the Stage on view in Gallery 226. It’s not far from here.”
“Don’t they think he’s Jack the Ripper?” I ask. Then I turn to Ben and say, “I don’t know if you’re fluent in Carson-speak yet, but they’re not just friends. Carson is obsessed with her. And she’s obsessed right back.”
“I am going to trip you in front of this Manet,” Carson says. “And yes, obviously I’ve heard about that theory. Which is why we should go see the Degas.”
“I’m just saying, there’s obviously a lot more going on than what you’re saying.”
“We talk on the phone a few times a week,” Carson says to Ben.
“Well, I really liked her,” Ben responds. “And so did Aunt Irene. Also, people think the artist Degas is Jack the Ripper? Why?”
“Yes, Aunt Irene’s obsession with Eleanor is well-known,” Carson replies. “And you really need to get online more. I say that with love. Sometimes it’s hard, how clinically offline you are. I’ll send you some articles about it, since god knows you won’t be able to open a TikTok link.”
“I’ve always thought Aunt Irene could be queer,” I say. “Who knows? She and Eleanor might be the next Sarah Paulson and Holland Taylor.”
“What about Uncle Paul?” Ben asks. Then he follows it with, “And who are Sarah Paulson and Holland Taylor?”
“Uncle Paul probably won’t even notice,” Carson tells him. “Now, don’t you want to ask Tatum about June? Sarah and Holland are actresses and gay icons.”
“There’s nothing to ask me about,” I announce, whispering as if I might disturb the artwork. “We haven’t spoken in months. But thanks for bringing it up. Very sensitive of you.”
“You’re welcome,” Carson says.
“Why haven’t you spoken?” Ben’s mature, sensitive responses sometimes make me feel like the world’s most immature twenty-nine-year-old. Maybe someday we can convince him to join us in the familial teasing.
“Nothing to say,” I tell him. “She ended up moving to New York after our trip. And obviously, I live here.”
“Doesn’t Eleanor also live in New York? And Carson’s managing to talk to her, right?”
“Benjamin, I don’t welcome this line of questioning from you. I’m trying to appreciate”—I read the placard in front of the painting where we stand—“Manet’s Fish (Still Life) right now.”
“I’m sorry,” Ben says sincerely.
After we see the Degas, Ben expresses an interest in knowing all of Carson’s favorite paintings, which sends us on a quest, moving from gallery to gallery.
I almost miss it when my phone pings with a notification to my special inbox.
It’s Ben who says, “I think you got a text or something,” pointing to the place where the sound has come from—my big bag slung across my right hip. Fumbling through it, I see the submission request on my lock screen.
Writing other people’s messages has lost its luster since the whole debacle with June. It’s like my anonymous customers can somehow feel my detachment. Where I used to get four or five requests a month thanks to my long-standing presence on Tumblr, I now get one or two. It’s nearly the end of September, and this one is the first request I’ve gotten all month.
APOLOGY FOR SOMEONE WHO MESSED UP IN WAYS THEY DON’T QUITE KNOW HOW TO EXPLAIN is the title.
“Hold on a sec,” I tell my siblings, sitting down on a bench. “I have a new client.”
Hello,
I’ve recently made a really big mistake. I’ve pushed away someone important to me. Now we no longer live in the same place, and I’ve left so much unsaid. I’m going to try to put it all down here. You’re the writer. Maybe you can tell me the best way to say it. I hope you’ll be able to understand me enough to make my point clear.
I tried to make her something once. I spent weeks on it. And I couldn’t get it right, for a lot of reasons. But now I know I was missing the most important piece of the puzzle. I was missing the reason why I wanted to capture her at all. I was trying to re-create her because I always wanted her around me. I wanted to bottle the essence of her into this one compact thing, and she really couldn’t be limited to that. Which was why I was trying to do entirely too many things at once. I was trying to capture every single piece of her to prove just how full she was in my mind. I wanted to create something that occupied every little bit of her.
That was before I even really knew her.
I was lucky enough to take a trip with her. And I learned her compassion. Her heart. Her generosity. I learned that she’s protective of herself because she’s scared to be hurt in the same way she’s seen the people around her get hurt. I never wanted to be the one to do that to her. I tried so hard to make sure I didn’t, even though the longer we were together, the harder it became for me to separate my feelings from my actions. In the end, I did exactly what she was afraid I would.
I’ve been kicking myself for two whole months, replaying that moment.
I know this letter might make you think I’m a talker. That I could be good at saying all of this. But I’m really more of a doer. I prefer to act on my feelings instead of saying them out loud. I’d rather try dating someone right away than wait to figure out if we can hold interesting conversations. What happened with her was the exact opposite. All we ever did was talk. For years. A lot of those years we spoke about little things, like how much I liked to mix sauces. Or what makes for the best sandwich bread. (She thinks sourdough, I think rye.)
I’ve never had the chance to know someone that way before becoming romantic. She is the first person who has ever been worth the wait. She has made me see why people wait at all. Because to know her as a person makes me want her all the more for it. I don’t want to be the one who hurts her. I want to be the one who helps her heal instead. I don’t think I’ve earned that right, though. Not in the least. But maybe, if you read this, you can see a path forward that I don’t?
At the very least, I want her to know that the way I feel about her has nothing to do with anything else in my life. I don’t like her because I’m lonely or because I’m vulnerable or because I need help. I’ve lived by myself for two months now. Really by myself. I have friends where I am. Two of them, to be specific. One who’s a little older than me, and one who’s a lot. But I don’t see them all the time. Most days, I’m completely on my own. And I can see how strong it has made me. I’m not who I used to be even two months ago.
But I do still know what I want. And that’s her.
I’m going back to where she lives next week. I’ll be visiting my family for my cousin’s baby shower. And I’d really like to see her, if she’d be willing to see me too. I’m just not sure how to ask.
Okay. That’s everything. Or maybe it’s not anywhere near enough, but it’s more than I’ve ever said before, so it sure feels like everything to me. I hope you can make sense of the tangles of my mind.
Thank you for reading.
I shove my phone back into my purse, so flushed it’s hard to keep upright. “What else is there to see?” I ask. “I love art!”
“Something’s wrong with you,” Carson says.
“Nothing’s wrong with me.” My voice goes even higher. I sound like I’ve swallowed helium. “I just want to see more masterpieces!”
“You’re being so weird. Stop it.”
“You are being weird,” Ben confirms.
Great. Now is the time Ben tries on some comfortable ribbing.
“I think June just messaged me on my website,” I tell them both.
“Dude, we’re prophets,” Carson tells Ben, putting their hand up for a high five. “We manifested this.”
“I don’t know for sure it’s her,” I say. Even though I do. Of course I do. There are too many details that could only be us. The sauces. The sandwich bread. Calling me the writer. The two friends.
Carson takes my purse and rummages for my phone. “Let me read it.”
“Can I?” Ben asks once Carson has the device in their hands.
“Might as well,” I say.
And so my two older siblings sit side by side on a bench, reading June’s note to me.
“Tatum, she’s completely in love with you,” Carson tells me once they finish.
“Shut up,” I say.
“I’m serious. This is a devotional.” They look over to Ben for support, which is when we both discover that Ben has tears in his eyes. “Dude, are you crying?”
He wipes his tear. “I hope you’ll give her a chance,” he tells me. “Everybody deserves at least one.”