26 Ethan
February 2018
It’s harsh to say, but I know exactly what I’m doing to Sloane. I know I shouldn’t be here—in New York City, in her apartment, in her life. I should leave her alone, but I can’t. Well, I can, but I don’t know that I want to.
I watch her move through the kitchen as she gets a glass of water, offering me a drink, which I decline. She’s lost weight since last summer, not that she had much to lose, but her face is slimmer, and her legs are bonier. I wonder if I have anything to do with that.
I can tell by the way she stumbles into the living room that she drank more than she’s let on. I’m not sure exactly how I feel about being around her while she’s drunk and vulnerable, but my temptation gives in, and I decide to follow her down the hall and into her bedroom anyway.
Without much pause, she starts hammering me with questions. This is always how it goes when she’s drinking.
“Why could you never get there with me?” Her hazel eyes are sad.
I sit in silence for a second and think about how to answer her. I want to be honest, but I don’t know how. What is the right place or time to tell her my parents were arrested when I was young and by default I grew up with Graham’s family? How am I supposed to tell her my family didn’t love me enough to stick around? How am I supposed to tell her that I worry I’ll leave her one day, just like my parents left me?
I wonder what love is like for other people. Is it easy? I know it’s not supposed to be this hard. But all of that feels too personal to say out loud. Instead, I feed her a bunch of bullshit that I know she wants to hear.
“It isn’t about you. It’s about me. I just can’t get there with anyone. If I could, it would be you.” I sugarcoat the truth.
And just like that, she’s mine again.