Chapter 16 Out #2
Her hand hits the table so hard I flinch at the sound.
“No, Archer. You're not breaking up with Jayne to be with this Tristan person.
You're breaking up with Jayne because you can’t make each other happy.
We've only got so much time here. She’s young, and she's beautiful, and she's got plenty of options. And you're young and handsome and kind and successful. You’ve got options, too. This Tristan’s only one of them.” She stands and walks away from the table shaking her head back and forth, muttering, “If you show up here next weekend with some random man, you will see a whole new side of me. I need to check the chicken. You boys. Jesus Christ.”
When I get home from Helen’s, I find Jayne sitting at my kitchen table, fresh from a shower with wet hair and no makeup.
Her eyes are swollen, and her nose is red from crying.
Her chin has acne all over it, which is proof she’s stressed or about to start her period.
Either way, the situation is tenuous at best.
“Where have you been? I've been worried about you,” she says.
“I can take care of myself.” I pick up the mail from the counter and start sifting through it, watching her out of the corner of my eye.
Jayne never really asked if she could move in with me.
It was one of those things that kind of evolved.
Right after Connor moved out, Jayne started spending the night, and then she started spending nearly every night until all of a sudden her lease was up, and I told her there was no rush to find a new place.
She’s always been easy-going, independent, and very understanding of my need for space and alone time.
The surprise party was a bigger surprise mainly because she never did stuff like that to me.
It was her way of exerting subtle pressure, I think. She wants more from me than I’ll ever be able to give her. She’s never really asked for much, but I get the sense she’s doubling down on the years we’ve spent together, hoping I’ll finally realize I want more, too.
And I do want more. I just don’t want it with her. I never have.
This is gonna suck.
Jayne sets her coffee mug down on the kitchen table, and it makes a sound like glass shattering.
She runs her hands over her wet hair, pulling it into a tight ponytail.
She strokes the nape of her neck for a few seconds before she says, “Talk to me.
Just talk to me, Archer. You know you can trust me, don't you?”
Trust.
I wish she hadn’t gone there.
I cross my arms over my chest and lean back on the kitchen counter. “All right, I have a question for you.”
For a second, a wash of relief relaxes the tension in her face, because if all I have is a question, then she’ll have an answer. She always does. It’s why she looks hopeful.
“Is there some reason you never thought to tell me my brother has a roommate?”
Her eyes drop away from mine, and she starts to twist the ring on her thumb around and around. Like Helen’s temple tap and Connor’s sleeves, this is Jayne’s tell. “What do you mean?”
“All this time, I thought my brother was living alone in a house somewhere going quietly crazy, and it turns out he's had a roommate for quite some time. Why didn't you ever tell me that?”
“I just thought you knew,” she says, her face scarlet.
“So, when you say I should trust you, what do you mean by that exactly?”
She goes from wide-eyed innocence to spiteful in the space of a second. “When you carry a picture around in your wallet of his best friend for years and years, what is that supposed to mean…exactly?”
I hold her angry gaze, not saying a word.
“Are you gay, Archer?”
I shake my head. This is unbelievable.
“Let me ask a different way. Who’s Liam?”
My brows lift. She’s either done her research, or someone from the bar said something. “Who do you think?”
“Someone you’re sleeping with? In your studio, I’m guessing?”
“Good guess.”
She sighs heavily. “Next question, then. Are you in love with Tristan?”
I keep my mouth shut.
“Because I do know him. And I could tell you a few things, too. He has this tendency to leave his journal lying around, and he writes a lot…” When Jayne’s eyes narrow, it’s obvious to me she’s been waiting a long time for this opportunity. She thinks it’s leverage.
But I don’t want to know what’s in Tristan’s journal. I’m not exactly a saint. It’s not my place to judge what anyone does when I deliberately remove myself from their life. “Enough, Jayne. It doesn’t matter. What matters is I don’t wanna do this anymore.”
“Excuse me?”
“Us. You living here. It’s not what I want anymore.”
She raises her eyebrows and rears her head back. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. I’m serious. I’m sorry.”
“Wait—hold on. Don’t do this, Archer. You’re mad about the party—I get it. It was way too much, I just thought with West back—I mean it was mostly his idea—”
Hearing that asshole’s name makes the hair on my arms stand up. I hold up a hand to stop her. “It isn’t about the party. It’s us, Jayne. This just—it isn’t what I want.”
“Look, you can have Liam—whoever the fuck he is. I don’t care. If you need that, then—”
“I don’t. I don’t want him, either.”
“Then what the fuck do you want? Tristan?”
If it makes any difference, I hate myself for this. I hate myself for leading her on and ending things this way. I hate myself for keeping her around like I have—to fill a space she can’t possibly fill because it wasn’t meant for her. Closing my eyes, I shake my head, mostly in shame.
“You think he still could want you after what you did to him? Are you fucking kidding me?”
Those words hit right where it hurts the most. I don’t know what Jayne knows, but it’s more than I ever wanted her to know.
I fucking hate her for prying. I hate her for knowing more about Tristan than I do.
And I hate her more for keeping it from me.
I hit back hard. “This isn’t about Tristan.
This is about you and me. I don’t love you. I’m not ever going to.”
Her eyes fill with shock and hurt. “How is this happening?” she asks as tears gloss her eyes and spill over.
Watching her cry tends to make me weak, so I take a step toward her and rest a hand on her shoulder. Clean break, right? Rip the fucking Band Aid off.
“Do you have a place you can go, or do you want me to clear out for a few days while you figure something out?”
“What?” she cries. “Right now? You want me to leave right now?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh my God,” she whispers, her chin trembling.
The thing I understand about Jayne is she’s as manipulative as fuck. I can’t leave her a door or a window. I need to show her the tunnel. Her one way out. If I don’t, she’ll find another opening. It’s not like I’ve never had second thoughts about her and me before. “I never meant to hurt you—”
“Shut up! You lying son of a bitch.” She stands and puts her face in my face. “You should know one thing about the little boy in that picture, Archer. When it comes down to you or Connor—and it will—he will always choose Connor. And then you won’t have shit.”
I’ve gotta hand it to Jayne. Volley, volley, miss, ace…
Deuce.
I spend the next few days in my studio over Strange Days. They all end the same, with me drunk and passed out. I’m dealing with Liam by not dealing with him. Doing the whole ghosting thing.
He’ll probably show up at the bar at some point, and I’ll thank him for his time.
He doesn’t have expectations the way Jayne did.
We have a sort of friendship, which I think will probably hold up without getting physical with each other.
He’s not in love with me any more than I’m in love with him, we just have a mutual attraction and good chemistry.
Liam didn’t care that I lived with a woman or had sex with her, either.
I didn’t mind if he hooked up with other guys.
He never slept over or asked any more from me than I was willing to give.
We only fucked once—a long time ago, and I remember it being good—too good.
So good it brought up too much for me, and I didn’t want to do it anymore.
We’d hang out. Kiss, blow each other, feel each other up, get off, and then he’d go home.
He’s touchy-feely, overtly sexual. I’m a little harder to get going, but once I start, I don’t like to stop.
Anyway, it worked while it worked, and when I think back on the night he gave me his card, I probably would have been happier if I’d called him instead of Jayne. If he’d moved in with me instead of her, I doubt I’d be where I’m at now.
But there’s a reason I wanted Jayne that night. Because I wanted to stop feeling. I wanted to stop wanting. I wanted to shut down, and like Helen said, Jayne allowed it.
It’s late afternoon, and I’m still in my studio, drinking again. I need to get rid of all the paintings of West. I don’t set them on fire like I want to, but I lock them in the closet so I never have to see his face again.
I don’t know what to do with the oil painting of Tristan. I prop it on the windowsill and stare at it, drinking one shot of excellent bourbon after another.
It’s a painting of a memory of him, when he sat across from me on the hotel balcony.
He was looking off into the downtown lights, wondering whether what we had was real or if he was my consolation prize.
It’s a memory of the moment I first felt him slipping away.
It’s one of the best paintings I’ve ever done. It’s almost perfect.
I’m getting up to take it to the closet to join the others when there’s a knock on my door. It could be Liam, but my money’s on West. He’s the only other one who knows about this place since it’s right above the bar.
I nearly don’t answer. I shouldn’t. That bastard’s lucky I don’t tear his fucking throat out. I have never hated anyone—not even my mother—the way I hate him today. And I have never been this close to the edge.
He holds both his hands up in an irritating version of self-defense. “I just wanna talk, brother.”
“Don't call me brother. Do you know what you did? Do you know?” I shout as I back him into the hall.
“I know, Archer, I know. Give me a few minutes, okay? Let’s go inside.”
I take the last step left to take between us, my face inches from his. “You don't get to have time with me right now. You don't get forgiveness for this. You don't get to explain yourself. You don't get to call me brother. Not anymore. Do you understand?”
He glares at me, silenced.
“You don't get to know me. Anymore.”
“Archer, I'm sorry. I really fucking mean it.”
“It's done. You need to go before I call the police. I'd hate for you to have to go back to prison.”
His jaw tightens, and he swallows hard. “I need you to hear me out.”
“I don't give a shit what you need.”
“I'm gonna make you listen to me, asshole.” He shoves me away, which isn’t hard because I’m drunk and out of control. “Get inside.”
“Fuck you.” I stumble back into the studio, and he slams the door behind us.
“You’re a fucking mess.” Whatever he’s about to say after that, he shuts off as he passes me by, crossing the room to the painting of Tristan. He stares at it for a long time while I approach him from behind. I let him drink it all in one last time, then I turn the canvas to face the wall.
“I didn't realize…” he says.
“What?”
“That you're in love with him.”
“Love?” I laugh. “What's love? Is it my chest getting ripped open? Is it a knife in my back? A pillow over my face? What is love, West? Explain it to me. I obviously don't fucking get it.”
“You’ve been with Jayne a long time. I thought it'd be you and her forever. I thought she was the one for you.”
I laugh out loud.
“You mentioned him one time,” he says, gesturing at the canvas.
“When he showed up in my class the other day—did it actually seem like I was indifferent? That I could just pass him over to you? And since when are you into guys? Like what the fuck? Do we even know each other?”
“Look. Sam Kincaid got around, and I’ve got layers.”
I normally would have laughed at that. It’s funny. But not in this context.
West looks at the floor and inhales. His shoulders rise and fall with the movement of his breath. “You've been with Jayne for more than three years.”
“Jayne and I are over.”
I watch him puzzle through this new information. “Well, from the outside, it looked pretty fucking convincing. It looked like you chose her.”
I had, hadn’t I? It just wasn’t for the right reasons. It was for literally no good reason at all.
“Have you spoken to him since the party?”
“No. No, brother. It was clear that night what you thought I'd done. I'll never go near him again.”
“What I thought you did? I saw you, West. I saw both of you. From the yard. I could paint you a fucking picture.”
That’s news to him. He averts his eyes and clears his throat to try again. “I was in prison for three years…”
I bark an unforgiving laugh. “Oh…is that what this is about? Getting your needs met? Gettin' some ass?”
“Go fuck yourself, Archer. Everyone was drinking that night. He made the first move, and it wasn’t subtle. Were you watching long enough to see that part?”
I wasn’t, but it doesn’t surprise me, and it explains Tristan’s complete lack of shame. He never claimed to be mine. And he was certainly never my best friend. “I saw enough to see you weren’t struggling.”
We meet each other’s glares. He better not say one more fucking thing.
He doesn’t.
“Get out, West.”
Without another word, he leaves.
It’s the injustice of it all that has me up half the night, depressed and ruminating. That everyone else gets to have Tristan in their lives, but I don’t. He floats in my periphery. West gets to kiss him and touch him, Jayne gets to read his journal, Connor gets to live with him, and what do I get?
I get whiskey and emptiness.
I get bad timing.
I get screwed.
And the worst part is, I did it all to myself.