30. Chapter 30 Theo
Chapter 30 Theo
W atching Staley find solace in another man—and Alex, of all people—is easily the hardest thing for me to watch, and it’s twice as heart-wrenching. My heart wants nothing more than to run after her and throw my speech cards in the sky in an act of revolution as a man in love does.
Staley and I exchange an unspoken communication as she stands at the back of the room with Harrison. Her nod is a gentle reminder that she wouldn’t be leaving if she didn’t have to. Years of rejection try not to seep from my eyes and crack open my tired heart.
Here’s the thing about all of this love I hold within my body: It’s never had anywhere to go, and for the first time, I’ve been able to give it to someone, and not just anyone—Staley. The kind of love that kisses my eyes awake in the morning, and love with all of the best and crazy types of words.
Mistakenly, I make eye contact with my mother in the audience. She sits sidesaddle on her satin slipcovered chair. Her posture prevents wrinkles in her high-end gown. The champagne flute in front of her is free of lipstick smears, but the liquid is nearing the bottom. Everything she does is stealthy and pretentious, and I cringe at the thought that I’ve been living a life as limited as her. With Staley, everything is big, out loud, and worth it. My mother’s message is clear: Don’t run after the girl. She’s below you. Finish the speech.
The notecards shift between my fingers because this is one of those do-or-die scenes in literature where the main character sticks it out or runs away. Barb would tell me the only way out is through. And if I’m being frank, my best friend Maeve would insist I finish, leaving me no choice but to read the damn speech. I trust these women with every fiber of my being, and Staley too. Falling through an elevator shaft with my limbs flailing about is no way to finish this night off. I’m taking this nosedive gracefully, my arms at my sides and my toes pointed—whatever comes of the crash landing will come.
“As I was s-saying, I wanted to share a piece I wrote myself. B-but I hope you don’t mind if I speak more freely.”
A candid speech will send me into a stuttering tailspin. If I crash, Maeve will turn my remnants into a stunning handbag.
“I’ve never needed proof of the sun as I feel it daily on my face. I don’t need evidence that a m-man with a speech disability sounds less confident than another. One might brush me aside because there exists a lesser quality in my t-tone, even those who know me are g-guilty of this infraction, my m-mother even.”
The word choice is dicey at best, but I’m a committed man in front of a crowd of strangers I cannot see—who cannot judge me without my consent.
“Reading is the equivalent of l-loving.” My voice shakes as it comes to a complete stop at the word. “The great teachers would call my stutter over the words l-love and t-touch symbolic, a reflection of a man attempting to express what affection truly is in a single word. I’d argue that you don’t have to know how to read to know sentiment and passion are meant to be experienced between the p-pages.”
Gabby whoops in agreement, and it’s the precise amount of assurance I need to finish off my expected time at this podium.
“W.H. Auden once said, ‘A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language.’ And I c-can’t think of any better way to ask you to make a d-donation tonight and give someone a chance to live a life madly and wildly in l-love with words. Thank you.”
I exit the stage before my mother can greet me with a false sense of pride by kissing me on my cheeks without making contact. I want to get out of here, chase after Staley, check on her, and make sure she’s okay and not alone. The expectation of being present long enough to appease my mother has been fulfilled. At best, this will get her to leave me alone for forty-eight hours.
Maeve makes a beeline for my escape route and drags me into the hallway. If there is anything Maeve is known for aside from her Parisian aesthetic, it’s how she can hug me with her entire soul. My bones feel brittle under her embrace, as if they might break upon my collapse after the day. I am desperate to be in the confines of my down comforter, but only if Staley is there with me.
The stack of bangles on Maeve’s wrist ring together as she rubs the expanse of my back, a sigh leaving her body.
“Maeve, are y-you in a self-induced state of calm from petting my b-blazer?”
“Oh, Theo. You know me too well. You clean up so nice.”
I shrug off her compliment.
“Thanks, you and Gabby both look great tonight. But I can’t stay; I have to find St-staley.”
Before I can blink, I witness the unthinkable: Maeve blushing and smiling sweetly. Shy is not a state I’ve ever seen her in. Warmth floods my heart with happiness for her even though I’m breaking up inside, not knowing if Staley is okay or what is happening with her.
“I’m r-really happy for you, Maeve. You deserve this. I need to find Staley.”
I wrench my hand across the back of my neck and feel sweat from the bright lights or disappointment leaking out of my body.
“Wait, why do you look sad? You killed it up there. I thought you would read what you’d prepared. What happened?”
“I changed my m-mind. Besides, it’s something I wanted Staley to hear.” I sigh, nervous to ask Maeve what she does or doesn’t know about Staley
“Theo, what in the hell? What’s wrong with you?”
Confrontation is not my bag and never has been. But I march to the door, overwrought with worry and nowhere to direct it as Maeve tries to block me again.
“She left, Maeve. Staley l-left! And I don’t know why, and I’m worried she’s not okay.” My eyes well with tears, and my throat burns with sadness because if anyone can see right through me, it’s Maeve. Maeve’s eyes search mine over, panicked at my state of chaos.
“Theo, her dad—”
“Is he okay?”
The tears breach my eyelids as I silently plead with Maeve to release me from this conversation. Maeve shakes her head, disappointed because I know what she is thinking. I’m a sad sack who needs to get over myself and let Staley handle her business. I get it—my insecurity is winning, and I am ridiculous. But mostly, I’m scared.
“I didn’t get all of the details. Alex said Harrison had his driver take her home.”
Maeve hustles behind me, clutching the hem of her dress, trying to keep pace as I run out the front door. The cold air hits my heated face all at once, and I relish the suffering I’m inflicting on myself. Of all the poetry I’ve read, one thing is clear: A man without the love of another is an impulsive beast with the potential to make idiotic decisions. I do not long to cast myself into the sea or shove my head into an oven, but I must stop this ache.
How do I triage this? My first instinct is to rescue Staley, but she’s never demonstrated that she needs me to do such a thing. My second instinct is to find her.
My plotting is interrupted by the last person in the world I want to see. Alex.
“Hey, Sullivan. Staley left about ten minutes ago.” He holds both hands up in surrender—not the response I was expecting from him.
“Thanks, Alex. Do you h-happen to know where she went?” I grit out the question.
“Home. All I know is it’s something to do with her dad.” He’s concerned too.
“Thanks for being there for her, A-alex.”
Because I can see that Alex has been there for her as a friend too. The more people who love Staley, the better. Alex isn’t a threat to me; he’s a benefit, and I must accept it. I chastise myself for all the sneaky bouts of jealousy I allowed to break through me. Away thou rag, thou quantity, thou remnant. It’s what Shakespeare would say to me right now. I’m embarrassed and ashamed of myself. Because I am, quantifiably, the dumbest. I deserve every single Shakespeare insult out there.
“Alex . . . I’m—”
“It’s all good, man.”
And Alex means it, and for that, I’m grateful. Now, I need to find the love of my life.