32. Chapter 32 Theo
Chapter 32 Theo
S taley’s house was locked tight, and every light was off when I arrived. I couldn’t bring myself to knock on the door and wake the whole house, so I retreated to my place and trusted that Staley would reach out to me when she was ready. Walking the whole way home, in dress shoes no less, is a form of self-inflicted punishment I’d wish on no one, but I decide the cool night air will be good to clear my head and internally lecture myself about the streak of jealousy I allowed myself to have.
Long strolls in the dark will reveal all kinds of things about oneself, and it’s clear to me now more than ever I don’t truly understand the amount of stress on Staley’s plate, and perhaps I’ve only added to it. I deserve the blisters on my heels and the cracking sensation in my chest. I’m afraid there’s not enough reading in the library stacks to heal my sorrow because Staley is it for me, and I’d take ten seconds of her time to hug her and tell her as much.
My front door groans as I open it. Silence fills the space, and I flinch at how Staley planned to come home with me tonight to stay over. She was anxious about leaving her dad overnight with the nurse, but I assured her she could go anytime. The relief in her eyes when I gave her an out if she needed one was worth all the gold in the world. We planned to watch some of her favorite movies, specifically Encino Man , and eat snacks together. I was hopeful for the opportunity to tell her how I might be in love with her. No, not might be. I am in love with her.
My sweat-soaked blazer hits the floor. Screw hangers, no sense in preserving a piece of clothing I may not ever wear again. It’s late, but I put the kettle on anyway to settle my nerves and think of a plan. The blanket Staley and I practiced cuddling on lies folded on the corner of my desk as a beacon of hope—or of remembering the quieter, simpler moments.
My oak chair holds my emotionally worn-out body. I roll to the edge of the desk, allowing my head to collapse into the pile of fluff.
I could die right here in the smell of her.
My phone chirps, and my heart shoots to the top of my throat. I scramble to see if it’s Staley or not.
Maeve: Any luck?
Theo: No.
Maeve: Sweetie, I’m sure it’s all okay. She’s been burning the candle at both ends.
She’s right. There’s always tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, for better or for worse. Being away from her and giving her space is a penance I hope never to be sentenced to, and I hope she knows that when she’s ready, I’m here to support her. Then, as if my current self-deprecation isn’t low enough, I find Staley’s handwriting scribbled inside one of my writing journals.
Theo,
I can’t wait to hear your speech tonight. When you feel unsteady, remember your gift is words, look for me in the crowd, and breathe with me.
XOXO,
Staley
I fight sleep for the rest of the night, tangled in our comforter of love, and pray for daybreak when I can go to her.
Staley isn’t other women. Flowers won’t fix all that ails her, but coffee might. The details of what happened with her father last night are unbeknownst to me, and yet, I can only imagine how concerning it must have been in order for her to warrant leaving. She wanted to be there, and God, did she look gorgeous.
I find myself on the sidewalk outside her house with a hot breve in one hand and flowers in the other. The overnight Staley and I planned for was meant to roll into our scheduled cuddle session today, in which we’d planned to try out the Honeymoon Hug. Her head near mine, with my hand over her warm chest and beating heart, is how I wanted to tell her how endlessly in love I am with her, and it was all meant to happen during the cuddle we’d yet to mark off the list.
Before I can knock, a throat clearing behind me stops me dead in my tracks. Standing in the middle of the walkway is a middle-aged man I’ve seen in pictures in Staley’s home. He looks tired, as if he’s been up all night. The front of his Soundgarden shirt is rumpled and aged, with a small hole near the hem. It’s similar to one I’ve seen Staley wear several times before.
“You must be Theo.”
I swivel my head left and right as if there’s a slight chance someone beside me is also named Theo.
“I am.”
His two steps toward me close the gap. Now, the stranger is in my personal space.
“Are those for Staley? It was a long night, and I’m not sure she’s up for visitors.”
“The f-flowers aren’t f-for St-staley. They’re f-for L-leslie.”
The stranger softens his stance by relaxing his fists, letting his hands hang at his sides. He nods. My admission is an acceptable one.
“I’m not one of those grown men who threaten boys with shotguns because that’s gross and brutal, and Staley is perfectly capable of protecting herself, and I’m damn sure she has a good aim. But if she gives me the word and you hurt her or make her cry, you had better hope you can outrun a sad old man.”
Outrunning a sad old man is, without a doubt, a thing I am incapable of doing. Outwrite him, sure, but sprinting, jogging, and marathoning are all words I avoid in life and on paper. Staley is important to him; I gather as much.
“I’m here to check on her. Trust me, I know how hard her life is already. I wouldn’t d-do anything to make it harder. I’ll spend the rest of my l-life trying to make it better. I love her, and I n-need her to know.”
I am bone tired from trying to keep my words in line. Every start and stop drains the little energy I have left. Twenty-two years of fighting to be heard in the hopes someone will sit through what I have to say is exhausting. I wish the world would slow down to accommodate me for once, to understand my fatigue in something as basic as communicating with another human being.
He walks past me and opens the front door, where Leslie greets the two of us. Her bright smile stops mid-smile when she sees the stranger at my side.
“Theo, what a surprise. Noah, a bigger surprise.”
Leslie crosses her arms with a chastising look on her face. She looks between us, and I’m beginning to understand that maybe I’m not the one with one foot inside of the doghouse.
“These are f-for you, Leslie.” I extend the bouquet, and she receives it happily.
“Oh, you, sweet man, thank you. I’ll put these in water. Noah, I assume you’re here to see Russell?”
A slow nod with a tired sigh leaves his mouth. He responds with a hand at the nape of his neck. I know this look; it’s emotional exhaustion.
“I was hoping to take him on a morning walk if that’s okay with you and Staley.”
“Sure, sugar. I think he’d enjoy that. He’s in the living room, but you’ll need to touch base with Staley and get Russell’s shoes and coat from his room. I think they were left there last night.”
The overprotective stranger is Noah. It’s good to know who I might be running from, although I’m unsure why. Leslie leads me to the living room, where Russell sits by the open window. It’s fresh outside, but the cool air doesn’t bother him much. I take the gamble and sit a cushion away from him on the couch.
Selfishly, I’ve often wished to have some of my memories erased simply because they are too painful to revisit. Every time I’ve been mocked or teased for my stuttering, I could do without knowing the extent of the pain I experienced. Getting to know Staley, though, and hearing the pain her father’s forgetting has brought her is enough for me to sit in my own discomfort from here on out. What would it be like to forget everything I once knew? To forget every second spent with Staley? Unimaginable.
Russell shifts his weight on the couch while his fingers tap the tops of his kneecaps. I’m unsure if this is a nervous tic on his part or if I’m instating more duress on the Monroe family with my anxious presence. The decor, again, reminds me of the life Staley has lived with this father of hers—a music-filled, happy home where she’s been the center of the entire universe.
The record player across the room is open, waiting for music to be played. It’s a gamble to be forward, but I take it anyway and move to the extensive collection of albums on the shelf. She’s told me about her father’s love of music, and playing some right now seems to be a universal language that Russell and I can both speak. I see where Staley gets her love of all things nineties.
The record slips from its cardboard cover. I admire how the grooves of the vinyl are impeccably cared for. I know enough about records to place the player’s arm on the outside of the peripheral groove before dropping the lid. The distinct analog sound bleeds into the room as the sweet-sounding voice of The Cranberries’s “Ode To My Family” softens the room.
Back on the couch, Russell smiles, pleased with my musical selection. He shocks me by starting a conversation.
“My daughter loved this song. She’d always say, ‘I care! I care, Dolores!’”
There’s a picture of Staley above the record player. She’s on her dad’s shoulders with her hands in the air, making a rock n’ roll sign. Beneath her weight, Russell is a smiling, proud father. Staley is his entire world, and he’d willingly carry her for the rest of the time if he could.
“She loves you so m-much, Russell. You’re a lucky man.”
I’m not saying this to fill up the space in the room or to try to get in his good graces. I want Russell to hear how big his daughter’s love is, and it’s all because he showed her how to love this way.
“You’re wrong.” He bobs his head in rhythm to the music, and with shiny eyes, he turns to me and says what I know to be true in every part of my existence. “Lucky are those”—he shifts on the couch, looking around for something—“who get to love Staley.”
How weird would it be for me to cry right now? Super weird? Poe keeping a heart in his floorboards weird? Because he’s right.
“Sir, I don’t know how much Staley has told y-you about me, but she’s important to me. Staley shines on my p-pauses and shines on my b-beating heart. Staley shines over everything. She makes me unafraid to be my whole self.”
Russell nods and closes his eyes because maybe he’s as worn out as I am at trying to fit into boxes that cannot contain all of the platitudes within our bodies. He cannot remember, and I simply cannot forget.
“Her love feels like that.”
I pick up my chin to stare at him, searching for some glimmer of understanding in his eyes. Does he think Staley loves me? He would know.
“Staley’s love is the enormity of the sun w-warming my body. I’m not embarrassed to admit how many poems I have written about her.”
Russell nudges my shoulder with an atta boy slug. It’s gentle and promising and equally heartbreaking. Because out of all the things I wish, it’s to know the man Russell was before. What are his dad jokes? His favorite sayings?
Suddenly, he’s grappling with his pants, looking for something, his eyes panicked and unsure. All rhyme and reason leaves me because I could shout for Leslie or Staley or the burly, disgruntled man named Noah, but I do what Staley has taught me.
Before I know it, I press Russell against my chest, wrapping him in my arms. Quiet cries slip from his mouth, and his words shoot me right through the heart.
“I haven’t seen my daughter in a long time. I miss her.”
“Shh, it’s okay, Russell. She’s here, she’s always been here.”
Russell settles and looks up to me. It’s as if I’ve promised him an ice cream cone if he’s quiet in class.
“Theo, what are you doing here?”
Her voice cracks my heart. How long has Staley been standing here? Did she overhear everything? Most importantly, I cannot tell if she is okay with me comforting her father. I gently release my hold on Russell, patting his arm, and grab the coffee I brought for Staley, handing it to her. How would the great poets handle this? I can’t fix all of my problems with a pen; I have to be bigger than the merits I rest upon.
“C-can we t-talk outside, maybe?”
Noah looms in the hallway.
“I’m tired, Theo.”
And for once, I can see the weariness in her. She’s radiant, yet I can’t miss the dark circles underneath her eyes and the smudged mascara she wore last night.
“S-staley, please? I came by last night, but all the lights were off. I came as soon as I c-could.”
“Yeah, it was a long night. I need a few days to regroup; I promise I’ll reach out, okay, Theo?”
I nod, understanding I have overstayed my welcome, and head toward the door. Leslie offers a kind smile. As my hand hits the doorknob, I overhear Russell.
“Staley, there you are.”
“Hey, Dad, good morning.”
“Staley, your boyfriend writes poems about you and compares you to the sun.”
Russell, you brilliant man. Calling Staley by her name and calling me her boyfriend might be the thing that gives me a real chance to tell her how I feel about her.