Twenty-Three #4
The flashlight’s dim glow gives me a peek at the conditions he’s been living in. There’s light enough for me to see the empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the nightstand next to the bed and some cigarette butts.
“Don’t start,” he snaps, short and biting.
“Thomas, all this…” I’m about to tell him that it’s wrong, that he’s only hurting himself, and that he’s never going to find peace this way, but I stop myself because I realize that none of it would be any use.
Because Thomas never confronts his pain, nor does he allow himself the luxury of sharing it with anyone else.
He anesthetizes himself instead. He himself admitted that he abuses anything that’ll give him some fleeting feeling of relief: alcohol, drugs, sex.
It’s the only way he knows to cope. And I can choose to walk out that door and leave him forever, or I can stay and try to pull him out of the chaos his head has become.
I stare silently at him, unable to tear my eyes away from this defenseless figure who kindles a feeling of infinite sadness in me.
And still, all I can think is that I love him.
I love him unconditionally. And even though I also hate him for what he’s doing to himself, to me, and to our relationship, I still don’t want to be anywhere but here.
Next to him. Because it is precisely when we’re falling into darkness, succumbing to our weaknesses, that we most need someone to hold out their hand and keep us from slipping away.
And I want to be that someone for him, now more than ever.
I push off my shoes, lift up the covers, and lie down next to him.
“What the hell are you doing?” he blurts, half irritated, half surprised.
My back is pressed against his warm chest, which moves erratically. It’s the first time we’ve been this close in too long. Even in Portland, he chose to sleep alone on the couch.
“Shut up. I’m going to take care of you whether you like it or not.
” I grab his hand and pull his arm over my stomach, interweaving our fingers.
“I don’t know what’s going on with you or why you’re suddenly doing everything you can to put me at arm’s length.
But I do know that I’m not going to let you do it.
I already told you once, I can handle your worst. And if that’s all you can be right now, okay, I accept that. But I’m not leaving.”
I feel his body go rigid, rejecting contact with me. For a moment, I wonder if he has been expecting me to give up the moment things got difficult. Maybe he hasn’t taken my stubbornness into account, or maybe he has even been hoping I’d just stop hanging around.
But eventually, I feel him sigh against the nape of my neck.
He lets his face drop into the hollow of my shoulder and presses his body against mine.
“You always choose wrong,” he grumbles before slipping into a deep sleep.
I just keep staring at the closed blinds in front of me, a flicker of hope lighting up my heart and making me think that maybe Tiffany and Alex were wrong.
Maybe, with a little time and patience, we can leave all this behind us and start fresh.
Gently rocked by his deep breathing, I end up falling asleep as well. I don’t get out of his bed until it’s time to start my shift at the Marsy.
***
Thomas doesn’t show up at the bar tonight for the first time since we got back to Corvallis. On one hand, I’m relieved, but on the other, I spend my whole shift wondering where he is and what he’s doing.
When I finish up late at night, I immediately head for my dorm to take a quick shower, intending to go back to Thomas’s room. He doesn’t give me the chance, though, because he shows up at my door without warning.
“Hey,” I say, standing in the doorway, observing him. His cheekbones are slightly reddened, and his eyes are tired. But he seems sober for the first time in over a week now. “Is everything okay?”
He nods, rubbing the soft bit of hair that always falls over his forehead. “They’re having a party at the frat, but I’m not in the mood. And Larry’s blasting an anime marathon in the dorm.”
“Oh, I understand.” Is that why he’s here? Because he didn’t know where else to go?
He must be able to read my mind because he steps forward, taking my chin between his thumb and index finger, and brushes my lower lip. “I wanted to see you.”
These words are enough to coax a little smile from me. It feels like I can finally breathe again after days of struggling for air.
“Little warm in here, isn’t it? What’s the heat set to?” he asks when he gets inside, peeling off his jacket.
I glance as the thermostat mounted on the wall next to me. “Seventy-seven.”
“You’re nuts.” He chuckles a little, and it feels like an eternity since I last heard him do that.
“I just run cold…you know.” I smile hesitantly at him, pulling down my shirtsleeves.
He smiles back at me, quirking one corner of his mouth.
I haven’t missed the gloom that still hangs in the air between us, and I realize that now is not a good time to start a conversation.
“Do you want to watch TV?” I suggest instead, getting a packet of microwavable popcorn from the kitchen cupboard.
“This has been waiting to get devoured since my first grocery run. Alex and I were going to have a movie night.” What I don’t tell him is that it never happened, because although Alex did his best to cheer me up, I wasn’t in any mood for company or entertainment.
“Sure, whatever you want,” he answers without enthusiasm, slumping onto the sofa with his legs spread. He pulls his phone from the pocket of his black sweatpants and types out a message.
“Okay,” I murmur, trying to ignore the odd feeling of awkwardness between us. I unfold the bag of popcorn and put it in the microwave. “So my mother called today.”
“What did she want?”
“Um, the usual stuff. She wanted to know how I was, to point out once again that I don’t call her…
” I stall a little as I set the timer. “And to tell me that she’s booked a table for the four of us this Friday evening.
” I don’t look at him. I don’t have the guts.
And his silence only adds to my nerves. Finally, I turn uncertainly toward him. His forehead is creased into a frown.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says, staring straight ahead at nothing in particular.
Then he tucks his phone away. His answer doesn’t surprise me, but I still feel a little disappointed.
This wasn’t how I hoped it would go. I wanted him to go with me to the family dinner, and I wanted my mother to change her mind about him.
And he promised me that he’d be there. But that was before everything went downhill.
I paste on a smile to hide my sorrow. “Don’t worry.
I already told her you probably wouldn’t be able to make it.
” I turn my back to him and shut my eyes, focusing on the sound of the popcorn popping, which is now filling the room.
I hear him let out a sigh and approach me.
I feel his chest brushing against my back and his hands resting on my shoulders.
“Look, I’m saying this for your sake… If I said or did something that—”
“Don’t worry about it,” I interrupt him, sounding colder than I’d like. “I get it.”
He leans against the kitchen cabinet, folding his arms over his chest and looking at me. “You sure?”
I nod, trying to look convincing.
But I can feel the weight of his stare on me. He knows I’m lying. He rubs his face in frustration before saying, “Eh, never mind. I’ll be there.”
I look up at him; he doesn’t seem at all happy with the decision he’s just made. “You don’t have to. I mean, it’s just dinner.”
The popping sound is subsiding. And I need to do something—anything—to get rid of the nervous energy that his presence is causing. I grab the bag out of the microwave and pull it open immediately, almost burning my fingers.
“I said I’ll be there,” he answers with an air of finality, plucking the bag from my hands. “Tell me where and when.”
I get a bowl out of the cupboard and hand it to him. “At Maple Garden, eight o’clock.”
“Maple Garden? Fancy-ass place, isn’t it?” He pours the hot popcorn into the bowl. Then he goes over the sofa and turns the TV on. I don’t answer because I don’t know what else to say; he’s right.
We both watch TV in near silence. I also spend a lot of time watching him.
I can’t tell if he notices; he seems focused on the screen.
He’s so captivated by this banal TV show that I can’t help but wonder what he’s finding so fascinating about it.
Why doesn’t he talk to me instead? He hasn’t even kissed me.
Doesn’t he even want to know how my day went?
I remove the bowl of popcorn between us and, a little bit uncertainly, scooch closer to him. “Hey, do you want to talk?”
“About?” he asks absently, barely glancing at me.
“You seem distant…” As I wait for an answer, I decide to turn off the TV and take some control over the situation. I settle myself on his lap and take his face in my hands, forcing him to look at me. “Thomas, what is it?”
“What do you mean?” His hands draw lazy circles on my backside.
And for a moment, I find myself sighing internally over the fact that he doesn’t take his hands off me.
Nor does he remove me from his lap. Despite the gulf between us these days, Thomas still has the same effect on me that he’s always had.
For a moment, I wonder if it’s just the same for him, but I force myself not to dwell on that right now.
The important thing is figuring out what is going on inside his head.
“You know you can talk to me. You can tell me anything, everything.” I take a breath and press my forehead against his, slowly tracing his cheekbones with my thumbs. “We can make it through this rough patch, I know we can, just so long as you don’t leave me behind.”
“What if it’s not just a rough patch?” His eyes lock on my lips while his fingers creep under my shirt to stroke my side.
“Is it about your father? About what he said to you that night in the hospital?”
He briefly stops stroking but then starts again.
“That’s it, isn’t it? What did he say to you, Thomas?”
He puffs up his cheeks with air and then blows it out in resignation. “Nothing I didn’t already know.”
“What did you know?” I push, concerned.
He sighs and shuts his eyes. “I don’t feel like talking about it. Not now.”
“Sooner or later, we’re going to have to—” I can’t finish the sentence because suddenly his lips are on mine and his fingers are sinking into my hair.
“We will. But not now.” He lays me down on the sofa, underneath him.
The bowl of popcorn topples to the floor, scattering kernels everywhere.
His hands slip under my shirt, and the effect that his touch has on me is so powerful that I can’t find the will to fight it, even if a part of me does want to because I know very well what switch has been flipped in his mind.
Losing himself in my body will allow him to briefly get out from under the feelings that are crushing him.
To free himself from his thoughts, from the voices inside his head, and make way for silence.
The silence he’s used to taking refuge in.
The silence that he used to look for in other people, trying to find comfort.
He gets up, gathers me in his arms, and carries me to the bedroom, all without breaking the kiss.
When we get to the bed, his sighs are not ones of pleasure but of frustration.
His touch is not sweet; it’s desperate. It’s the same desperation that I can see when I look into his eyes, and it kindles such an urgent need in me to reassure him.
I don’t even know exactly what’s wrong, but I feel the need to tell him that it’s all going to be okay.
That one way or another, we are going to heal.
So I raise a hand to touch his cheek, but he doesn’t let me.
He pushes my hand away from his face and pins it firmly above my head.
Before I can whisper his name, he covers my mouth with a rough kiss.
“Don’t. Don’t talk,” he says against my mouth.
He doesn’t want to hear anything from me.
He doesn’t want to give me a chance to even try to say something that might ease his mind.
And that’s when I finally get it. I realize that, whatever idea he’s convinced himself of, he’s not going to let me change his mind. Not this time.
I wake up the next morning with a lump in my throat that makes my eyes sting when I realize he isn’t there.