Chapter 28
TWENTY-EIGHT
COLBY
Fuck.
As I lie here with Josie wrapped in my arms, her legs tangled in mine, her breaths sleepy and heavy, I stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling.
The guilt is officially killing me. She’s asked about my job before—of course because that’s what normal, healthy couples do—and I keep avoiding telling her the truth.
I make enough vague comments to ease my conscience, using words like “editing” and “it’s so boring if I told you the details you’d keel over” and “I basically just answer emails.” But I know in my heart that this is not truthful, and I need to put a stop to the dishonesty.
Earlier today when Josie stepped into my office, I almost had a panic attack on the spot.
I completely froze. I teetered between telling her the truth, and making up some insane story about working for someone famous and having to sign an NDA.
Thankfully, she was in the middle of her walk and left before I had a chance to do something really stupid and make up an even bigger lie.
This is eating me alive. I’ve opened up to Josie about everything, but this show is the final thing keeping me tethered to the life I once had, and I’m sure, deep down, Josie can feel this.
I can feel this. The only reason I was even in the recording studio is because I’m so behind schedule and was hoping I could cram in a short episode during her walk.
During the day, when Josie’s at work, I’ve been sitting down to record and choke.
My entire motto of “keeping things real” for this podcast is that I do minimal editing, and rarely censor myself.
This formula has worked incredibly well, not only allowing me to build my audience, but allowing me to feed those hungry listeners by cranking out a few episodes a week.
But now, it’s taking me days to record even one episode because I can’t stand the way I sound.
I end up breaking my golden rule and re-recording over and over until I get it right.
Since Josie came into my life, I can only stomach answering one question at a time.
The listeners are chiming in, noticing I’ve cut the shows to half the length and asking why I’m using so many encore episodes.
And listeners are like toddlers—if you don’t keep them constantly stimulated, they will quickly burn out and move to the next show.
Once that happens, it’ll only be a very short amount of time before my sponsors start pulling out and I lose my ad dollars.
The bed shakes as Josie rolls to her side, and I fight the urge to snuggle up next to her.
I want to, I always freaking want to, but I need to think about what I’m doing, and if I snuggle, my mind will get lost in her scent, in her soft hair tickling my chest, in the warmth of her skin, and not in the decision I need to make.
I should just open up and tell her the truth.
I trust her with my secret, of course. She won’t tell anyone about my real identity, I’m sure of it.
But what I don’t trust is what she might say about me withholding this secret from her during our time together.
I’m not naive. I understand our relationship is in its infancy, and pretty fragile.
If I tell her the truth, are we strong enough to survive?
But if I don’t… what’s the alternative? I just lie to her for the rest of my life?
I blink at the ceiling and release a slow exhale.
I pride myself on being logical and calm, and I’m absolutely spinning.
God, I don’t want to do this, but I don’t know what to do.
I flip the pillow to the other side to cool my head, and finally, around 3:00 a.m., with my eyes burning with fatigue, I slide out from the bed, grab a robe, and tiptoe down to the office.
It’s so late, even Kona stays in the room rather than following me.
I really don’t know what to do, but I know that I need to get this off my chest and sleep is out of the question.
The office door clicks softly behind me.
I grab a light blanket from the basket next to the office chair and drape it over my lap.
I haven’t done a digital journal since I said goodbye to Amelia, and I need something to help me sort out the chaos in my brain.
Tonight—this morning—whatever time it is, I keep my headphones off so I can hear if Josie approaches.
My fingers hover over the laptop. I take a breath and tap record.
“Hey. I don’t know who I’m addressing this recording to anymore since it’s not Amelia, but it feels weird to address it to myself.
So, for now, I guess I’ll just pretend this is whatever entity that might be out there, helping to guide me.
” I rub the back of my neck. “I’m so lost as to what to do.
After all these years, I’ve found the person who has opened me up to the idea of a future.
A real future. I’ve fallen for Josie in such a beautiful, deep way, and I’m so fucking scared it’s going to end.
I need to tell her about the show. Of course I need to tell her.
But will she understand why I kept this from her?
How do I really explain the reasons why I withheld this massive part of my life?
The idea that she’ll be upset with me, or worse, makes my stomach knot so hard I feel like I’m going to puke.
I never, ever thought that I’d find anyone I care about again after Amelia, and now that I have, I can’t bear the idea of it being stripped from me again. ”
I keep talking for the next hour into the journal, contemplating just letting the entire podcast go and finding a different job.
The show used to bring me joy. Or, at minimum, used to dull the pain of losing Amelia enough where I equated it with joy.
But it’s not filling me anymore. I never once thought of it as a job, even though it’s pretty lucrative. But now it absolutely feels like a job.
Although I said that my show and advice was there for entertainment purposes only—and I still hold on to that belief—there’s a part of me that did hope I was helping people.
But honestly, who the hell am I to think that?
Even though some listeners follow up with thank-you emails for my advice, I don’t know what I’m doing.
I don’t think I’ve known what I’m doing for a long time.
What I know, however, is that I’m living a lie, and even as hard as it may be, I need to come clean.
I stay in the recording studio until my eyes can no longer hold open, until the morning sun breaks through the windows, until all of the words are out of my body.
The journaling helps, as it always does, and it’s so clear what I need to do.
I close the office door, step down the hall, and crawl back into bed.
When I tug the covers over me, Josie rolls over and rests her head against my chest. “Is everything okay?” she asks with a raspy, sleep-filled voice.
I kiss her head and breathe in her warm scent, but stay silent. What am I supposed to say? Continue lying and say everything is fine? Tell her no, and wrestle her out of sleep? Potentially crush her first thing on a Sunday morning, and pray that she doesn’t leave me?
My heart thuds in my chest and I blink at the glow-in-the-dark stars, praying that the clarity I received in the office was wrong, and I don’t, in fact, need to tell her the truth.
But when I don’t say anything for so long, Josie lifts herself from the cuddle position, props on her elbows, and searches my eyes.
She can see it on my face, I’m sure, because a moment passes, then two, when she lifts herself to sitting and tugs the blanket up to her chest. The morning sun illuminates her from the window.
Pillowed sleep lines crease on her rosy cheeks, and she tugs her lower lip into her mouth. “Colby, what is it? What’s wrong?”
I want to tell her everything, but I don’t know where to start. I don’t even know how to start.
“Did I do something wrong?” she says, her morning voice cracking.
The nerves catch in my throat and the only thing I can do is shake my head.
Finally, I suck in a breath. “No. God, no,” I finally say.
God, I don’t want to do this. Please, please can a storm crackle through the home?
Can the floor open up and suck me into the cellar?
The air in the room has vanished and left nothing but ash.
I swallow back needles pricking in my throat and close my eyes.
I have to do this now. There’s no more waiting, no more hiding.
“Josie…” I whisper as I tug my hand out of her reach. “There’s something I need to tell you.”