45. Damien
FORTY-FIVE
damien
NOW
The texts came like clockwork. One a day.
No more, no less. And they came at the same time too.
After the first one, which came late into the evening, they came first thing in the morning, and it was easy to imagine Callum standing there, drinking his morning coffee, sending me a text while Crudinski twined himself around Callum’s ankles.
The texts didn’t say much on the surface, but strung together, day after day, they started to paint a picture of what I imagined our life could look like.
Sometimes they were meaningful like thought of you all night or heard a song that reminded me of you.
Sometimes they were vague as hell, which was kind of frustrating because I wanted to ask but didn’t want to ask, all at the same time.
The vague ones varied a lot in tone and length. Made some big decisions today. That one had me wondering. The most recent one was how many frying pans does one man need? Apparently the answer is six.
Why was Callum texting me about frying pans? He knew I was reading the texts and not responding, and yet he sent them anyway. He never asked me to reply back or asked why I wasn’t. But he sent them like he needed me to know that I was on his mind.
Honestly, I wouldn’t have minded more frequent messages because, after a few weeks, I found that the later in the day it got, the more frequently I reread the text messages he sent.
Anticipation built up inside me and every morning I’d open that stupid text and I’d get a rush of endorphins and feel giddy and happy and a little bit silly for letting a text message affect me.
Sometimes, I wanted to call him and hear his voice. Sometimes I wanted him to call me instead. Mostly, I just wanted to turn back the clock and tell Sam to fuck himself.
To make up for my absences after the funeral, I threw myself into work again.
It helped keep my mind off Callum, off of everything.
The old me would have chastised myself for not going easier on him.
The old me would have sacrificed his own feelings to make someone else comfortable.
Sometimes I missed the old me because I fucking missed Callum so much it burned.
I thought of getting a real pet. Something that could love me back.
A dog, maybe. Or maybe a cat of my own. I low-key missed Crudinski, and I wasn’t about to pretend that a pet rock was going to cut it anymore.
Getting rid of Spike had been an impulse, but I liked to think that it was a necessary step in my healing journey.
That’s what Bowie called it anyway. According to him, and he knew everything, I needed to end things with Callum on my terms and I’d finally gotten that chance. Walking away sucked the air out of my lungs both times, but this time I felt like I could breathe again. Like maybe, one day, I’d be okay.
Bowie knew about the texts, but not what they said. They felt sacred to me. They weren’t meant for anyone else, and Bowie didn’t mind that I didn’t show him. Much. He didn’t mind much. Of course, he respected my privacy, but I could tell he was practically dying of curiosity.
Bowie had been my rock ever since I came back the last time. I spent several nights over at his house, not wanting to step into the gaping maw of silence and solitude of my apartment. Eventually, I had to return home and start trying to settle back into my life.
It should have been easy. Nothing had changed. Bowie was still my best friend. My business partner. I still had my company and my apartment. I was down one pet rock, but I didn’t miss it. A lot.
Everything was the same, but it felt like somehow I wasn’t. Like I was the wrong shape to fit into this life now. Like I’d shrunk and there was too much empty space around me, but I didn’t know how to fill it up. The closest I got was the single text message I got every morning.
That night, a text from Callum came through.
This time there were no words, it was just a picture of a take-out meal from that Thai place we’d ordered from when I was there.
And I couldn’t help but respond to him. I’d told myself every day that I wouldn’t, that I’d keep not texting back and eventually he’d leave me alone.
I could eat so many noodles right about now, I texted him, then turned my phone off and leaned back in my recliner. I’d been staring at the television for an hour without registering what was on. I didn’t want to sit in the silence, so when I was home, I often had the TV on or music playing.
An hour later, maybe less, there was a knock on my door. Confused, I got to my feet and went to the front door. The peephole revealed nothing but a car pulling away. Had someone ding-dong-ditched me?
I pulled the door open and, at first, saw nothing. Then I looked down and saw a brown paper bag on my step. Curious, I picked it up and was immediately hit with the smell of fresh Thai food.
Callum.
That fucker.
I took the food to the living room and tore into it, taking every container out of the bag before turning my phone back on.
He hadn’t known where I lived before, but he’d been able to track me down.
This part should make me uneasy, but I wasn’t.
I’d railed at Callum about not knowing anything about me, about not caring.
And clearly he’d heard that because he remembered what cake I liked the best and what song I wanted to hear and he’d found where I lived.
It made me wonder what else he’d found out. And how.
I sent a text to Bowie with a picture of my dinner. Callum sent me dinner. Care to explain how he got my home address?
Bowie sent back an emoji with a zipper for a mouth.
Asshole.
I ate the Pad Thai before I got up the nerve to text Callum back.
Thank you for dinner. There, it was succinct and to the point.
Callum didn’t text back right away, which I sort of hated. God, I was so needy it made me cringe.
Maybe we can eat together next time
Next time. I knew Callum hadn’t given up on me, but seeing those words made it impossible for me to not smile at my phone like some teenager who just found out their crush was requited after all.
Next time implied we’d see each other again.
I hated that I wanted that. After all this time, I still wanted him. I’d never be rid of him. Not that I wanted to be. I’d missed him every second we were apart and being close again only made it worse this time.
His presence had scraped all my old wounds raw, but it was also putting me back together. Another text came through, and I smiled again, because this was starting to feel dangerously close to a conversation.
How was the Pad Thai?
It was a simple question, but I felt the weight of what was behind it.
Lovely
I’m glad
Thank you. You didn’t have to.
I wanted to.
I thought of replying again but was hesitant to bite off more than I wanted to chew at the moment. So I cut him short.
Goodnight, Callum. Sleep well.
You too, Damien.
I tossed my phone aside and ate the rest of the food Callum sent. I hadn’t had much of an appetite for the past few days, but the moment Callum sent me food, I realized I was starving.
The next morning, I got another message from him. He just wished me a good day. That was all, but it was enough to have me going into work walking on a cloud.
Bowie noticed my chipper mood right away, but when he opened his mouth to ask me about it, I just winked at him and let him draw his own conclusions.
I still didn’t text him back with any kind of regularity, but Callum’s texts grew in frequency. Good morning texts and good night texts and a few through the day.
This continued for a month. Maybe more. And every day I talked a little more to him.
I asked about his job, which he said was going well and glad that he was fully remote now, which was a relatively new thing from what he said.
I still wasn’t quite sure what he did. He’d explained it to me a few times, but I always forgot and I was tired of asking and looking like a dumbass.
And then one day we were full on talking all day long. Little quips back and forth. Some flirty banter. Some silly memes. And I thought maybe we could do this. Maybe I didn’t need anyone’s approval. Bowie would always have my back, but maybe he didn’t have to be the only one.
And then one morning I got a weird text from Callum.
Just the number five and nothing else. When the number four came in an hour later, I typed out a simple message.
WTF are you doing?
Callum
*evil emoji*
Despite my prodding, he didn’t respond until another hour had passed and then he sent the number three.
What the fuck was this about, if not a countdown?
He gave me nothing to go on when the clock ran down to two, then one, then finally zero.
And nothing happened at first. I stared at my phone, at the glaring zero sitting there in front of me. Countdowns didn’t always culminate in good things. Sometimes they counted down to game over. Cold dread sliced through me, and I had to bite my lip from panicking and whimpering.
Then… a knock at my door. My heart sat in my throat, thrashing wildly. My brain begged my feet to move, but they were glued to the floor. It might be Callum out there. It might not be.
But deep down I knew before I even opened the door and saw him standing there with a couple boxes of pizza, a six-pack of beer, and a bouquet of flowers…
He was here.
He was gorgeous and unfairly beautiful and so nicely dressed in a pair of dark jeans and a soft-looking long-sleeve shirt with the sleeves pushed up past his elbows.
“Can I come in?” Callum asked and I caught the flash of uncertainty in his eyes in the micro-second it took me to say yes.
I wanted to tell him that he could always come in. That he had a place here forever if he wanted it.
“Of course,” I said, my voice drenched in naked hope. Callum gave me a shy smile and stepped into my home.
For the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel so big and lonely.