23
I couldn’t stay in the house.
Somehow, I ended up in the truck.
Somehow, I ended up in the parking lot of Wahredua Regional.
The day was gray and still somehow bright, and the snow refused to settle, coming down in fits of icy flakes that cracked against the windshield.
The sound of the truck idling was a faint click-click-click barely there under the rumble.
I thought I could smell roses, and it wasn’t until I actually looked at the sweatshirt I was wearing that I realized it was the old Mizzou one, the one Noah had been wearing the night before. Two nights before. Whenever.
My eyes stung. I closed them. Pushed it all back.
Crying didn’t fix anything.
And anyway, whose fault was it really? Everything had been fine.
Everything had been more than fine. It had been so good.
And Noah had been the one to fuck it up.
Noah had been the one who couldn’t leave well enough alone.
And all the reasons I’d been telling myself for the last two years came back, like I’d had them locked behind a door, and as soon as I opened it, they came tumbling out.
He was spoiled. He was immature. He’d lived this sheltered life where nothing he did ever had any real consequences.
Oh, your dad was mad at you when you came out?
Oh, he didn’t like it when you became a nurse?
But your whole family still comes out here to spend two weeks with you, and you can go home whenever you want, and you’ve got a fucking bottomless trust fund from Pappy and Mamie. Jeez, what a fucking tragedy.
And the thing with Noah was that he was never going to be happy with me.
He could make up this bullshit about not holding hands or whatever, but that was a moving target.
Always had been. Because that was how the arguments had gone the last time, before the divorce.
You won’t hold my hand in public. Okay, fuck it.
I’ll hold your hand in public. But then, when I did, the fight was: But you don’t like it.
You’re not comfortable. I’m comfortable.
But your hand is stiff. It’s just my hand; I don’t know what you want me to do about it.
You’re embarrassed. I’m not embarrassed. You hate yourself.
Yeah.
Well.
Lots of people hated themselves. It wasn’t like cocksuckers had an exclusive on that.
By then, the worst of the anger had—well, not so much drained out of me as settled.
My head felt clear. Or clearer, anyway. I shut off the truck and headed inside.
Hospital lights. Hospital smells. The sound of voices echoing off all those hard surfaces, and shoes squeaking on vinyl flooring, and a huge HVAC system whooshing at the edge of hearing. It made me feel like I was floating.
I went through the whole process of getting into Si’s room in the ICU.
“Right on cue,” the nurse said as I started around the desk.
I had no idea what that meant, so I smiled and nodded.
The room just had those thin privacy curtains, so it wasn’t like things changed all that much once I was in there.
I could still hear the nurses moving around.
I could hear a murmured conversation from somewhere else in the unit—a woman telling a story about a fishing trip. Feet moved. The curtains rippled.
But it was like those good days out on the water, when it didn’t matter how loud the outboard was, or the music pounding up from the beach, or the fact that somebody had already staked out the best hole.
When I just felt like I was somewhere I’d been trying to get to for a long time, and I could sit for a minute, rest.
I’d have to pay Noah back. The house would sell—probably not to Jonathan now, but someone would buy it. And Si would get her money. And I’d write Noah a check. And that would be that. His family would leave in a day or two, after—
After his birthday.
And things would go back to normal. I’d have to find a lawyer. Figure out how to get the divorce finalized, if that was still even possible. Or start the whole process over from the beginning. And then Noah would be out of my life for good, and I could move on.
Move on to what?
Nights eating TV dinners in a shell of a house.
Nights sleeping fully dressed because I didn’t want to run the furnace.
Work all day. Work until the sun went down and then go back to wherever I was living and sleep and do it all again the next day.
Because Si always had work, and she’d be back on her feet soon enough.
And maybe I’d get some sort of job with Otto Pang.
Maybe I’d have my own thing going by then.
I liked the old houses. I liked working with Si, but I liked the restoration projects the best. I’d have plenty of work. Forever.
And it wouldn’t be like last time. I’d get on the apps.
There were lots of guys out there. Normal guys.
Guys who just wanted to hook up. Guys who just wanted to fuck.
Guys who didn’t want you to hold their hands.
Guys who didn’t want you to meet their families.
Fuck, I didn’t even need to go on the apps.
I could go to the Pretty Pretty. And if I took somebody home, he’d be out the fucking door before midnight like the world’s worst fucking Cinderella, because there was no way I was getting myself into a mess like this again.
You came home late, and he was already starting a fight because you forgot you had plans.
You just wanted to relax, and he dragged you out the door to dinner with his friends.
You forgot your lunch, and he came by on his break to make sure you had something to eat.
I’d forgotten about that. About Noah pulling up behind Si’s truck in that ridiculous Mini Cooper, frantic that I wasn’t going to eat lunch, like I’d never missed a meal in my life.
You did something simple. Something anybody could do.
You changed an outlet. Or you remembered—half by luck—to clean the condo while he was at work.
You carried in the groceries, or you filled up his car with gas, or you—you showed him how to cut down a Christmas tree.
And he made you feel like you were special, when nobody had ever made you feel special before.
You gave him a necklace that you picked up at the farmer’s market, and he danced with you, the light coming in off the snow.
You were dead. You were a dead man. And every day, he brought a little more life into the world, until you couldn’t be dead anymore.
You asked him to marry you. And he said yes.
The tears came slowly at first, escaping in spite of my best attempts to blink them away. Then faster. And then my throat clenched, and I was fighting sobs. Around me, the sounds of the hospital continued, and I hunched over in the chair, trying not to make any noise, trying to breathe.
He was gone.
And it was my fault.
Again.
I stopped crying eventually. And yeah, crying didn’t fix anything. It didn’t even make me feel all that much better. But the worst of the hurt—the poison—was gone, and now I felt raw and empty and tired.
A soft noise came from the bed. A change in breathing. And then a hand touched my arm, fumbling blindly until fingers closed around my wrist.
“Hey now,” Si said muzzily. “What’s wrong?”
“Si,” I said. “Oh my God. Oh my God, Si.”
“It’s okay,” she said in that sleep-scratched voice. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
I wasn’t sure about that, but I was sure about one thing: I was crying again. “I didn’t think you were— I thought you were asleep.”
Her next breath sounded like she might be dozing again, and when she spoke, the words were mumbled. “Just resting my eyes.”