Chapter 41
Forty-One
S olitude can give my mind just enough rope to hang itself.
Today’s work commute topic: Thanksgiving—fast approaching.
It’s my first significant holiday in a strange place and Butch has yet to invite me to spend it with him.
I assume his family gathers every year, but it’s probably too soon for him to include me in that kind of thing.
Or maybe he’s reluctant tell his folks about us.
I don’t know what to think about that. By all accounts, we’re progressing.
Phone calls. A couple of dates. Sex. Slow-ish.
Will I be relegated to dining pathetically alone at some restaurant or forcing down a depressing turkey sub in my apartment? And is that better or worse than years of dismal Thanksgivings at my parents’ house?
Why don’t I come right out and ask Butch to spend it with me?
Answer: I’m a chickenshit.
By the time I arrive at the office, I’ve worked myself into a ridiculous, self-deprecating tizzy, caught between longing and reality .
That evening, Butch doesn’t call until 9:30 p.m. He’s distracted, not himself, and I’m still ruminating about Thanksgiving. I detest my insecurities about us—and it’s making me reticent to talk about anything.
Then he drops the very words I didn’t want to hear.
“I’ve got to cancel this weekend, Jacqui. I’m sorry. My parents are sick, and it…I can’t?—”
“It’s alright. I understand,” I cut in, my heart sinking. “You’re a good son to take care of them.” I wind the phone cord through my fingers, trying to strangle my anxiety and disappointment.
Butch sighs. “I wanted to see you.”
“Same here.”
“I’m burned out on my schedule, my responsibilities, all of it. It shouldn’t be so difficult to balance everything.”
“Yeah.” It’s all I can muster, wallowing in my own crap.
“Don’t give up on me, okay?” His voice is dull and hoarse.
“I won’t.”
He pauses, clears his throat. “I’m still figuring things out.”
What things? I want to scream. What is there to figure out?
“You still there?” he asks.
“Mm-hmm.”
“You’re quiet.”
And you’re unforthcoming. “Just not sure what to say, Butch.”
“Tell me something you don’t like talking about.”
“What? Why?”
He sighs. “I don’t know. Because I need to hear something real, anything to feel less fucked up in my head.”
A part of me wants to tell him to go first. He’s the one with all the secrets.
But that would be a bitch move…he’s despondent tonight.
I pause, though it’s not a challenge to call something up.
“My mom’s addicted to Valium and has be en for years.
She’s so emaciated and fragile, I’m worried she’s going to die. ”
“Damn, Jacqui. That’s terrible.”
Long breath. “I’m powerless to help her. I’ve tried.”
He hums in agreement. “My uncle was an alcoholic. He killed himself driving drunk one night. Ran straight into a tree.”
My eyes squeeze shut. “I’m sorry. That must have been devastating.”
“It was my mother’s brother, my favorite uncle until his drinking turned him into an asshole. He brought the chaos wherever he went.”
“Is that why you limit yourself to two drinks?” I ask, remembering what he said in the bar the day we met.
“Yes.”
“I had a sister who drowned when I was super young. It destroyed my parents. I don’t think they ever recovered. Ergo, the happy pills.” Except, they don’t make her happy at all.
“Fuuuuuck,” he breathes out on a long exhalation. We’re both quiet for a minute. Then he clears his throat, his voice raspy when he speaks. “My mother had breast cancer and beat it, but it’s the scariest thing our family has weathered. Thought we were going to lose her.”
“Oh, Butch. That must have been awful...but also amazing to watch her overcome it.”
“She’s my hero, my inspiration when life seems too hard. I respect the hell out of her.”
The burn hits me square in the chest. “I envy you. My parents are not my heroes.” Bitterness coats my tone. “I think my mom drowned along with my sister. It’s just taken longer for her to sink below the surface.”
“I’m so sorry, baby.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“I wish we were having this conversation in person.”
I exhale an audible breath, attempting to loosen the pressure in my chest. “Me too. I can tell you’re struggling tonight.”
“Talking to you makes it better.”
That removes some of the sting from my disappointment. “Do you trust me yet?”
“Getting there. Faster than I imagined. What about you?”
“Getting there too,” I echo. “I realized recently I need to trust myself more than anyone else.”
“How so?”
“I tend to leap before looking, giving to others at my own expense. I’m still trying to figure out how to take care of Jacqui in that equation.”
“I get it. Sometimes we’re last on the list, and we give until it hurts.”
I hum in agreement. “I’m not blind about the why.
Not now, at least. Growing up with broken parents, forced to mature early, realizing I didn’t have support…
it turned me into a people pleaser.” I found the term in a magazine article not long ago and knew immediately that it described me.
“I’ve somehow believed if I give enough, I’ll find what I’m looking for and fill that emptiness. ”
“But you’re giving by nature too, aren’t you?” he asks softly.
Bullseye. How do we stop an innate personality trait when it hurts us?
“Yeah, and it complicates matters, gets jumbled in my mind…like a drink in the blender.”
Butch releases an understanding sigh. “What are you doing about it?”
“I’m learning, or trying, to be happy all by my lonesome instead of sitting around moping like a sadsack. I force myself to get out and see a movie, have a meal, visit a museum, whatever. It’s not easy though, and borders on uncomfortable. I find loneliness suffocating.”
“Are you lonely a lot?”
“ Yes ,” I whisper. Admitting it sounds pathetic. “Lately I’ve wondered if I’ve expected others to solve that for me, while simultaneously realizing they can’t.”
“That’s very insightful. Loneliness often has little to do with other people.”
“Exactly. I’ve experienced it in rooms full of people, or out with friends, and certainly with my family, where I’m viscerally aware I’m not connected to anyone.
Don’t think I’m a loser, but… it’s paralyzing, a hole I’m constantly trying to fill, only nothing plugs it up.
It just gapes like an open wound.” I squeeze my eyes shut, a small ugh escaping.
“I can’t believe I just admitted that out loud. ”
“You’re not a loser, baby. But I don’t think another person can fix it for you. It’s your riddle to solve.”
“Sometimes when I’m around other people, it’s wonderful and nothing hurts.” Like with you.
“Maybe you’re with the right people in that moment, the kind who create those unseen connections, like when all the pistons fire to make your four-stroke run.”
Mechanics. “You’re wise beyond your years, Lumberjack.”
He scoffs. “I don’t know about that, but my parents infused a healthy dose of common sense into me. Or rather, it was beaten into me with a sledgehammer. I try and assess situations with logic. Except with you, Jacqui. You turn my world upside down.”
“Ditto.”
He’s thrown me for a loop...or ten. When I’m with Butch, I’m not lonely. I don’t understand if that’s positive or not. Does he solve my problem…or camouflage it? I could lose myself in him so easily. Probably already have. And if I’m clear on one thing, it’s that nothing lasts forever.
But what if we are pistons in the same engine that work together, like he said?
“I’m sorry again about this weekend. Are you going somewhere fun?” he asks .
No clue now. “I’ll figure something out.”
“I’ll be exceptionally envious.”
“Why?”
“One, because I’ll wish I was with you, and two, you’ll have time to yourself, something I rarely get anymore.”
Hmm. “And I have more of that than I want. Isn’t it strange how we each want the opposite?”
His rueful laugh travels across the miles. “It’s completely fucked up. I can tell you this, Sundance. The more I get to know you, the more I want to be with you. I’ll give you all my minutes, my hours, my years. You’ll never be lonely again.”
“That’s downright romantic, Butch. But now I’m wondering if you’re ready to offload a bunch of man crap—like your laundry—and I’m just the unsuspecting pack mule.”
He chuckles. “Baby, you’re a breath of fresh air. And right now, I want to gulp it down.”