EVAN
From: [email protected]
Re: Re: Re: Letter of Resignation
Dear Isaac,
I would answer if you called. I would see you if you wanted. I didn’t leave angry with you, and I’m not angry now. I’m glad you found something with Deacon, and I don’t want you to fuck it up. I never expected you to choose. I knew you weren’t going to.
I’m sorry I left the way I did. It wasn’t fair to either of you, and if I could do it differently I would. But I would have still left, and I’m sorry for that, too.
I miss you, too.
I miss both of you.
Sorry it took me a few days to respond. I was afraid to read what you’d written. I knew it would upset me, and it did, but that’s a me problem. All of this was a me problem. I don’t have any dreams to share with you. They’re all messy and stressful and they don’t make enough sense to describe.
So maybe that’s how I’m feeling. Messy and stressed and fucking confused because while I don’t feel like I made a mistake by leaving, I hate the way I did it. You deserved a better goodbye. But I guess if I’m being honest, I don’t think I would have been able to do it face to face.
Maybe a phone call…
I don’t know.
I don’t know why I couldn’t do it. I felt like I was hurting Deacon, I guess. Like I knew you could handle me running hot and cold—you were used to it, but Deacon needs someone who knows what he wants, and that was always you. I very much fucking admire that about you. So I know you can do better than “making it work” with him. Iknow you can make him laugh and let him take care of you. I know you can make each other feel good.
I won’t sit here and lie and say I sometimes don’t wish I could have been part of it. That I could have checked my baggage at the gate, gotten over all my shit, and just let it be. I think maybe it was too much, too soon. I think my past and the specific ways I’m broken got in the way too often. All I know was the two of you were ready, and you were right for each other, and I felt like I was in the way.
I don’t know how I feel about it now. Maybe it’s too soon to say. It kinda feels like a scab that’s trying to scar, and I keep picking at it. Because maybe I want it to scar.
Thanks for reaching out. Deacon hasn’t, but I understand. If he’s around, give him a hug from me. Tell him to give you a hug from me, too.
Love always,
Evan
42
ISAAC
Deacon looks up from my phone where Evan’s email remains on the screen. We’re side by side on the terrace sofa with Evan’s words sitting between us. He puts an arm around me, and I close my eyes, wrapping both mine around him. He sighs against my hair. “That was confusing as fuck,” he says.
I try to smile but don’t manage it. He can’t see my face anyway. I make a noise that mimics amusement. I put it mildly in my email to Evan that this has been a rough month. It’s been incredibly difficult. Jake’s recovery has been slow and painful. I’ve missed a lot of work. While my brother’s physical injuries have improved, and he looks more like himself, his mood is low and miserable. He won’t talk to me about what happened except to say he didn’t start it, and he doesn’t mind the lawsuit I’ve filed.
He understands he’ll have to make a statement and maybe testify if the other kid’s family won’t settle, but still—I’m as clueless as I was that first night about what nearly gave my little brother permanent brain damage.
I’m not convinced it didn’t. His entire personality has changed. He spends his days listening to dark, depressing music, or philosophical audiobooks on his headphones. The recovery from the concussion is slow, and his use of screens has had to be severely limited, otherwise he winds up with horrible migraines that nothing but time help.
Deacon’s been here every day cooking, cleaning, keeping me company with his presence and his body, but not so much with words. I’m not saying I can’t talk to him. I can. And he does listen and respond with support and offers of help. But where he really shines is in bed where words aren’t necessary, and all our feelings for each other manifest themselves in physical acts. His body is the safest space I have.
The thing is, he doesn’t spend the night. Not on weekdays anyway. We argued about it until I realized arguing with him is pointless—at least on this topic. He’s attached to his apartment and to his morning routine. I’m glad he’s fit me into his evenings and weekends, but it doesn’t feel like enough. Still, when he’s here, I attach myself to him as much as I possibly can. It’s the only time I feel even remotely sane.
It was late one night alone after he left that I started missing Evan so much it made my chest nearly cave in. I experienced my first full-fledged panic attack. Following that, I had to reach out. My mind was a blur, and my fingers were shaking as I typed my pathetic letter to him. I didn’t even re-read it before I hit send.
“Why’d you reach out?” Deacon asks.
“I missed him,” I say simply.
