“My wife, remember? I told you last night. She went to Michigan for a job talk and she’s coming home today.”
I tried to ignore the bitter lump rising in my throat. “Oh, aye, right.”
Ken chuckled and nipped at my ear. “Could you be any more adorably English? ‘Oh, aye, right,’” he mocked. “You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din.”
“Aye. Wow,” I muttered hoarsely. “Have you seen my shirt?”
Less than ten minutes later, I was fully dressed in a rideshare, and twenty minutes after that I was standing in the Briars lot.
He might have mentioned a Charlene last night. I didn’t remember.
Maybe.
Damn.
I didn’t know why I ever expected things to go differently ... I truly had no one to blame but myself and my warped proclivity for rejection. Who the hell was I to lecture anyone about making good choices? Even in the intensely specific context of bloody comics layout.
Deep down, I clearlyhadn’texpected things to go differently. I’d actually been relying on the fact that Dr. Lazlo would toss me out on my ear come morning.
I stood staring up at the stairs of the Briars complex that led to my flat and tried not to think of them as unsurmountable. My body felt heavy but hollow, and also very far away. I was safe, though, in the knowledge that Lucas was almost certainly out—it was nearly noon on a Saturday, and he was likely somewhere doing something supremely Californian and aesthetic which might involve horses. It was a small mercy that while he was unfortunately witness to many other shameful aspects of my life—such as everything about me—this particular walk would go unseen.
Eventually, I made it up the steps and got my keys in the door, preparing for an hour or more spent in the shower, but then ...
I stepped off the welcome mat into a disaster area.
There were messily balled-up tissue papers covering practically every surface, so that for a split second I thought I was faced with the results of an indoor snowstorm. Interspersed among the tissues were bits of ripped-up photographs and wispy stuffing—the kind you might pull out of a stuffed toy. There had been a few spills in the kitchen—Kahlua and cocoa, as well as several patches of melted ice cream and an uneaten frozen burrito in the microwave.
A glint drew my eyes back to the living room and I watched the sunlight wink over a messy pile of CDs next to the hi-fi. I sifted through a few of the albums: Tchaikovsky, Mendelssohn, Mozart ...ABBA?And here was Queen’sNight at the Operaand some Celine Dion ...
Out of curiosity, I pressed Play on the stereo.
The sound of synths pulsated under Steve Perry’s voice telling me that one day, I would be found by love.
Oh my god.
Before I could stop myself, I pressed Skip. And Eric Carmen was telling me about his long-gone, misspent youth. That now, against his wishes, he was all by himself.
Oh mygod.
I shut the player off and before I could think better of it, I turned toward the hallway and called out, “Lucas?”
Silence.
I tried again, louder. “Lucas, are you there? Are youall right?” I stepped into the hallway and knocked on his door, then pressed my ear against it to listen—nothing. I knocked once more, and this time the door cracked open enough for me to peek in and confirm the room was empty. I shut the door, checked the bathroom—nope—and that was it, that was the entire flat.
He wasn’t here.
I sat down heavily on the couch, surveying the devastation spread so eloquently before me.
It was safe to say that whatever degree crap I was feeling, Lucas was out there feeling much, much worse.
July 23rd
Armand:Lucas are you already?
Armand:*alright
Armand:Lucas?
