Deciding to take the rather sarcastic high road, I said, “Walking.”
A bubble of what sounded like frustration fell from his mouth, but he kept his eyes on the road. One foot in front of the other, but no other words peppered our silence. We continued that way until we came to a literal crossroad in our path. One way lead to his house and the other to mine and I had this gutfeeling that if I let him walk home without pushing this conversation, we would never be able to return from it all.
With my heart in my throat, I turned to face him and said with as much genuine emotion as I could muster through my anger, “I just want to talk. I don’t know what I did wrong.”
For the first time in the last few blocks, he looked up. His eyes reflected a pain so deep I had difficultywrapping my head around how one person could possible hurt that much. “Please,” I begged. “Just talk to me.” I was dying to touch him, to pull him into my arms and offer him some kind of comfort for the pain I could very clearly see he was in, but I knew I couldn’t.
“I can’t.”
I wanted to yell and scream. I needed to break through to him somehow, but I couldn’t. I didn’t know how. It was clearhe had his own world of shit to work through and it took all my willpower to turn and walk away so he could have the space to figure it all out. But I couldn’t leave just yet. Not without one last thing. As I dug in my pocket, I said, “Okay, but take this for when you can.” Our hands touched ever so briefly as I gave him the key to my basement door. “I meant what I said the other night. I’ll bethere when you’re ready.”
He turned the key over in his hand, nodded, and then walked away.
And if I would have known that was going to be the last time I’d talk to him for the next six months, I would have fought harder.
Instead, I watched him disappear into the distance, leaving me and my aching heart on the side of the road.
