“She was like, ‘Oh!’” Xavier says, assuming a scandalized falsetto, “And then she dropped the plate of cookies she was holding.”
For the first time in what feels like forever, I dissolve into genuine laughter.
They stare at me with nearly identical expressions of disbelief.
“What?” I say, fanning my face. “It’sfunny. I’m envisioning it as it went down: you two, oblivious, and poor Iris, letting a dozen cookies fall to the floor. She’s an old lady, you guys. I’m pretty sure she’d be shocked to see her grandson frolicking withanyone on her floral sofa, butyou,” I say, pointing at Xavier.
He gives me another of his unruffled shrugs, like,What can I say?
Ryan’s still flushed, but he’s flashing his patent grin. “You don’t think she’s upset about the gay thing?”
“The gay thing?I think what riled her is theintimacything. And thefact that you kept such a big secret from her. Talk to her already. And no more fooling around on her sofa!”
Ryan’s beaming and so is Xavier; they’re beaming at each other, and I see it in their shared gaze,love, sincere and stalwart.
I’m happy for them, really and truly, but I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t envious, too.
elise
Days pass.
I’ve become sluggish and sloppy, and the thought of food…ugh. I haven’t touched my Nikon; it sits on my desk, jeering, collecting dust. I can’t sleep to save my life, though dragging my body out of bed is a task too enormous to attempt.
And then there’s the ache. The relentless, carnal ache living deep in my chest: my heart, trying—failing—to reassemble itself.
I should have seen this coming. The day Mati told me he’d be returning to Afghanistan, I should have walked away. Because this brand of misery… It’s nothing new.
I felt a version of it after Nick died. My mom did, too. We holed up in our San Francisco condo, the two of us, but we might as well have been alone. We barely spoke. Housekeeping was neglected and personal hygiene was optional. We never sat down to meals together. Her writing fell by the wayside, and so did my photography. Sometimes I’d find her in front of the muted TV, and I’d join her, though as far as she knew, I might as well have been an apparition. We’d stare at the screen,worlds apart. It wasn’t until Audrey and baby Janie moved into the shrine that was Nicky’s bedroom that we pulled out of our mutual depression.
I haven’t spoken to Mati since the revelation about his engagement—haven’t heard his laugh or felt the calloused touch of his palm or smelled his clean, rosemary scent. He’s continued to call, once every evening. I’ve continued to ignore him, and not even because I’m mad—I lack the energy for anger.
I can’t talk to him, because there’s nothing left to say.
I understand.
I will never understand.
I forgive you.
It’s impossible to forgive a lapse as enormous as his.
I want to see you.
God, what’s the point?
I guess I could tell him how much I care—the truth. But even if Ididunderstand, even if Icouldforgive, circumstance says reengaging will just make things worse.
It pisses me off that I can’t shut my feelings down.
The black walls of my bedroom aresogrim, and the stars on the ceiling only remind me of thwarted wishes. It’s awful, being cooped up in here, where the bed’s rumpled and unmade, and a plethora of half-empty coffee mugs sit atop my desk. My vintage cameras stare blankly from their shelves, reminding me of my old life, the life I’ve forgotten how to lead.
He’s leaving in two days.
I’m summoning the energy for a shower when my mom comes bursting through my door, eyes wild. “Please tell me Bambi’s in here!”
“No. I thought you let her into the yard?”
She palms her forehead.
