“Because I always wondered if all that shit you said about Manhattan being expensive and insular — I wondered if that was you laying cover for getting as far away from Bitterfeld as possible.”
“Yeah, you have a point, but I ended up being right. I couldn’t have afforded the city and I don’t think I would have gotten as many opportunities.”
Carver sat there running his tongue over his teeth, frustrated. It would have been a painful compromise for both of them, one that wouldn’t have quite shot them clear of the hometown they were suffocating in, but if Scott had only gone as far as the city then he could have more reasonably followed him, he could have spent a couple semesters at NYU before taking another run at Columbia.
“So,” he snapped, “why exactly was it such a huge blow to your ego for me to turn you down? Because I expected you to forget about me the second you got out there and got balls deep in some hairless blonde pussy. Why did you even hang onto this, just so you’d have something to write about when you first got out there?”
Scott’s expression soured into a glare. He got up and started pacing the short length of the living room. Carver remained still on the couch, wincing internally with regret.
“First of all, screwyou,” Scott said. “You don’t get to project imaginary shit on me and then punish me for it. You think my life out there was the MTV Beach House? I was living in a shithole with nine other guys, eating beans, working construction jobs under the table. I wasbusking. You think I was getting my dick sucked all day? I used to go home with women just so I could take a hot shower in a nice bathroom.”
“Wow, sounds like I missed out.”
“That was me on my own! You know that wasn’t what I pictured for us, I told you what I pictured for us, we talked about it.”
“So it’s my fault you were busking?” Carver said, astonished.
“No!” Scott stopped mid-stride, wheeled and sighed. “Jesus, just listen to me. I’m asking you why you let me think us staying together was an option.”
“I told you, because I was stupid and I wanted it to be! We were teenagers!”
“You weren’t a stupid teenager, you’ve never been stupid a day in your life. If it was only ever a fantasy, why did we even talk about it? You think I don’t know you? You always knew how to keep shit to yourself when it was strategic to. So why say anything?”
Carver felt hot and prickly all over. “What the fuck do you want from me?” he demanded.
Scott rubbed his eyes hard with the palms of his hands. “Nothing. Screw it. This is not productive. This is such ancient history.”
“Agreed!”
“But I don’t get it,” Scott said, dropping his hands. “You’re not angry at me for what I said at the time, so whatareyou angry at me about? Why haven’t we talked for almost twenty years? Why aren’t we even fucking acquaintances? Are you angry at me for asking you?”
Carver’s mouth grew drier. He swallowed again. “We don’t talk because we never had that much in common to begin with.”
“Bullshit, we had the important stuff in common.”
“Well, maybe I am pissed about what you said at the time. And maybe I am pissed at you for asking.” This spilled out of him.
Scott sat back down. Now he was the one facing Carver while Carver faced the rest of the living room and stared at the TV, at Paul Desmond’s tiny shadowed face on the album art for Take Ten, feeling numb.
“Why?” Scott said.
“Because you knew I couldn’t go! So why put it in my head?”
“I didn’t know that.”
“You did. You knew what it was like for me.”
“I know you wanted their approval,” Scott said. “I also knew it was probably impossible to get.”
“But I had to try.”
“I don’t know that you did.”
“You don’t get it,” Carver said, still staring into space, his mouth ever-drier. “We’re different people. We want different things from life.”
“So what exactly is it that you want out of life?” Scott said, his voice gentle.
Carver became suddenly furious again. He knew what triggered it: the wordexactly, and the Sesame Street tone. “Don’t fucking start on me with that shit,” he snarled before he could stop himself.
