Unsuspecting. Covert. I wasn’t trying, and still somehow he found a way to sneak under my guards. He eased through the cracks and nestled himself in my being. He weaved together enough parts of us that I can feel them pulling even at the thought of walking away. If I really let myself get tied to him, will him being torn out leave too little to repair?
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Well, whatever it is, it’s been good for you. Despite everything you are going through, I’ve never seen you glow like this. Your love for him is pouring out of you, illuminating your life. You can’t give this up.”
She holds my gaze with her pleading eyes. I really take in what she is saying because I know, above all else, all she wants for me is the best. And if she thinks this is what I need, maybe I can give it a try.
But how do I come back from hurting him like this? How do I make up for the fact that I walked away from him? I don’t even know if he can forgive me, because I don’t know if I can forgive myself.
“Errol is coming to town. Why don’t we double so you can just relax in Callahan’s presence again? Just see all the good parts.”
“I haven’t talked to him in a week. I keep ignoring his calls,” I say. Because I’m a complete asshole.
“Call him, okay? Just talk to him.”
“I will.”
She follows me in and allows me the silence to think in between throwing up. I am so used to Callahan being the one here, I wish it were his hands rubbing my back and holding my hair. But because of me, he isn’t here, and if I get my way, he may never be again.
After I finish my usual after-chemo torture and Farrah leaves, I pace around my room trying to find the right words. My fingers rapidly tap against my leg, while I stare at the ceiling like it will tell me what to say. It doesn’t. So I guess I have to wing it during this call.
He picks up on the second ring, and his hello is so tight that it sounds like his voice is about to snap.
“How are you?” I ask, trying to ease into the conversation.
“Seriously, Monty? How do you think I am?”
“Well, I don’t know.”
My feet pick up their speed like they are trying to outrun this conversation. I don’t know if it’s my mind or my body that is causing my heartrate to pick up.
“Look, I know you’re probably mad.”
“I’m not mad, sweetheart, I’m hurt.”
This is worse. I never wanted to hurt him. I just didn’t want him to hurt me.
“I’m sorry.” My gut tightens to the point of me needing to bend over. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” It twists as my regret tangles with my fear.
“Well, how did you think I would feel when we say I love you and you leave in the middle of the night? And then you don’t talk to me for a week.”
I’ve never heard him sound like this. Even though we are physically miles apart, there is a distance in his voice that is new. I ache to close it. I want to make it better.
“I know. It was shitty.” I sit down, holding my legs against my chest, trying to keep everything together.
“Why did you do it?”
The line goes quiet as I battle to find something I can say to him. In truth, I shouldn’t have had this conversation until I was in a place to really open up to him.
“I don’t know,” I say, lying to him.
How do I tell him that I need to be the disappointment this time?
“You don’t know?” He doesn’t sound like he believes me, but what choices does he have? He can either call me out and hope I fess up, or just accept what I’m saying.
“Do you think you will be able to move past this? Do you think you will be able to forgive me?” I ask.
The request feels almost manipulative. It’s like I’m putting pressure on him to ignore all my red flags. But I want us to get back to a good place so that I can convince myself that this is all worth it. That loving him is worth the risk.
