I hear his guitar through the phone, and he sings a few lines of “Crash My Party,” which cracks me up.
“You have a song for everything,” I point out.
“I’m playing at a few open mic nights, did I tell you? And a few paying gigs.”
“What? No. Why…Sabe, why don’t I know this shit?” I’m so frustrated now. “This long distance–friendship thing sucks.”
Music keeps coming through my earpiece because neither of us knows what to say. So, I just listen while he sings to me. When he’s done, we stay on the line without talking. I don’t know why this isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s not.
Finally, he says, “Kiddo, I gotta go. You’re right that I need to bring some fucking side dish tomorrow, so I have to hit the store. I’m thinking something involving green beans and marshmallow goop or sweet potatoes and a can of onion rings.”
“Ew, no! First of all, you’ve mixed up two dishes, but neither is good anyway. Make something nice, like scalloped potatoes with heavy cream and lots of cheese. Crusty top and whatnot.”
“Oh. That actually sounds good. How do I do that?”
“I’ll text you a link to the recipe. We’re having that tomorrow, too. Do you have a mandoline?”
“Hello? I have a guitar.”
I laugh. “The other kind of mandoline, the one that slices.”
“The one that gourmet cooks use and the one that, more often than not, removes fingers? No, I do not have a fucking mandoline.”
“Okay, just use a knife and thinly slice the potatoes.”
“I’ll give it a go.”
“And if it doesn’t turn out right, then we can make it together when you’re here for Christmas and perfect your cooking.”
“So, listen…I don’t know how to tell you this—”
I sit up sharply. There’s already an apologetic tone from him that I strongly dislike. “No, don’t you say what I think you’re going to say.”
“I just can’t take a month off from work. Or even more than a few days. Chris has a slow season, and you both can telecommute. By the way, is that not the most obnoxious word ever?Telecommute. Ugh. Makes me sick to say it. So pretentious and smug. Let’s just saywork from home. How’s the magazine writing going anyway?”
“What? Fine. Who cares? What are you saying? That you’re not coming home for Christmas? We have all these plans. I wanted to do a huge tree in the living room, and I ordered new stockings for everyone. And…snowball fights and big dinners and horrible carols.”
“I just…can’t. I’m really sorry. I feel awful about this. There’s no way that I can take off enough time for such a long trip. I’d fly in and have to leave practically the next day.”
“Okay.” I’m trying with all I have to conceal my absolute misery over this.
I get it though. Sabin has a new job that he’s committed to, and I have to be supportive. On a practical level, I understand all the reasons he won’t be with us for the holidays, but that doesn’t change the fact that my heart feels as though it’s been sliced out of my chest.
It didn’t occur to me that this move to California might permanently separate us, that we might never live ten feet from each other again. Of course that sounds idiotic, but I don’t care. Sabin has every right to go off and have a life of his own. I just didn’t realize how much I felt that part of his life belonged with me. I’m embarrassed at the wave of devastation running through me.
I can’t do this now. The only right thing to do is rally and let him know that I support him. It’s just that finding the right words seems impossible.
“Sabe, I love you, and I want you to do whatever it is that you need to do. I’ll send you a crazy huge care package.”
His voice has more rasp than usual. “Will there be a forty-pound fruit cake in it?”
“Yes. Also, fruit cake angels and fruit cake reindeer.” I listen to him breathe for a few moments. “It’s okay. They’re just stupid holidays.”
“They’re not stupid holidays. You love them,” he says.
“I love you more.”
“More than snowmen?”
