>>SMITH: just got hard thinking about how you sounded last night
Sometimes it was sweet.
>>DOM: I just ate a croissant from the bakery down the street from my house
>>DOM: Made me miss you :)
Sometimes it was just an idle observation, any excuse to text.
>>SMITH: my neighbors have been playing dubstep for like three hours
>>SMITH: send help
I cherished each and every one of those messages, reading them over and over again as I went about my day. I wanted Dom with me so badly that it was almost painful. Those little moments of connection were godsends, keeping me sane as I pined for him. They tided me over until the end of the day when I could call him and hear his voice pitched low and sexy in my ear.
Four night in a row we made each other come over the phone. It was a unique torture, of course, hearing him in the throes of ecstasy and not being able to touch him, to soothe his body through it.
But it was what I had to work with until I could visit. So, I started looking at my finances, figuring out where I could pinch enough pennies to buy a ticket to Seattle. My mind was completely consumed by the fact that I would be visiting Dom soon.
God, I couldn’t wait to get my hands on him.
After we hung up on the fourth night, I looked up at the ceiling above my bed and something occurred to me.
I am in love with that man.
It wasn’t gradual, it struck me all at once. I knew, immediately, that it was true. How could it not be? He was the most incredible person I had ever met, he was smart, sexy, beautiful.
But the thing that startled me was the fact that I wasn’t afraid of loving him. I accepted it without question.
Of course I’m in love with him, I thought.
All of the complications, the sacrifices that love might require, they didn’t scare me anymore. The truth eclipsed any fear.
But I wasn’t going to tell him quite yet. It wasn’t the right time, with all those miles between us and our relationship so fresh. We hadn’t even talked about exclusivity yet, Jesus.
No, I couldn’t tell him over the phone. It wasn’t the kind of thing a person sends in a text or leaves on a voicemail. I would tell him in person, when I got to Seattle.
It didn’t strike me as odd when he stopped texting back. Not at first.
There could be a million reasons that he wasn’t reaching out. Maybe he was working, or hanging out with his friends, or shopping for more ridiculous short-sleeved floral button-downs. He didn’t need to text me back as soon as he received a message from me.
I went about my day as normal.
But then it got to be the afternoon and I hadn’t heard from him since our phone call the night before.
I’m sitting here with this huge revelation, I thought, and he’s not texting back. What’s going on?
But I was a sensible person. I wasn’t going to assume that anything was wrong just because of a few hours of radio silence. I threw myself into editing a new video and emerged from a work fugue several hours later.
It’s appropriate to send him another text, I told myself. So, I did.
>>SMITH: just edited my next video
>>SMITH: i kept having to crop out bits where i was staring off into space grinning
I set my phone aside and closed my computer, promising myself that I wouldn’t obsessively check for a response until I had finished making dinner. But even after the leftovers were put away and the dishes were drying in the rack, there was no message from Dom.
I called him that night, and his phone went straight to voicemail.
“You’ve reached Dom Baker, I can’t get to the phone but if you leave your name and number I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”
I waited for the beep, then launched into a quick message.
“Hey Dom, it’s me. Just wanted to make sure everything’s okay, I haven’t heard from you since last night. Not that I’m keeping track or anything, I’m sure you’re just busy. I, uh, miss you, and hope you’re having a great night. Give me a call when you get this, I’ll be up for at least a few more hours. Okay…uh, bye.”
I hung up and took a deep, steadying breath.
Everything’s okay, I told myself. Everything’s going to be fine.
But I was wrong.
“Dom,” I said the next morning when I was sent straight to voicemail once again. “Just checking in to see if everything’s alright. I’m getting kinda worried, so please shoot me a text or something to let me know you’re not lying in a ditch somewhere. I hope this isn’t coming off as obnoxious, I’m just concerned. You’re fine, right? I’m sure you’re fine. Oh god, I’m rambling. Ignore this message—except for the texting me part. Miss you.”
One day of radio silence wasn’t a problem.
Two days wasn’t a catastrophe.
Three days, though. Three days was when it started to get unbearable.
So, I did what any guy in my situation would do. I cracked open a fifth of vodka and called my confidante.
“Smith?” said Lola, sounding surprised when she picked up.
“Lola,” I replied, trying to sound normal. And failing.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I bluffed, taking a covert sip of my vodka tonic.
Lola tutted impatiently. “We’re not the kind of friends who talk on the phone.”
“We could be,” I said.
“We could be, but we’re not,” she said. “What’s going on?”
I groaned, burying my head in my hands and nearly dropping my phone. “Dom disappeared.”
“He what?” she asked, sounding shocked.
“He stopped answering my texts and calls. He disappeared off the fucking map, Lola.”
She made a contemplative sound. “How much was he responding before he stopped?”
“He was texting me all the time, we were talking on the phone every night, it was…it was amazing. Things were really, really good. And now he’s just…gone,” I sighed.
“Did you have a disagreement?” Lola asked.
“No,” I said, feeling defensive. “The last time I spoke to him we were having phone sex. We weren’t fighting or anything.”
“Okay,” she said slowly. “You had phone sex and then he just vanished into the ether. Was it the first time you’d done that?”
“No,” I whined. “It was like the fourth night in a row. Things were going really well. I think…I think I must’ve fucked up somehow, Lola.”
“What makes you say that?” she asked.
I drained my cup and sloshed some more vodka into it.
“Dom’s the kind of guy who does feelings and romance and dating. And I’ve never been that kind of guy. He must’ve thought that I wasn’t going to come around,” I muttered.
“Slow down, Smith,” said Lola. “Are you drunk?”
“I’m…not sober,” I corrected her.
“Okay, maybe get yourself a glass of water while we talk this out,” she suggested.
“Ugh, fine,” I snapped, getting up to do as she said.
“Cool. So, you think that Dom wanted more and assumed you wouldn’t be able to give it?” she asked, seeking clarification.
“Yeah, I think I waited too long,” I lamented. “I waited too fucking long and now he’s done. He doesn’t want me, doesn’t want to wait for me to sort my shit out. And…and I’m ready.”
“Ready for what?” Lola asked patiently.
“I’m ready to love him,” I whispered.
Lola let out a long, low whistle.
“A week ago you were calling him your fling, and now you’re in love?” she said.
“I was in love a week ago, hell I was in love the moment I met him. I just didn’t know it,” I said, running my hands through my hair in frustration. “And now I’ve waited too long and I’ve lost him.”
“Smith? You’ve gotta calm down, alright? There’s an explanation, and it’s probably not as
bad as you’re assuming,” she said.
“I know what’s going on,” I insisted. “He’s realized I’m too much trouble. I didn’t realize how much I fucking need him until it was too late. I think…I think it’s over.”
Lola made a sympathetic sound. “That just doesn’t sound like Dom to me.”
“He deserves a fairytale romance,” I said, throwing back some more vodka and chasing it with the entire glass of water. “He figured out that I’m not the kind of guy who can give him that.”
“Smith Morgenstern,” Lola said sharply. “You stole a honeymoon suite for him. You spent a week in Paris fucking and sightseeing and sharing goddamn crêpes. If that’s not a fairytale romance, I don’t know what is. So, do what you need to do tonight, drink yourself to sleep or whatever. But I think tomorrow you’re going to see that there’s another explanation.”
That was the moment when I broke. I just started sobbing, big, fat tears rolling down my cheeks. And yeah, I was sloppy drunk. It wasn’t crazy that I was crying, but it took me by surprise.
“I hafta go,” I slurred.
“Smith?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t give yourself alcohol poisoning, okay?” said Lola.
“I’ll try,” I said, and then I ended the call.
One shot.
Two shots.
Three shots.
Four.
I started hurling around midnight, retching obscenely and spewing clear liquid into the toilet. The room was spinning sickeningly around me. My head was throbbing dully, and somewhere in the back of my mind I began to worry.
There had been several vodka tonics before I started doing shots, and not a lot of water to keep myself hydrated. My limbs were clumsy as I tried to get up to the sink, realizing that I needed to rehydrate. I managed to get my mouth under the faucet, slurping down tepid water until my stomach ached with it. Then I promptly fell to my knees and threw it all back up.
I miss you so much, I thought.
My stomach spasmed with a dry heave, long since emptied of its entire contents.
I love you.
It was intensely claustrophobic in the bathroom, wedged between the tub and the toilet.
I’m so sorry.
Vague sentiments meant for Dom chased each other through my head as I sank into a lying position with my head on the bathmat and my eyes slipped closed. Everything hurt.
There is a unique kind of humiliation to waking up on the bathroom floor. I came to very slowly, barely taking in my surroundings. Then, with a lurch, the previous night came zooming back into my memory, and along with it came one hell of a hangover.
My head was fucking killing me, pounding in time with my pulse, and it got worse when I forced myself to stand up. I felt nauseated and exhausted and ashamed, three gnarled sensations battling in my gut.
Alright, fucker, I thought. You need water.
It took a herculean effort, but I eventually made it to the kitchen. I filled a glass with water and grabbed a bottle of ibuprofen out of a cabinet before making my way to my bedroom. I collapsed on the bed and swallowed a few pills, washing them down with as much water as my abused stomach could handle.
My phone was on the bedside table, and it was dead. I plugged it in and promptly fell asleep before I could even check my messages.
The next time I woke up I was considerably less hungover. The queasiness had been replaced by a ravenous hunger, and I instinctively grabbed my phone to order food. But food was the last thing on my mind when I saw the messages from Lola.
>>LOLA: i pulled dom’s file from the hostel
>>LOLA: his emergency contact is someone named leo
>>LOLA: 555-555-7732
>>LOLA: i think it’s worth making sure that dom is okay, but it’s up to you
I was calling before I even realized what I was doing.
The phone rang twice before someone picked up.
“Hello?” His voice was unfamiliar, and he sounded tense.
I sucked in a deep breath and said, “Is this Leo?”
“Yeah, who’s calling?” he asked, sounding guarded.
“I’m so sorry to call out of the blue,” I said. “My name is Smith Morgenstern, I’m hoping you can tell me if Dom Baker is alright.”
“Smith?” Leo asked.
“I know this sounds weird,” I rushed to say, hoping to hell he wouldn’t hang up on me. “If he’s just not interested in talking to me, that’s fine. But he stopped returning my messages and I need to know if he’s okay. Please, Leo. Please, tell me he’s okay.”
There was a long pause. My heart was beating out of my chest, and I felt like I was going to pass out.
At last, Leo said, “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”
I froze.
He’s got to be fine.
He’s got to be.
I won’t make it if something happened to him.
Oh god, please let him be fine.
“Wh-what happened?” I asked, voice trembling.
“It’s his mom,” Leo said, and relief washed over me, immediately followed by shame. I had no right to feel relieved that something was wrong with his mom. And, oh god, he had told me that he would lose his shit if anything ever happened to her. Oh fuck.
“What’s wrong with her?” I asked desperately.
“She had a massive heart attack, they don’t know if she’s going to make it. He and Carson are out in New York with her. It’s…not looking great,” said Leo.
“Fuck,” I muttered. “Can you—I know this is weird, but can you get me the address where he’s staying?”
“Seriously?” Leo asked, sounding shocked.
“I need to be there for him, Leo. I need him to know that I’m going to be with him through this. God, I sound like a crazy person, I know that—”
“You sound like someone who’s crazy about Dom,” Leo corrected.
“I…I am,” I admitted.
“I need to know that you’re in it for the long haul. I’m not giving you his mom’s address if you’re just going to fuck off as soon as she’s better. He won’t recover from that kind of heartbreak, Smith. I’ve seen him struggling with the fallout of a relationship that ended years ago, I’m not setting him up for another devastation,” said Leo.
“I’m in love with him,” I said, loud and clear in the light of day. And stone cold sober to boot.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Leo thought about it for a moment. Then he said, “I’ll text you the address. Don’t let me down, Smith. And more importantly, don’t let him down.”
It’s amazing how quickly you can get on a plane during an emergency. Money suddenly stops seeming so important, and you throw the ticket on your credit card without thinking twice. Less than six hours after I spoke with Leo, I was standing outside Dom’s mom’s brownstone in New York, staring up at the imposing lion-shaped knocker on the door.
You can goddamn do this, I told myself.
With a trembling hand, I knocked three times. There was nothing but silence on the other side of the door, and I wondered if they were at the hospital. It made sense, that’s where I would be if someone I loved was stuck there, potentially dying.
Goddammit.
I knocked again, harder this time. All I got was more silence.
Sighing, I slumped down on the steps, pulling out my phone to ask Leo which hospital they would be at. As I was typing out a message, however, something pinged in my brain. It was the edge of a memory, a conversation I had had with Dom in Paris.
Is the treehouse still there? I had asked, referring to the structure he’d helped his mom build in her backyard as a kid.
Oh yeah, Dom has replied, it’s actually still my happy place. Sometimes I literally fly across the country to visit my mom just because I need to spend some time up in that tree decompressing.
I tucked my phone back into my pocket and began to walk slowly around the house. There was a sturdy wooden fence, about seven feet high, preventing me fr
om seeing into the backyard. I looked up at it, defeated for a moment, and then spotted a tree on my side of the fence. It had several low-hanging branches, and looked sturdy enough to climb. I slung my duffel over one shoulder and began climbing, getting up to the height of the fence before looking into the backyard.
It was tidy, although there was a delightfully overgrown garden and an uncoiled hose by the back of the house. There was only one tree in the yard itself, a sturdy maple with a large treehouse perched among its branches. To my delight, I saw movement through one of the treehouse windows.
Grinning, I climbed along my branch until I was across the fence and then jumped to the ground with a thud. I grunted at the impact, but quickly stood up, dusting off my knees. I made my way over to the rope ladder descending from the treehouse and, breathing deeply to keep myself calm, began to climb. When I got to the top I paused, not wanting to burst in unannounced.
Awkwardly, I knocked on the bottom of the treehouse.
I heard someone startle, and then Dom’s voice called, “Is that you, Carson?”
“Uh, nope,” I said, suddenly feeling very insecure about my decision to fly all the way to New York. “It’s—”
“Smith?” Dom asked disbelievingly, looking down at me through the open trap door. “What are you doing here?”
He didn’t sound mad, just…thoroughly confused.
And god, he looked like he was struggling. There were heavy bags under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept in days, and his hair needed washing. Nevertheless, he was a sight for sore fucking eyes. I had never seen anyone more beautiful than he was in that moment.
My dear, lovely Dom.
My love.
“Can I come in?” I asked, biting my lip.
Please say yes, please say yes, please—
“Y-yeah, of course,” he said, shaking his head to clear it. “Sorry, I just wasn’t expecting…I mean, obviously I wasn’t expecting you. Where the hell did you come from?”
I hoisted myself inside and sat down next to Dom. The little treehouse consisted of just one room, but it was well-built and clearly beloved.
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