by E. Davies
I’ve never fought so hard to keep a mask on. Not until tonight.
I’d forgotten what that felt like and now I wish I couldn’t remember anything at all, ever again. The old wounds are bleeding, and my stomach hurts so bad that I want to throw up.
How many times can I screw up? Will I just keep running away from a good thing, sabotaging myself over and over, for my whole life?
Once more, I have to flash a winning smile and strut onto stage like nothing’s wrong.
He doesn’t stop for an intermission, either. Caleb just nails poem after poem. There’s an intensity to his face and words, a total focus. Like a motherfucking professional, he times and pitches every word perfectly.
The audience is in the palm of his hand, and so am I… but the bittersweet irony hurts so badly. There he is—the performer and the man I always knew he could be. He’s found himself at the exact moment I’ve lost him.
Then he comes to the last poem, and I catch a glimpse sideways at the handwritten scrawl.
That’s new. All the other poems are printed out.
Oh, no. I know what this is before he can say a single word. It’s the slap I deserve, delivered in the style only Caleb could manage.
The last snowflake doesn’t come
with a label, no warning bell.
Just a still gray sky closing
the door and turning away.
Beneath, a sea of its wealth
spread out, spent flakes pressed
under each other’s weight
as they sink, gasping, into earth.
Every snow angel melts one day,
yet each winter we make them
again, as if outrunning fate.
But one flake will always be the last,
drifting to the ground alone,
for brief moments that are
its forever, whispering
a fragile goodbye.
There’s no way I could miss his meaning.
It’s over. Tonight, and… and us.
Oh, fuck.
Ice and heat flood me at once, and my eyes burn. My throat is tight. Thank God I don’t have to say another word. When Caleb steps off the stage and the applause starts, I smile and try to pretend that I can feel my palms making contact with each other.
But all I can feel is the chill of the winter night outside settling into my bones, and a thousand more to come without Caleb by my side.
If this pain is like melting snow, shouldn’t I grow mercifully numb? Yet still, I’m forced to feel.
I slowly walk down the stairs, trying not to look at Caleb joining his family. They’re smiling and clapping his shoulders, voices raised and enthusiastic.
Everyone is in awe, showering him with the love he deserves. And if I hadn’t fucked up so badly I could be right there along with him, telling him how proud I am of him.
Instead, as Lee gestures for me to join in, I pick my way through the crowd. Caleb will know where I am.
I make a beeline to the table at the back of the room where we had our first date. I lean on it casually, because I’m not sure I could get up again if he doesn’t join me.
I’m pretty sure I saw Rod in the audience, but he must know better than to approach me. I’ve never been a man for violence, but I might well consider it.
No. My shoulders sink. I can’t even take comfort in that tiny daydream. I know damn well it’s not his fault. It was bound to happen. If not him, someone would have seen me someday.
This is squarely my fault.
Movement catches my eye by the door, and I can’t help looking. Accompanied by Lee, followed by all the rest of his brothers and sisters-in-law and parents… Caleb walks out the front door of the bar. He doesn’t look back.
And that’s the moment my heart breaks—for good.
25
Caleb
When everything else in my life is shit, my spreadsheets are predictable and comfortable.
All week in the office, I’ve been volunteering for extra work. Throwing myself headlong into the most boring reports—even the ones macros would probably handle just fine. Anything that will narrow down the world to just me, a computer screen, and a column of stable, solid, easy numbers.
I can’t believe it’s Friday now. I’m weirdly disappointed. Without work to distract me, two painful weekend days stretch ahead of me, and they’re totally empty of plans.
I’ve already excused myself from family dinner this week, because I can’t stand one more pitying look. Even Gary keeps looking at me like he’s not sure if he should be taking the staplers and pushpins out of my desk.
If he does, hopefully he’ll do me a favor and empty out that drawer at the same time.
On Tuesday morning, I shoved all my lunchtime scrawling into the bottom drawer in my desk. Four days later, I still haven’t even managed to open it. I tell myself it’s because I’m going to wait for the right moment to have some, like, ritual burning ceremony.
“Coming for lunch?” Gary usually lets my coworkers do their own thing at lunch. But it’s one of those rare days when everyone’s going out together.
“No, thanks.” I keep on typing, but I don’t hear footsteps receding yet.
I swallow a sigh and roll back to look around the edge of the cubicle. He’s giving me that concerned look again. “Are you sure?”
“I’m meeting with my brother for lunch,” I promise him. “I’m good.”
The relief on his face is plain. “Oh. Okay, good. Don’t hurry back if you don’t want to. There’s nothing urgent right now.”
Gary means well, so I resist the urge to complain. But more time off is the opposite of what I want. I hope he finds some last-minute project that only I can do. Even better if it takes up my whole weekend.
“Thanks,” I tell Gary and wave goodbye, rolling back to my desk.
I can finish this column before I shut down my computer and join Kelvin at the maple café. He’ll probably show up late anyway. He always lets appointments run over time. It’s one of many reasons his patients and their parents love him.
After saving everything, I shut down my computer. When I turn to grab my jacket, I flinch at the sight. It’s still too fresh—yet all the memories from just last weekend feel like they happened to a different man.
One who was too damn naive and trusting for his own good.
I shrug on the blue puffy jacket and zip it up so aggressively I almost get my throat caught. “I’m not buying a new one,” I tell myself with a scowl. Just because it reminds me of making snow angels, laughing until I cry, and having the time of my life… that’s not a good reason to spend good money on a new jacket.
Besides, he shouldn’t be able to invade every little bit of my life. But that won’t stop him.
Tag’s like the fuse in an electric circuit. He lives in the little spaces of my body and mind that I never knew were empty until we met. No matter how hard I’ve been trying, I can’t just cut him out of my thoughts and pretend it never happened.
It doesn’t work that way. Not for me, anyway.
As soon as I push open the door of the café, I see Kelvin at a table with two maple crullers and two cups of green tea.
Oh, God. For a moment, it hurts so bad I can’t breathe.
But then he looks over and smiles and waves, so I force myself to raise a hand and wave back like my heart isn’t shattering.
Damn stupid, fragile thing. I’ve duct-taped it together with blood, sweat and tears this week. And still, the slightest reminder is enough to devastate me all over again.
“Hey,” Kelvin greets me by rising to his feet for a half-hug. It lasts a little longer than usual, and it’s impossible to miss the eye he casts over me.
“I’m okay, before you ask,” I tell him with a brief squeeze around his shoulders. Then I pull away and sit down. “And I don’t want to talk about him.”
“Okay.” Kelvin sits down, picks up his donut, and settles back in his own chair to eat it a bite at a time.
It takes about ten seconds.
“I just wish I knew why he did it.” I stare into my cup of tea as I wrap my fingers around it like I’m trying to soak up all the heat. “But if I meet him… oh, God. I don’t know if I can stay mad at him.”
Kelvin knows better than to ask what I mean. I haven’t told them a word about what Tag’s secret was. Only that he wasn’t the guy I thought he was.
“Do you want to stay mad?” Kelvin’s got his professional voice on, but I’m too tired of my own brain to be annoyed.
“Yes.” Then I grimace. “No, not exactly. I’m just holding onto the anger because… what else have I got?”
“A new career?” Kelvin shrugs.
I snort. “Yeah, right. I haven’t written anything since… the snowflake poem.”
His lips twitch. “I’ll hand it to you, that one took balls. But why would you let him stop you from doing something you love?”
Irritation sparks in my chest. “I’m not letting him stop me from anything. I just… I’m afraid that if I let go of all that anger, I’ll find out that I still want him.”
Crap. My mouth got ahead of my brain, and now that the words are out there I can’t take them back. I have to process them at the same time that Kelvin does. Am I really that hung up on him?
Yeah. I am.
“What’s so bad about that?” Kelvin slowly asks. He holds up a hand. “I mean, to me, he’s a genuine guy. If he’d just wanted to get it over with, he could have come to dinner and sat there like a rock for a few hours.”
I swallow the lump in my tight throat. Yeah, he seemed to be trying hard, which makes this suck even more. “Then why not just… be upfront from the beginning?”
Then I wince. I haven’t told my brothers his secret identity. All I said was that they were right and Tag wasn’t being honest about who he was.
“He… used to be someone else. He moved here to escape his past. But why didn’t he tell me when things got serious?”
Kelvin looks at me like he’s not sure I’ll like the answer. So I sigh and wave for him to say it anyway, shoving the maple donut in my mouth.
“I’m not making fun of you, I promise. But Caleb, it was only a week, wasn’t it?”
I glower. It’s a good thing for him that my mouth is full of donut, and I’m not risking a test of his Heimlich maneuver.
My heart was on the line from day one. We both knew that. The intensity of our relationship had nothing to do with the time and everything to do with how fast we both opened up.
Or I thought we both opened up.
Kelvin chuckles like he can read my face. “No, I’m not saying it should hurt less. But listen. Say he’s got this past he doesn’t want people here knowing about. I don’t know what, and I’m not asking. But maybe he just didn’t expect to fall for you so fast.”
I grimace. “He did claim that he was about to tell me. But don’t people always say that when they get caught in a lie?”
“Little brother, you don’t have nearly enough worldly experience to be that cynical,” Kelvin informs me. “Stop taking other people’s fears on board—even mine. Tag seemed to be trying to show you that much, and I approved.” Then he points a finger at me while I gape at him like a mortally offended fish. “You’re lucky. You’ve always known who you are. You could have tried to imitate one of us growing up, and you didn’t. You know how rare that is in little siblings?”
“Yes, Dr. Expert Face,” I grumble, trying to hide my smile.
Kelvin laughs and kicks me under the table. “I’m serious. I’m not saying you should chase him down and get engaged next week. Some time and space is probably what you need. But maybe… just maybe… he cares so much that he was afraid of what you’d think.”
“What I think?” I squeak before clearing my throat. Kelvin has no idea who Tag really is. He’s sold out stadiums and won awards and… why the hell would he care what little old me thinks?
The answer comes to me before I even finish the question. Because he doesn’t see me as little old me.
Damn it. Kelvin is right.
“I should have talked to Eli. He’d have helped me kick the guy in the balls,” I sigh.
Kelvin winks. “Yeah. That’s why I’m getting in there first. Mom and Dad want grandkids from all of us.”
My jaw drops as I stare at him again, the cup of green tea halfway between the table and my mouth. “Kev.”
He just drains his cup and stands up. “It’s true. Anyway, I hate to run, but I’m squeezing a couple extra lunchtime appointments in. Think about it, won’t you? At the very least, you’re going to keep writing poetry if we have to chain you to a notepad.”
“I…” I rub my temple and slowly shake my head. “Yeah. I will,” I mumble. “Thanks?”
I’ve never come to lunch to be attacked so thoroughly, but I’m secretly glad that Kelvin is happy to say what I need to hear. Not to try to get a rise from me like Lee and Eli, but because it’s best for me.
“You’re welcome.” He squeezes my shoulder and then strides off with another goodbye wave.
Then I’m alone with half a cruller and a cup of barely-touched tea, and a whole new set of problems.
But my office is empty and quiet right now. By the time I get there I’ll still have thirty minutes or more before my coworkers interrupt—probably longer, since Gary’s with them. There’s a poem fermenting in my fingertips, and it’s just about ready to come out.
I shove the rest of my donut in my mouth and snap the lid on my paper cup, then hurry for the door.
Kelvin’s right. I can’t stop loving what I love just because I got hurt.
26
Tag
Sitting on an upturned bucket inside the disconnected electric fence, I watch the comings and goings of the bees in my home apiary: six hives clustered close together.
What else do I have to do? The feeding stage is over for my new batch of mead. I have enough bottled cases in my makeshift warehouse to meet orders. I could try to develop new recipes, but I’m not feeling it right now.
But it’s the kind of day when autumn hasn’t quite given up against winter’s ravages. A few inches of snow are underfoot, but clear blue sky and warm sunshine makes it feel warm enough that I’ve unzipped my thick plaid hoodie.
I’m sitting to one side of the hive entrances so I don’t irritate them, and from this angle I can clearly see the fuzzy little bees emerge, swoop up in the air for a quick circle around, and return.
This isn’t just a casual stretch of the wings they’re doing. The polite term is “elimination flights,” and the snow in front of the hives is covered in tiny dots of bee poop. Suffice it to say that I can’t eat black-flecked vanilla bean ice cream without closing my eyes.
As a beekeeper, I’d prefer it if winter set in quickly and stayed a steady temperature below freezing until spring. That way they’ll go into hibernation and eat less, and I won’t worry so much about feeding them. But it’s nice to hear them humming with life.
Makes me feel a little less alone.
As each bee circles around, she tries to make her way back to her own hive. Normally they’re pretty good at finding home, and we paint hives different colors to help. But they’re all wrapped in black plastic to help keep them warm, so the bees can get lost sometimes.
As soon as they land at a hive entrance, bees will rush forward and put their legs and antennae all over them, sniffing their returning sisters to make sure they belong here. If they smell wrong, they’re kicked out—literally.
In beekeeping courses, I learned that sometimes the guards will let a lost bee past the defenses, as long as they aren’t here to raid their honey stores. Gradually the chemical scent on the newcomer will change as the new hive adopts them, and then it’s like they’ve always belonged there.
Wouldn’t it be nice if humans worked that way? But I feel like however long I’m here in Vermont, I’ll always be on the outside looking in. They might pretend to let me in, but I’m not one of them.
It’s going to be dark before long. The days are already growing shorter, and as the warm afternoon cools off, the hive activity will drop too.
I sigh and push myself to my feet, stretching out my stiff knees. My ass is numb from the little plastic circle I’ve been sitting on. I leave the bucket where it is and reconnect the wires of the electric fence, then switch it on. Once it’s softly clicking again, I trudge up through the snowy field to the house.
Last I saw, Queenie was asleep on her back in front of the fireplace, paws dangling over her chest and tongue lolling.
She’s got the right idea. That’s basically what I’ve been doing for the last week, barely leaving the house.
Just a couple of deliveries to restaurants and bars, and one grocery trip. Nobody’s said a peep about the big revelation and I haven’t seen any of those shy-yet-excited looks that mean I’ve been spotted.
Obviously if anyone overheard that asshole blurting it out for the whole world, they’re keeping it to themselves. I feel bad for underestimating the locals… especially Caleb.
I can’t stop thinking about him. Every night when I go to bed alone, I close the blinds. I can’t stand to open my eyes in the middle of the night only to see the moonbeam illuminating an empty bed.
It hurts all the more because I know I’m the one who screwed up, bad. I could have been honest, and I was too scared.
No wonder Caleb wants nothing to do with me.
Another call comes in, but I don’t bother answering my vibrating pocket. I let it go to voicemail. I know exactly who it is, and it’s not Caleb calling to give me a second chance.
I changed his ringtone, just in case.
It’ll be Rod—again. He calls at least twice a day and leaves voicemails. He left town a few days ago, but not before tracking down my phone number. God only knows how.
“Hungry young agent” is one way of describing him. “Tick burrowing under my skin” is a better way.
I’ve listened to his messages while rolling my eyes so hard I might sprain them. He keeps asking to meet up or video conference, offering me the world. He claims to have so many opportunities for exposure. Well, out here in the Vermont woods, you die of exposure.
