"You good?" I asked when it was somewhat quiet again. Sybil only laughed.
"This is how it'll go tonight," she teased. "I cook—and you clean, maybe?"
I leaned against the frame of the kitchen door. "Okay, you're right. One of us has to be in charge. And I should be unpacking anyway."
"Unpacking?"
I stared blankly at Sybil while she gazed at me. "Oh God. I thought I had told you. I'm moving in here."
"You pretty much were here, right?"
"Yeah, but it's official now. I didn't even pay rent last month and David didn't notice—or maybe he did and I just never got a text. Either way, that's now my last month's deposit. I picked up the last of my stuff and returned the key before work."
"Oh." She paused. "That's a big change."
"Not really—like you said, I was already here."
I moved towards some of the boxes I had stashed under Alan's slanted art desk. They were mostly filled with notebooks and textbooks from the classes I had taken. My degree, which had come in the mail while Alan was in Rome and I had been living here, had been waiting for me at my old apartment. I laughed at the fancy envelop and the wide sticker that said DO NOT BEND. I didn't even need to take it out. Where would I put it, anyway? As proud as I was that I had graduated, it only mattered in the abstract. Even Alan hadn't framed his PhD. He just kept it in his desk drawer at work. I wondered what Sybil would do with her Master's degree whenever she got it—when I realized she was still quiet in the kitchen.
"Hey, are you okay?" I placed down my small box on the couch. "Sorry I didn't tell you sooner."
"Don't worry. I'm fine. I just… We have to get a better handle on our communication sometimes. See? This is one of the few reasons I like Facebook. I can keep track of who's married to whom and what they're doing. But it's really hard to facilitate a three-way status update."
I nodded. I had a profile on Facebook, but I was pretty sure it still said I lived in my home town. "I think I may have found something better, though."
I dug through one of the grocery bags filled with spices and other non-perishable things and pulled out a calendar. "I'm surprised I was still able to find one, since it's almost five months into the year, but look."
I opened up the big pages on lined paper. I was pretty sure this type of calendar was supposed to be used for lawyers and CEOs in the 1990s before tablets, but I liked it. There was enough room to fit in all the names of people in our lives, the times and dates. I had already begun marking out when people's birthdays were and my work schedule for the next two weeks. I put in what I had remembered for both Alan and Sybil, but there were still a lot of blank spaces.
"I think I'm going to put it here, with the corkboard. Then you guys can fill it out."
"What's wrong with our phones?" she asked, somewhat skeptically. She didn't look up from the food she was cooking.
"Nothing. But Alan said we should frame it. Put it on the wall to be proud of."
"So this was Alan's idea? For all of us?"
"Yeah. I like it…" I held the calendar next to the blank space where the corkboard was. Since it was the wall next to the kitchen, Sybil couldn't see. "Come over here. I want to show you. I promise we won't set off the alarm again."
With a sigh, she wiped her hands on the dishtowel and then walked out. Her face was set in one of her critical gazes. But as soon as she saw the corkboard next to the calendar I held up with my hands, her face softened.
"You kept this?" she asked, pointing to the picture of us in a photo booth together. We had been together for about a year then.
"Of course I did. Why wouldn't I? I wanted the photos for this."
"You were making this board even back then?"
"Well, no. But I knew I would eventually. I mean… Alan always tells me about artists and their archives. You know, after someone dies a person goes in and rustles through the mess and tries to make sense of it."
"Sounds like an episode of Hoarders."
"Kind of. People are always trying to make sense of a mess. And well, life is kind of like that."
"So deep, Craig. So deep." She folded her arms across her chest and nudged me. But I could tell from her sly smile she wanted me to continue.
"Well, it's also incredibly arrogant to start making our own archive right now. Like really, really arrogant. There was even someone in the department who dropped off their travel journals once to be 'catalogued' because she had a few famous paintings. Ridiculous. Alan would never want to become that. Neither would I."
"I think it's good to have self-confidence. But carry on."
"So I just started to collect stuff. Random things—like people make scrapbooks, but I thought that was a bit too white-suburban-mom for me. It didn't really occur to me to start putting things on the wall like this until Alan set me the postcards."
"I remember those," she said, stepping forward. She saw the Coliseum card, followed by Vatican City, and all the tourist spots Alan had visited when he felt the need to explore. When Sybil got to the small gift shop card Alan had sent me with Michelangelo's The Libyan Sibyl on the front, her fingers hesitated and hovered. There was a small, quiet moment where I saw her recognize something in the painting, in Alan's handwriting, before she turned to me.
"This is all so nice. I like it."
"And the calendar?" I said, holding it up once more.
"That's good too, Craig. A wonderful idea. Hang it up while I finish our meal—before I set the apartment on fire?"
I smirked, finally dropping the calendar by the couch close by. In spite of what we had said, the two of us stared with a lingering gaze. Sybil shifted on her toes, her eyes darting to the corner. She wanted to hold the postcard, I knew she did. And I chastised myself for never telling her about the Michelangelo painting Alan had found and the words I could still remember him writing on the back of it. I found this and thought of her. How could I not think of her? She's ten times more handsome than this piece, but I will take this, since it's all I have of either of you right now. I swallowed hard, still staring at Sybil. How did I not even see this between them? How had I managed to go so long without putting all of the pieces together? I understood even more now how vain it was to start an archive, especially because life was still happening all around.
There was another hiss from the kitchen that broke our stare. Sybil flipped around right away and ran towards the pan, cursing slightly under her breath while I bolted back towards the fire alarm and starting fanning.
"We're good," Sybil cried out. "Completely fine. You saved the day."
"My mission in life."
"Uh-huh. Okay. Let's eat."
*~*~*
"I brought dessert," Sybil said. She leaned across Alan's kitchen island, biting her lips with a sly smile.
"Oh?" I leaned back and glanced at her bag. "Did you actually make something?"
"I make things all the time; what are you talking about? It's just usually at two a.m. after I've done terrible readings for the day and really want brownies."
"So it's brownies?"
She rolled her eyes, as if ashamed she had given away her secret so soon. "I'm a bit of a one-trick pony in that department. Let me cut two pieces."
As she got up, I followed and put away some of the dishes. Our conversation at dinner had been light and easy. We talked about work, about our friends that turned out to know one another; we were still finding out things like this, four years later, and then about winters she spent in Ottawa, always buried under snow. She was tough, she insisted, in weather like this. She could handle living in Alaska, if it wasn't so filled with sexist dicks.
"Just two pieces?" I asked as I ran water, referring to the brownies. She placed a large Pyrex dish on the counter with a lid on it. There was condensation, as if she had just taken them out of the oven before she got here.
"Well, I have to leave something behind for Alan," she said, taking out two large corner pieces, which were his favourite, and placing them on a plate befo
re she took the rest of the brownies back to the island.
I laughed. "I like the way you think, Sybil. Should I make coffee?"
"Nah. Where's your wine? Let's be adults about this."
"I…" I looked around, on top of the fridge where there was olive oil, balsamic vinegar, and some apple cider vinegar—but no wine or alcohol of any kind. "I don't think I have any, actually."
"Why the hell don't you have wine here?" she asked, her eyes wide. She got up from her seat and looked around as if she didn't believe me.
"Rebecca told me it's probably not good for me to drink alone. Or for Alan. So there hasn't been any here since our last dinner before Rome."
Sybil nodded, leaning against the cupboard. "Hmm. He's with her tonight, right?"
"Yeah. They're going over some things. He'll be there all night."
She nodded, considering this. In spite of the easy conversation we had had earlier, we still had yet to discuss the real reason she was over here: what to do about Alan. I had figured waiting until we were full would have been the best option for conversation. Now, with the idea of getting drunk—or at least a bit tipsy—before we talked suggested, I regretted not having anything at all we could drink.
I reached over and grabbed my keys from the front hallway.
"Where are you going? Brownies are right here!"
"But you made an excellent point about wine. I'll go out and grab some."
"But… the storm?"
"What?"
"You don't have triple-A. What if you get into trouble?"
"Well," I said, shrugging on my coat and then digging into the closet for her. "I guess you'll just have to come with me."
I swallowed hard in the silence that followed, feeling the foolishness of my overconfidence. When Sybil got up from her place with a laugh, and took her coat from my hand, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
"Sure. Lead the way."
*~*~*
We dug my poor car out from the snow, using our bare hands, until I could finally find my snow remover in the trunk. I wished that I hadn't put away my mittens and hats earlier that week, thinking that the Canadian winter was done. Granted, this was a bit of a freak incident in April, and probably would be completely melted by the end of the week. But I still should have known better than tempting fate by putting away mittens. Most of the snow plows had not gone by yet, making the roads a little treacherous until more cars had gone by. We stopped at the first LCBO we could find, then ran from our parking spot to the safeness inside.
"I'll go down this aisle," Sybil said, "and you go down here. We meet in the middle?"
"Sure."
Before I knew it, we were both left alone, wandering around and leaving puddles of snow water in our wake. For a moment, I felt as if I had walked through time, and it was that first winter I had met Sybil. Back then, when I had first started to fall in love with her, I had felt like I was a ship over the ocean, being pulled in two. People, Rebecca especially, used to tell me that's what being bisexual was like—being pulled in two over the ocean, bent and lost at a fork in the road, and having to decide where to stay all the time. Who do you love tonight? And, more importantly, who are you tonight? I used to think I had to pick being Craig, who was gay and a terrible art student, when I was with Alan. Or then I was Craig, who was straight, with Sybil and pretending to speak a language I didn't know.
But, no, that was the wrong way of looking at things. I loved them both—without issue or complaint. Sometimes, I would imagine my conversations with Rebecca as I was in the shower, thinking of the night before with Sybil or Alan or both. You're mixing up identity with love, Becca, I'd fake-argue under the water. Love cannot be measured, or quantified. Love just is. And the paths in the woods are always a false choice. If you were smart enough, if you stay around long enough, I was convinced you could have both. Love both. Now that some time had passed, I knew that this was the only right answer. But I still struggled, just a little bit, when I thought of Sybil loving Alan—and him loving her back. What did that do to all of us? How did that change our threads, our strings? And who did that make me at the end of the day?
"Find anything?" Sybil's voice stirred me back into the florescent light of the store. She smiled, her coat halfway done up and her cheeks flushed with cold.
"Nah. I got distracted. What did you find?"
She held up one bottle in her hand, and then another. "What wine do you want? Red or white?"
"Both," I said with a smile. I took a step forward and clasped her chin, kissing her quickly.
"Not here, Craig," she laughed as she chastised me. "We have to go back to your place before my toes fall off from cold."
"Alan's place," I said.
"Don't call it that. You're living there, too. It's yours now."
"Yeah," I said, slowly, the realization dawning on me. I had been referring to that apartment as Alan's for years. I had been so used to never having a place of my own but my car, and always being stuck in the middle. I shifted my feet on the store floor, feeling sturdy. "I guess you're right. But the wine?"
"We'll get both," she said, nodding. "Of course."
*~*~*
"I don't want to go home," Sybil said later that night. Her lips were red with wine, and her cheeks flushed pink again. We had taken our wine, in mugs, no less, with the dish of brownies to the couch, so we could watch the snow fall and the sky grow darker. I had suggested that we should sit in the lawn chairs on the balcony and watch the snow fall, but we were already pretty chilled from before. So instead, we ate nearly half the brownie dish and drank almost all the bottle of red wine while we listened to Patti Smith's entire discography. The snow plows had gone by an hour ago, and the only place Sybil moved had been closer to me, under the crook of my elbow. I felt as if I was catching something rare—a Sybil who was relaxed—and I would do anything to keep it for as long as I could without being cruel.
"Okay," I said. "You don't need to go home. You should stay the night."
She nodded and put down her mug. The space between our bodies grew cold, before she turned to stare at me with her wide, blue eyes and a wry smile. She touched my chin, the way I had with hers in the store, and we were kissing again. I nearly dropped my mug off the edge of the coffee table as she placed her body next to mine. Her kissing grew lazy as she traced her fingers around my collar, then shifted her weight until she was in my lap. Her movements slowed, most likely due to the wine, but I didn't mind. I liked having her this close to me, her breathing shallow and body comforting.
"It's okay that you don't want to go outside," I said.
"Oh yeah? I have a feeling you mean more than the snow and bad weather keeping me here."
"Always do." As I curled my hand around Sybil's back, I suddenly felt her body shift. Not in jealousy, but in need.
"What is he like?" she asked. "You know, when you're together."
"What exactly are you asking?"
She smirked against my skin. "Do you think I want to watch?"
I nodded, my dick growing hard with just the thought. We had never done something like that before. We were in a triad relationship, but it formed a V-like pattern where I was the centre, and we kept our relationships private. Always. I never asked for anything more, because I thought that had been our boundary. Now, with Sybil so close to me that I could feel her heart, I wondered if there was something more to us that she wanted.
"It's crossed my mind," Sybil admitted slowly. "But that's not what I'm thinking about right now. I'm wondering what he's like."
"You've met him, lots of times. Had dinner, talked on the phone."
"That's not the same. I have a feeling he's different around you. When it's just the two of you."
"All couples are different like that. Even us."
"I know." Sybil's face fell and her nose scrunched up as she tried to form the right words. "I think I'm just curious, too. I want to see what you look like with him when I'm not around. It's an impossible thing. I j
ust wish I could be there, innocuous. That's it."
I swallowed and pressed my hand against her back again, felt her body shift and writhe. I knew that movement too well. "There's more, Sybil."
"What?"
"I know you like him, too. And that's okay."
"I don't need validation for my own feelings," she said quickly, like a rehearsed line. "But thanks."
"So why haven't you said anything before now? Why wait when he's what you want, too?"
"He's gay," she laughed.
"That's a word," I countered. "Our labels are useful when they actually work. Sometimes, they don't. And gay is just a word for him."
"But we need labels or else we can't communicate. That's what words are. If you don't have meaning, there's no point."
"We have meaning around one another."
"What is that even supposed to mean?" She huffed and touched her hand to her forehead. "We're going in circles again, and this is not philosophy class."
"It's not philosophy class, no. But around me, around him," I added, the wine making my memory fuzzy, but my body still responding, "you have meaning. You're important to us. You're… just like us."
She changed then. In the white light of the snow and streetlamps, I saw her mind reconsider the points, reconsider the three of us together—not as separate units, not as satellites that bump around and sometimes collided—but an entire constellation in the sky. Sybil was so beautiful to me then, but I could see she was also scared. So I rubbed my hands along her skin, as she warmed to the idea.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"You can be with him. If he wants you, and I want you, then I think it's perfect. I don't know why we haven't done it sooner." I squeezed her sides, my hands suddenly sweaty. My heart beat fast. Oh God, Oh God, I thought and heard echo through my mind.
"No, after that. You said I was just like you two. What do you mean?"
"Oh," I said, caught off-guard. I thought of her and I in the bathroom together that night I broke my phone. We had felt like twins, like we were part of the same thing. "You know how constellations are made of stars?" I asked. I expected her to groan at my use of metaphor, but instead, she nodded along. "Carl Sagan says we're all made of star stuff, right? But what if we're—all three of us—made of the same star stuff? That's all well and good, but there are so many stars. What makes our stars different is that they're the same picture in the sky. Like… Oh fuck."
A Winter in Rome Page 9
