Philadelphia

by L B Winter

  I turned around, but when I saw him, his expression revealed nothing to me. He only said, “I’ll drive you.”

  I hesitated. I had a bus pass, and it wasn’t like it was a bad day to stand in the sunshine.

  But then Jamie said, “Come on.” And his voice had the kind of tone that you just don’t say no to. So I went.

  I hadn’t ridden in this car since that Monday morning when Trent had dropped me off on campus. Sliding onto the seat, all the memories of that day rushed back over me. I took my phone out of my pocket almost automatically, the urge to text Steven and apologize for snapping at him that day quickly replaced by the realization that nothing about our situation could be fixed through a quick text message. In fact, it probably couldn’t be fixed at all. I slid my phone into the cupholder instead.

  Jamie started the car, pulling out of the parking lot slowly. I knew he was going to say something, but the longer the minutes passed in silence, the more anxious I became. Was he actually going to drive all the way across town without saying a word to me? Was he waiting for me to say something? To admit what I’d done? To bring up what Mr. Cartwright had said? To yell at him, fight with him? Call a truce? Declare my undying love for him? What? What was he waiting for?

  I was sure he would speak—completely, positively sure. Would have bet my life on it. But he didn’t. He drove the whole way in utter silence, without so much as a radio to take our minds off of the unbearable tension between us. Traffic wasn’t bad, and a cool breeze made the air refreshing through our open windows. It would have been a really pleasant drive, if it wasn’t the worst drive of my entire life. Easily. Bar none. Not even coming back homeless from Philadelphia had been worse than this.

  We got to my new apartment; I was surprised he’d known where it was without any directions, until I remembered that Tay had needed a ride back from across campus last Friday when Tessa was busy with finals, and Trent and Jamie were probably the ones that had brought him. The complex was actually a row of townhouse-style apartments, and Jamie stopped the car right in front of our door and waited. I wanted to thank him for the ride—or, I guess I knew I should thank him. But I just didn’t have it in me. After so much silence, I couldn’t say a word to him; there was nothing I could say that wouldn’t feel like a concession, an admission of guilt I wasn’t ready to make. I was sure he would yell at me, the same old anger I’d gotten so used to being battered with—but now that I knew I really deserved it, I just couldn’t face it.

  So I got out of the car, silently as I’d ridden the whole way there, and closed the door behind me. I walked behind the car so he could pull away if he wanted, and he did—after just a moment. First, he put his hands up to adjust his mirror, and as I watched him through the rear window, I realized he was looking at me. In the small rectangular glass, I could see the tears gathering in his eyes. And I felt the finality in his gaze—the disappointment and bitterness of somebody who’d never really believed something was true until they’d seen it firsthand.

  He drove away, and I was left standing there, reeling from what I’d just realized. Jamie had been waiting that whole drive not to fight or to yell at me. He was waiting for me to apologize. That’s what he thought I would do, what he was quietly waiting for. It was the only explanation for his silence; he felt like the next move should have been mine, to tell him I was sorry, if I really was. For ruining his life right after he’d put it back on track. For pushing him away just as soon as I’d won his trust enough for him to come closer. For punishing him continually, over and over, for something that he’d done under conditions of terrible duress—and, too, something he’d done when we were only teenagers.

  Slowly, the pieces started falling into place in my mind, and then they were cascading, one after another. It was like the one small adjustment in the rearview mirror was all it took to put things into focus. Jamie had never been the one to blame. He was a victim of people who wouldn’t accept us for who we were. The people who should have loved him had abandoned him long ago, and the first person to show him that he could be loved for who he really was had betrayed him. I had betrayed him. Oh, fuck me.

  I ran to our door almost sick with the need to fix what I’d done. I couldn’t just leave things as they were; I couldn’t let Jamie’s life go off the rails. He had never deserved that. Once inside, I ran upstairs to my room and threw open my laptop to reply to my original email to the LGBTQ Center, and I was sure I sounded like a total idiot as I explained that I’d been angry at Jamie because he was my ex, and how that email didn’t represent his true feelings at all, but were just the last remnants of a past that had been forced on him. And now that he’d risen above all that, wasn’t he the perfect person to work there and serve as a mentor? And in terms of helping people, if that was the scholarship’s goal, nothing and no one could fulfill that goal better. I practically begged them to give him another chance—to ignore me, to forgive me, to forgive him. It must have been complete nonsense, what I wrote. I just couldn’t stop myself.

  I rambled on and on in circles and finally hit send before I could rethink it and stop myself. I expected relief to come after I hit that little button, but instead, I only felt deeper dread. I’d given it my best shot, but it didn’t feel like nearly enough. So much had happened that I hadn’t understood at the time, and now the weight of it all was crushing me.

  After everything Jamie had gone through, I hated that I had added to his pain and struggle. I hated that I was now one of the people, indisputably, who had tried to make him something he wasn’t and failed to accept him for what he was.

  What was I mad at him for this whole time, anyway? For being as screwed up as I was when we were at Freedom? That wouldn’t be fair, and I knew it. For being a dick to me this fall? I’d always known, deep down, that that wasn’t personal. I’d always known he was struggling with the messages he’d received his whole life, parroting them back to me in a voice that hardly sounded like his own. The hatred he’d sent toward me was just a tiny glimpse of what he continually showered on himself, and I’d always known that. Or at least, I had at first. When had I forgotten?

  Maybe when he finally started getting it back together again. When he finally became himself, and the pain subsided, and I was…what? Had I been angry that he was finding a life of his own? Learning how to be okay without me? Having a future that he’d always deserved?

  No, none of those were the real reason. I knew the reason, as true and resonant in my mind as if I’d been saying it all along, though it was the first time I had admitted it to myself. I was mad because I loved him. Because I’d always loved him, and when you love somebody, they can hurt you like nobody else. And then, when he finally started to return my feelings, I was too afraid of him loving me back to be honest about it.

  Agonizing over this wouldn’t get me anywhere, but I didn’t know how to begin to make things right. I would have called my mom for advice, but Sundays were the one day that I couldn’t. Maybe Taylor would be around; he was always willing to talk to me about stuff like this, ever since Thanksgiving break, even though I knew it wasn’t his favorite thing to do. I reached in my pocket for my phone, but it wasn’t there. Then, suddenly, I realized where it was—I’d left it in the cupholder in Trent’s car. Shit.

  Though I’d been fine without it a moment before, I suddenly felt bereft. What would I do if I couldn’t talk to anybody? But then, I thought, maybe that was the point. Maybe I needed to stop asking other people to justify my actions. Maybe I should just face the facts. There was no sugar-coating or hiding from what I’d done, and that was important. So I let myself sit in the discomfort for a while. I fully acknowledged it to myself, not exaggerating or making excuses, but simply letting it be what it was. I hurt somebody who trusted me, and who, despite all his mistakes, never deserved the betrayal he’d suffered at my hands. For as long as I lived, I decided, I would never let myself forget how badly I’d screwed up—without ever realizing I was doing it. That I was capable of inflicting terri
ble pain without ever realizing it at all. Sometimes you can make a mistake, but believe you’re right every single step of the way. Jamie had never lied to me worse than I’d lied to myself.

  I paced the apartment for a good long while, quiet and cavernous in solitude, and let myself think about every little thing. No distractions, no excuses. Just me, missing him, and wishing like hell I could have been a different person. A kinder person. A person like Jamie.

  After wallowing, I decided that, pragmatically, I did need my phone at some point. So when I was ready, I logged onto social media and sent a message to Steven there. I wasn’t expecting a quick reply, but my laptop beeped at me only a minute later.

  “I’ll drop it off,” he wrote back. That was all he said. Once my closest friend, and now he was so angry that all he could say to me were those four little words.

  I probably should have been prepping for my first day of the internship, but I just kept wallowing on the couch until I heard a knock at my door. Then I ran up and flung it open—but I was surprised to see not Steven but Jamie standing in the doorway.

  The impulse struck me so suddenly that I had no time to think about it or decide it was a bad idea. I stepped forward, flung my arms around him, and hugged him tighter than I’d ever hugged anyone in my life.

  “Paul,” he said quietly. His arms didn’t come around me in return, and no matter how hard I wished they would, they remained at his sides. “What are you doing?”

  “Hugging you,” I said.

  He didn’t sound remotely amused when he said, “Why?”

  “Because I’m afraid if I don’t hug you now, I’ll never have another chance.”

  He sighed. “Paul,” he said again, but I could hear in his voice that his patience was running thin, and I pulled away. My arms ached the moment I did.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, looking at his face earnestly—but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. “I never should have written to the LGBTQ Center. I was so angry, but…I think more than that, I was scared.”

  That surprised him enough that he finally looked up at me. “Of what? Of me being happy? And having a good life? Paul, you’re the one who had all the power here, with us,” he said, gesturing back and forth between us. “I’m the one who should have been scared. I wish I had been.”

  “Jamie,” I said, desperately willing him to understand without me saying it. But if I didn’t tell him, then what were the chances he’d ever forgive me? As it was, chances seemed pretty slim. “Look, you were putting your whole life back together without me, and…I know that I’m the one who pushed you away, but—I didn’t realize then that…” I swallowed, taking a shaky breath. I couldn’t say it. I absolutely couldn’t; there was no way. My heart, my head, my eyes, my soul—I was screaming it in every way but words. But I just couldn’t.

  The I love you I didn’t say felt like it was reverberating in the air, oozing out of my every pore, written plainly in every expression of my face. But he didn’t see it.

  He said, “Look, Paul, I gotta go. Steven’s dropping me off for a training run, and I just came to drop off your phone.”

  “Oh,” I said stupidly. Of course. Jamie might have been mad at me, but Steven was too mad even to run up to the door and give me my phone. When Jamie held out the phone, I took it from his hand, noticing with a pang how carefully he held his fingers away from my skin, not even willing to touch me for an instant with the most minuscule part of his hand.

  But I deserved that. I knew I did.

  “Okay,” he said, again avoiding my gaze. “Bye.”

  And he left, and I stood in the doorway until he turned the corner, knowing that I would never get another chance. That was it. Gone, forever.

  I closed the door and sat on the couch—a cushy sectional that had come with the apartment. All our furniture was either from Tay’s parents when they’d come or rented with the apartment, and the longer I sat there, the more the idea of its being sort of dirty bothered me. I should clean, I thought. I shouldn’t just sit here. I should clean everything in the entire apartment, top to bottom.

  Leaving the once-treasured phone forgotten on the table, I pulled out the bucket of cleaning supplies Mrs. Reese had stored under our sink and got to work. The kitchen counters, the floors, the walls. I washed the surfaces of our furniture with upholstery cleaner spray; I covered every window with glass polish. When the first floor was sparkling, I climbed upstairs to clean my bedroom. It was mostly fine, but I could always dust the surfaces and make the bed. The bathroom, too, could use some polishing up.

  I was standing in front of the sink, muscles throbbing from having scrubbed at everything I owned (and didn’t own) for more than ninety minutes straight, when I found myself staring into the mirror behind it, eyes wide with surprise at the face I saw.

  I didn’t really like this person anymore, I realized. He wasn’t who I wanted him to be. He was fearful, and petty, and spiteful. He was selfish. Everything was always all about him. I didn’t want to be this person anymore, this person who expected too much from his friends, who took without giving in return, whose expectations were unreasonable and whose standards were unfair. He had done nothing but hurt the people I loved.

  I had to look away from the eyes that had nothing but accusations in them. I put down the bottles and rags, rinsed my hands, and walked back into my bedroom. I was about to launch myself onto the bed, exhausted, when I was startled by a knock on the door.

  Expecting nobody in particular and definitely not in the mood for company—for once in my life—I was ready to ignore it. But after a moment, I heard it again, and this time more earnestly.

  “Coming,” I called down the stairs as I made my way toward it.

  The pounding continued until I pulled the door open, and there on the other side was Jamie. Jamie, breathless and red-faced, dripping with sweat, hair curling on his forehead, and eyes so bright and carefree that they were practically sparkling. What in the world?

  “Hey,” he said softly.

  I opened my mouth to answer, but my voice failed me. And then, I couldn’t have spoken if I’d wanted to, because he pulled me into his arms, certainty and affection in his eyes, and kissed me as deeply as he ever had. No fear, no reticence, no hurt and anger between us. Just this perfect, endless, delicious kiss.

  When he came up for air, I had to stare at him just to make sure he was real. It was impossible to believe that it was really him—his arms holding me in a vice grip, his lips that left mine bruised with passion. I could hardly breathe, but I managed to say, “What are you doing here?”

  He shrugged, smiling as he reached up to brush a stray strand of hair off my forehead. “What do you mean?”

  “I thought you were pissed at me.”

  “I was,” he said, and the affection in his expression grew. “I really was. For, like, the first mile of my run. But then I realized something,” he said. As he spoke, he pushed me into the apartment, where he shut the door behind us, still holding me against himself.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You wouldn’t have done any of that stuff if I hadn’t really hurt you,” he said, and again, he caressed my hair, smiling gently. “And I know I did. And I’m sorry. But then I realized…I couldn’t have hurt you that bad, if you didn’t love me.”

  It was said so simply, with such certainty, yet I felt exposed like I never had before in my life. Still, I fought against the fear to be honest with the man I really did love—always had, and probably always would. “I do love you,” I said softly. “But I was so fucking selfish. I know I screwed everything up, and I’m sorry.” My voice broke, but he held me closer still.

  “I know,” he whispered, and he kissed me again. “Look, I’m sorry, too. I just—I don’t want to be angry with each other anymore. We could keep doing this, taking turns hurting each other and being mad and making up—or one of us can just break the cycle. Well…I want to.”

  I felt more relief in that moment than I’d known was humanly possible. “I
want to, too,” I said.

  “I thought you would.” He smiled and leaned in to kiss me again.

  It was so surreal that he was suddenly here. “I didn’t think you’d ever forgive me,” I said against his lips. I loved how he tasted after running—a salty, heady flavor.

  “Not ever?” he said, hands running down my back, over my hips, lower and closer.

  “Well, not that quickly,” I said, and I felt his lips curve in a smile. “What was that, two hours?”

  “Less,” he said, smiling down at me. “But technically, I think I forgave you within the first ten minutes of going on my run. But then I had to run all the way here, so.”

  “You ran all the way here? How far?”

  “13 miles,” he said, with a smirk that made me laugh out loud. “You think that’s impressive? Check out these splits.” He finally pulled away, holding up his activity tracker so I could see his pace.

  “Holy shit. These are almost six-minute miles.”

  “Turns out having the man you love on the other end of the finish line is a great motivator.”

  There it was. I pulled him down toward me again, and he obliged, kissing me deeply, thoroughly. I moaned when his wandering fingers found their way to my hair, tugging it until my head tipped back as he ran his lips from my mouth to my jaw, my jaw to my neck, my neck to my chest.

  Shivering, I said, “Oh fuck, that’s amazing.”

  He lifted his head, clearly proud of himself, and said in a whisper, “I love that. Right there where your neck meets your shoulder.” He leaned forward and kissed me there again, and my skin reverberated with his words, spoken between kisses. “Almost since I met you, I wanted to kiss you there. Every single part of you is sexy.”

  I shivered, and he kissed me until I was breathless—but eventually he pulled away and said, “Do you have water?”

  “Oh, yeah, of course.” I walked to the fridge and handed him one of our mini bottles, happy to feel him following closely behind me all the way. After a long swig, he winked at me and poured the rest of the bottle over his head, shaking it as the droplets fell all around us. Never mind that I’d just washed the kitchen floor; that was the single sexiest thing I’d ever witnessed in my entire life.