“I’d really rather you didn’t.” I put as much conviction as I can muster behind those words, and pray it’s enough to mask how vulnerable I feel.
I can practically hear the debate raging in his brain. Danny is someone who tackles his problems head-on. He doesn’t do well when he’s asked to be passive.
I hear the faint sound of teeth grinding before he finally bites out, “It feels like you’ve already decided to break up with me.”
“I’m not saying that. I just need a little space.”
He breathes forcefully into the phone. “Can I at least call you tomorrow?”
“Let me call you next.”
“When?”
“Soon.” The word comes out at the end of a long exhalation, and as soon as it crosses my lips, I know it’s a lie.
Chapter 23
Danny
AFTER A SHORT TIME.
Before long.
Rapidly.
Those are my definitions of ‘soon.’ Sarah’s is something else, entirely.
For weeks, I waited–trying to give her the space she needed. I called a couple of times and left messages. I texted just to let her know I was thinking of her. No fucking response.
At first, I just told myself that Sarah would come around after she had a little time to cool off. But it’s clear that I was mistaken. I think we’re really over–with no discussion, with no real explanation. Just done.
The shocking finality of that has brought on such a range of emotion that the distraction of work has been a godsend. The university accepted my proposal to teach a special summer session course on education reform, thanks in large part to Dr. Frick, who convinced the Board of Trustees that I would offer something unique to the current curriculum. They granted me the opportunity, providing I finish my doctorate this spring. If the course is successful, Frick says they’ll ask me to teach an evening section in the fall.
So, I’m spending every free moment finalizing my dissertation, leaving me no time to dwell on our breakup, or to acknowledge how dead I’ve become inside. I get up, run, go to work, lift in the gym, come home, and lock myself in my office, working until I’m too exhausted to see straight.
I avoid the living room at all cost. That goddamned piano is like a sucker punch every time I see it. I had to take the picture down. I couldn’t bear to look at it.
I’m not interested in doing anything social, but at the same time, I despise my own company.
So, it’s like choosing between the lesser of two evils when Jamie asks me to come with him to a benefit concert that Cadence is headlining at the Fillmore in San Francisco. Mel and the kids are out of town visiting Mel’s parents, and Jamie seems a little lonely in her absence. Ultimately, I agree, albeit reluctantly.
§
The Fillmore is one of those classic San Francisco music venues with great bones, and a forty-year history of performances that read like a who’s who in music: The Grateful Dead, James Brown, Jefferson Airplane, Prince, The Cure. Jamie always gets a little misty when he talks about The Cure, and playing on the same stage once occupied by them is a surreal experience for him.
Cadence plays a set of six songs, every one tight and spot on. Since there’s no seating at The Fillmore, the audience is on their feet for the entire show, pushing towards the stage in a massive crush. I’m not in that, thank God; I happen to have the best view in the house from the balcony near the bar above, reserved for associates of the band.
Cadence does a few of the early hits, and then moves on to some of the more recent material. Jamie’s in rare form at the mic–teasing and taunting the audience into singing along, taking off his shirt at one point to a deafening level of screaming, and shaking his sweaty head into the front row of girls. They love it, God knows why. He’s really playing up his Irish accent, too, which he does just for effect, though he’d never admit it. And not to be outdone, Greg is pounding the piano, and hamming it up with Jamie, Killian and Nash. All in all, it’s a great show.
Backstage is already a zoo by the time I make my way there at the conclusion of the set. At Cadence’s own concerts, Jamie is very specific about not letting groupies and skanks hang around after the show. It’s one of the things he does for Mel’s benefit. The rest of the band can do whatever they want in the privacy of their own trailers, but not backstage. Jamie is adamant about that.
This show, however, is another story. Since they’re sharing the stage with a bunch of other bands, there are girls everywhere.
“Dan!” Greg calls to me. “What’s up, man? What’d you think of the show?”
I walk over to him and extend my hand. “You guys sounded great.”
Greg is a good guy, although he talks so damn fast, sometimes it’s hard to understand him. He and Jamie started the band fourteen years ago, and the two of them collaborate on all of the songs. Creatively, he’s a genius, and he has all the eccentricities that go along with that.
“That blonde over there with the big tits is checking you out,” he cracks, finishing his beer.
I glance in the direction of the girls he’s referring to. There are about six of them, all partying and having a good time. The blonde is dressed in a skin-tight white tank that barely contains her enormous breasts, and a black leather skirt so short I doubt she can bend over without giving a full view of her ass. Maybe that’s the idea. She’s wearing matching thigh-high black boots that look like they’d be part of a dominatrix uniform. When she notices me looking in her direction, she smiles back and raises her eyebrows as an invitation.
“No thanks,” I tell him. “I’ll leave that for Killian.”
Greg laughs. “Good plan.”
Christ. I just need to get out of here. I make my excuses to Greg and step away, pulling my phone out of my pocket. But the next thing I know, the blonde is at my side with one of her giant breasts pushed up against my arm.
“Hi, handsome.” She smiles at me, giving me a full view down her tank. I swear, you could hide a small appliance in there.
I take a step or two back, and tell her that I have to make a call. It’s rude, but I don’t care.
Everything about that girl is fake. And rather than tempting me, she just reminds me of what I no longer have. Sarah’s curves were luscious and inviting. Touching her body was like sensory overload. Her beauty, her soft skin, her sexy little moans, the smell of strawberries in her hair, the taste of her on my tongue. It was all perfection. She called me a Neanderthal once, and she was right. I was barely able to control my most base instincts around her. But she never denied me anything. She let me indulge in every fantasy I had, gave me her body like it was an offering. And I could never get enough of it. I was insatiable.
Unlike these girls, her lips weren’t smeared with heavy lipstick; they were full and supple, a feast for my mouth and tongue. And her eyes weren’t hidden under dark liner; they were bright and sincere.
Sarah made me laugh–so often and so hard that nothing in my life ever seemed that bad when we were together. It was so much a part of our dynamic from the very beginning that I would forget that no other relationship in my life had ever been like that. I wasn’t usually like that–lighthearted and easy-going.
I don’t know what it was about her that made me want to dive right off a cliff into the murky waters of love and commitment, actually admitting my desire for marriage and a family. I barely recognized myself.
But, with Sarah, it was so easy. I was in awe of her. Not just her beauty and her talent, but her strength, her fortitude, and her bravery. For someone so young to have been through so much, and come out of it with grace and dignity, she’s amazing. I’ve never known anyone like her.
I’ve spent a lot of time over the past weeks thinking about why I didn’t tell her about the money. Mostly, I think I didn’t because telling her meant admitting to the wreckage of a relationship I had with my dad, and exposing every regret of my early life.
With her, I could be beyond all of that. I was exactly the person I wanted t
o be, and she accepted me unconditionally for it.
It was never a question of trust.
And I know I screwed up. I take full responsibility for that. What I can’t get over, though, is how easily she just threw our relationship away like it meant nothing.
Did she not understand that I would have done anything to make her happy? I loved doing things for her. I loved being the guy who gave her comfort, who made her smile, who took care of her. I wanted to look out for her, and stand up for her. I wanted her to need me. I wanted to know that I was as necessary to her happiness as she was to mine.
But she fucking gutted me. I was not prepared for that.
§
Someone drops a bottle nearby, abruptly reminding me of where I am. When Jamie walks up and squeezes my shoulder, I realize I’ve probably been staring like a zombie at my phone for an uncomfortable amount of time. He’s changed into an R.E.M. t-shirt, and is carrying a bottle of water.
“Hey brother, how’d we do?” If he notices something in my mood, he doesn’t mention it.
“That may have been was one of your best shows,” I tell him, slipping my phone back into my pocket.
“We’ve come along way from when we were the fluffers at these sorts of gigs.”
I laugh. “You were definitely the consummators tonight.”
Jamie smiles. “It felt good. The crowd was going mad the entire time.”
He looks over my shoulder to the packed room. I watch as his eyes absorb the party, which is now in full swing around us. Then his smile falters a bit.
“I wish Mel were here.”
I wince a little inside. That’s what it’s like to be with the one. When you want to share every success with them; when you look out into a room full of people and it feels empty because they’re not in it. That’s what I thought I had. And I’m not sure that I’ll ever find it again.
I force myself back to our conversation, not wanting to dwell on that just now.
“I videotaped the show for her, so you guys can watch it together tomorrow. Maybe you can take your shirt off, and sweat on her a little to set the mood.” I smile at him, not wanting my poor temper to detract from his deserved sense of satisfaction.
“Brilliant.” His eyes light up, and he laughs. “Thanks, brother.” Then studying me carefully like he does, and no doubt noticing that I’m not really feeling up for this scene, he says, “You want to get out of here? Go hang out for a while?”
And that right there is the true value of friendship. It’s not about finding your next thrill, and it’s not about crowing your career success. It’s when you miss your wife, or you’ve lost a great love, and you don’t have to explain it or hide it or feel like a pussy about it. You don’t even have to talk about it. Because what really matters is right there in those small moments of camaraderie–playing hoops or catching a game together. That’s when you know there’s someone out there who’s willing to let you go through the hard stuff in your own way, but who’s not willing to let you go through it alone.
Chapter 24
Sarah
I WAKE UP SATURDAY MORNING to find a tiny Valentine on my pillow like the ones I used to give out as a kid. It’s a little brown owl surrounded by a pink squiggly border, and inside it says, “Whoooo loves you, Valentine?” My immediate thought is Danny, but it takes only a sobering moment of wakefulness to remember that he hasn’t reached out to me in two weeks. Why would he? I gave him no reason to believe that I would be receptive. I open the little card from Selene, a sweet and painful reminder of the mess I’ve made.
After a few days in Auburn, I returned home, having convinced myself that it would be best for us to take a break. I told myself that it didn’t matter what we feel for each other if I can’t live with our one-sided communication–if I can’t reconcile his deliberate secrecy with his insistence that our relationship is more than just a casual thing.
But in truth, I just ran. I ran because I was scared, still am scared, that I overinvested in a relationship that may not be all that I imagined it to be. I ran because if that were true, the hurt would be worse than anything I’ve ever known. I ran because self-protection is my fallback. It’s where I go when I feel my life slipping, again, out of my control. It’s my habit, but it’s never really served me well. I know that my failing to stay and face our issues was wrong. It was a strong signal of my own issues, and I owed Danny more than that. I owed myself more, too.
§
My mom stops through town for lunch on her way down to Pasadena to visit my brother. We celebrate my acceptance to the master’s program, and the generous scholarship I was granted. I’m truly ecstatic about it. Still, it’s difficult to think about my acceptance and not think about Danny. He’s so thoroughly entangled in that process.
As she’s gathering her things to go, she notices some pictures I have in the living room–in particular, a selfie of Danny and I from Thanksgiving. I’m wearing that stupid red dress–the one that I now want to burn–and Danny’s in a blue and red plaid dress shirt.
He looks amazing. His eyes are bright green and full of joy. He’s wearing his million-dollar smile, and I’m laughing.
My mom pauses for a moment to look at the picture. “He sure is handsome, isn’t he?” I just nod weakly, and bite my lip to keep from crying. “I’ve always thought he looked just like a younger, taller Robert Redford,” she continues.
“When he was a kid, they used to call him Ken. Like the doll.”
My mom laughs. “I can see that.”
Neither of us says anything for a long time.
“He’s been good for you, Sarah. I was wrong for the things I said.”
“Mom.” The tears come streaming down my face, and there’s nothing I can do to hide them.
My mom comes immediately to my side, and wraps her arms around me, just like she did when I was small.
“I knew something was wrong when you were at my place. Do you want to tell me what happened?”
I have flashbacks of being ten years old, and coming to her after having a fight with my best friend.
I suck in a deep, ragged breath, and painstakingly tell her the whole damn story. Every detail. She listens, stroking my hair and rubbing my back as I talk, reminding me how much I have missed the time when we were so close I that could tell her anything. I realize how much I want that again.
My mother and I have never really talked about our past. We’ve never been able to have a constructive conversation about what happened in those difficult years. We’ve had arguments, but neither of us could see past our own pain to be sympathetic to the other one’s suffering. And I’m not sure I’m ready to tackle all of our issues just yet. But opening up to her about Danny feels like a good place to start. It’s the first time I’ve brought her into my confidence in many years.
“Sarah, does knowing about the money change what you think of him as a person?” she asks me carefully.
“No, of course not.”
She takes my hand, and looks me in the eye. “And do you believe his explanation for not telling you?”
I nod, thinking about her question. “I do believe his explanation. But what if we’re both too guarded and closed off to make a relationship work? It’s not just him. My response to this whole situation was cowardly and appalling.”
“From what I can tell, you’ve both come a long way. You’ve had a setback this past month, but that will happen from time to time. The important thing is that you recognize your part in it and learn from that. Have you learned from it?”
I meet her gaze and nod. But I can’t shake the very real fear that it’s too late.
She cups my chin in her hand, and smiles at me kindly. “You two seemed happy when you came to my house at Christmas, happier than I have seen you in a long time. I think you just got scared. And that’s okay, natural even. It’s a risk to love someone. But look at this picture and tell me it’s not worth it.”
I stare long and hard into Danny’s beautiful face. And I kn
ow deep in my heart that she’s right.
“What if he won’t take me back?”
She considers this with a mother’s practicality. “I think the better question is, are you brave enough to try?”
Chapter 25
Danny
THE LECTURE HALL IS PACKED. I’m sitting at a small desk in the front with four other professors to my left, waiting to give students a brief synopsis of the course I’ll be teaching at Stanford this summer. Since most of the classes we’ll discuss tonight aren’t offered during the regular school year, students are here to get a preview of the schedule before making their final selections in a couple of weeks.
I look out over the sea of faces as Dr. Frick introduces each one of us, either new or guest professors. I’m definitely feeling the pressure to justify his confidence in me. But I also know that I’m well prepared for this, and that I’m ready to take on a new challenge in my career.
I’m the second to last to give my course overview, and as the speaker ahead of me launches into his PowerPoint, my phone buzzes with a text. I’d neglected to turn it off, and as I reach to do so, I discreetly glance at the message. I’m stunned to see it’s from Sarah.
I think your fly is open.
What the hell?
I haven’t heard from her in nearly a month, and the last time we talked, she was breaking up with me. And now this? Is she messing with me?
Is she here?
I look around the hall, scanning the crowd for her face, but I don’t see her. There are too many people. I can’t decide if I’d even want to see her. Sometimes, I’m so angry with her I can’t stand it. And other times, I miss her so much…
Plus, is my fly open? It would be embarrassing, to say the least, to stand up at the lectern with my dick hanging out. But I’m sitting in front of a hundred or more students. How can I check without being obvious?
Shit.
As discreetly as I can manage, I feel for my fly under the pretense of bending down to pick up a pen. It’s closed, thank God. When I straighten, another text.
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