Ok, Mr. Science, why don’t seagulls fly over the bay?
Moments later, Because they’d be bagels.
She is messing with me. Furthermore, that’s a horrendous joke. Unfortunately, it sparks a tiny inward smile, and that truly pisses me off. She’s definitely here. But why? Why would she come here? I know she’s not taking classes this summer.
And how could she think we could just pick up where we left off–or worse, pretend that our breakup never happened?
As the clapping for the prior speaker winds down, I rise to the lectern to begin my presentation. I scan the faces again as I talk, but still can’t locate her. I guess it’s morbid curiosity; I just want to know whether our time apart has been half as hard on her as it has been on me.
I finish my synopsis to more clapping and a few questions from interested students. Then, I take my seat.
Your class sounds amazing. I knew it would be.
This text knocks the wind out of me. I stare at it for a long time. Her kindness is unbearably cruel. She has no right. If friendship is what this is, I don’t want it.
I put my phone in sleep mode, and drop it into my inside coat pocket. I know she can see me, wherever she is, and this is my way of sending a message back. You left. I don’t look at the audience for the rest of the night, and, instead, I focus on the job I came here to do.
§
Sarah
He looks amazing. And he looks terrible. Watching him in front of the standing-room-only lecture hall, he appears self-assured and capable in his bespoke navy blue suit and a crisp white shirt. He walks through his presentation, passionate and engaging. This is a man who was born to be center stage. He’s knowledgeable, authoritative, charismatic, and absolutely in control. He’s mesmerizing.
But as I study him closely, he looks tired. There are circles under his eyes and a tightness in his expression. He appears a bit thinner too, although perhaps more muscular at the same time. I’m probably the only one who would notice, but then I have painstakingly committed every detail of him to my memory, and have tortured myself with those memories over the past month.
I’ve missed him. Desperately. Countless things remind me of him; countless times my mind has drifted back to the warmth of his skin, his touch, and his laugh that I love so much, every moment we spent together. Each precious instance plays over and over in my head in an endless loop. For the past month, I’ve felt like I’m drifting. Like I’ve lost my true north.
I go through all the motions: I study; I see friends; I call my family. But it’s all hollow, mechanical.
I used to find comfort in my ability to distance myself from others. My invulnerability was my superpower. It protected me.
But tonight, I don’t feel invulnerable. I feel scared and exposed. I’m oscillating wildly between wanting to crash my way to the front of the room, and throw myself into his arms, and feeling terrified that it’s too late. That I’ve lost him.
Our comfort zone has always been humor. So I thought that perhaps I could break the ice between us by texting him tonight in the same spirit of teasing that we had both enjoyed countless times before. But as I watch him read my texts, I can’t tell what he’s thinking. He’s too guarded. I have no idea if he’s happy to hear from me, or if my intrusion is unwelcome.
So I send him one more text, this time just going for honesty.
Your class sounds amazing. I knew it would be.
I watch for his response. I can’t breathe. I see him stare at the screen, his eyes blank and his face impassive. His jaw tightens, and he picks up the phone, dropping it into his suit coat pocket.
Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. My breath catches and my eyes fill with tears. I desperately cling to a tenuous composure–this is not the time or place to lose it. But, suddenly, I can’t hear anything but my own heartbreak. It rips through my body with indescribable violence. I put my face in my hands, needing privacy for my profound undoing.
I have an urgent need to leave this room. I want to get up and run.
What am I doing here? What have I done?
More memories: The stick figure drawings, his quiet wisdom, so much laughter, our passionate lovemaking. My world was colorless until he came into it. He brought me to life again.
Suddenly, I realize that people are getting up to leave. I lift my face from my hands to awkward stares from the people around me. It’s embarrassing, but I don’t really have the capacity to care. I collect myself and make one of the most important decisions of my life: Now or never? When I lost my dad, I was devastated, but I didn’t have regrets about the way things were between us when he died. Losing Danny would be entirely different. And that regret is one I don’t think I could ever get over.
I make my way down to the front. His proximity feels surreal; I’ve thought about almost nothing but him since I sent him away a month ago. His back is to me and he’s speaking with a student, a female student. She looks all too interested in what he has to say. I instantly hate her.
I move closer, my heart banging in my chest. A huge part of me wants to walk up and wrap my arms around him possessively like I once had the right to do. But I gave up the right, and that humbling fact sends a crash of panic through me.
Someone accidentally bumps me, and I stumble forward, my hand reaching out to a nearby desk to steady myself.
Danny turns towards the commotion, and when he catches my eye, I see in a flash the countless emotions that pass over his handsome face. And then they’re gone.
I straighten myself slowly, and we just stare at each other. It could be that an entire conversation happens in that instant. It could be that there is nothing said at all. I’ve never seen him more guarded. And I have no idea how to proceed.
He turns back to the female student.
“Thank you for coming tonight, and for your interest in my class.”
He smiles politely, but dismissively. Coming here was a bad idea. His lack of acknowledgement tells me that my presence is unwanted. Or worse.
I start to turn.
“I’ll be a moment, and then we can speak privately.”
I look up and realize he’s talking to me. His eyes are flat. His tone of voice is not one he’s used with me in nearly six years. It’s not the warm, caramel-covered husky tone that is my safe place. It’s not the one that says, “I love you. You’re my everything.” It’s cold and detached. It’s not my Danny. It’s Professor Moore.
My heart sinks. “Run! Run now,” my head says. But before my feet can move, Danny excuses himself from Dr. Frick, grasps my elbow lightly and leads me out the rear door of the lecture hall.
It’s cool outside, and I gratefully inhale a deep breath of the late winter air. We walk silently down a corridor to a small courtyard where students normally hang out between classes. It’s empty now, and the eerie quiet seems to fuel my growing sense of apprehension.
Dan stops by a low wall and folds his arms across his body. There’s an indifference in his expression that I’ve never experienced before in his presence.
“Why did you come tonight?”
The question comes out sounding harsh, almost accusatory. And while I was expecting him to ask, I’m suddenly worried that I don’t have a good enough answer for him.
“Because I miss you terribly. And I fear I’ve made a horrible mistake.”
My heart is pounding out of my chest as I await any response. It is not like me to be so direct with my feelings, but, then again, I’ve been someone else entirely since we’ve met.
But he’s giving nothing away. “I tried calling you, texting you. No response.”
I look down at my feet, and hold back my scattered emotions. I’ve been so unfair to him. So cruel.
“I know. I’m so sorry. I had to get my head together, and work some things out. And I needed to spend some time alone in order to do that.”
“Bullshit!” His vehemence startles me, and I snap my head back up to meet his eyes, which are furious and filled with hurt. “You were punishing me
. You just didn’t have the guts to say it! I was wrong for not confiding in you. I know that. But I was more than willing to face up to my mistake and make things right. At least I was trying, Sarah. You just cut and ran. You gave up on me. On us.”
“No, I didn’t,” I plead with him. “I’ve just never been good in relationships. I was confused about what we had, and I was afraid.”
“That’s a fucking cop out. I begged you not push me away. I gave you every chance. I would have gone to hell and back for you. I did, in fact–waiting for weeks on end for you to see fit to at least talk to me. Or to end this, if that’s what you really wanted. But you didn’t even show me that minimal amount of consideration. I told you I loved you, Sarah. Do you have any idea what that meant to me?”
I take in the angry, smoldering presence before me. He’s nearly vibrating with energy, but his body is eerily still.
“Yes! I do…because I feel the same way. And I messed up. I’m so sorry that I handled all of this so badly. But it didn’t mean that I stopped loving you. You have to believe me.”
My voice is weak and pleading, tears spilling down my face. I search his expression for some kind of recognition that what I’m telling him is true. But his posture is carefully blank, as though he’s examining my words with an acute sense of detachment–turning them over and over in his mind.
“I do believe you love me,” he replies at last. “I can see it in your eyes, Sarah.” He reaches out as though he wants to touch me. For a brief moment, my Danny is back. “But it’s not enough. I realized after you left me so…callously, that you don’t need me the way I needed you. You wouldn’t have been able to do what you did, otherwise. I’m not sure that you’ll ever allow yourself to need anyone that way. And I can’t live like that.”
The impact of his words leaves me speechless. Needing someone else had become a luxury that I hadn’t afforded myself in years. Not since I learned how easily those whom I needed could be taken from me.
I thought that was my strength. But in his eyes, it’s my weakness.
I reach for him, but he steps back, shaking his head.
“It’s ironic. When we first crossed paths again, I thought that the hardest thing we had to overcome was our age difference and the awkward fact that I had been your teacher.” He laughs a bitter-sounding laugh–not the one I love, at all. “But, as it turns out, it was the connection we shared over our parents’ deaths that was actually our downfall–the very thing that brought us together in the first place. Because I think our connection is that, at heart, we’re both solitary people who just happened to recognize something similar in the other. Maybe it fooled us into thinking we could find completion together. But solitary people, by definition, are better alone. I think you may have been right, Sarah; maybe we never really had a chance.”
There are no words to describe the silence that follows.
I can only say this: Though I’ve never been stabbed, I can truly imagine how it feels. The blade slides in with such precision, such sharpness that at first, there’s no pain–not even a full realization of what has transpired. Then slowly, as it recedes, the dawning occurs–a shocking, detached understanding of one’s own frailty. And with it comes the evidence that life is now free to flow from the body, painfully and unchecked, until there’s nothing left to give.
Danny stares intensely at me for a long moment, almost as though he’s memorizing me one last time. The idea of that is horrifying. Then he turns back toward the corridor to leave, drawing a figurative blade from my body without sound or ceremony.
“Danny…” I say desperately. It’s all I can manage as my breathing becomes shallow and I battle back a deluge of emotion. I want to argue with him that he’s wrong, but the words just don’t come. The truth is, I’m not sure if he’s wrong. And so I just stand helplessly by as the most important person in my life walks away from me for good.
Chapter 26
Danny
IT’S THURSDAY EVENING. AND AFTER a long day at work, and the hardest run I could possibly put myself through without resulting in actual death, I find myself inexplicably seated on a barstool at The Rose & Crown.
No matter what I do, I can’t shake the restlessness I’ve felt since I left Sarah standing in the courtyard two nights ago. I had imagined a meeting like that with her a thousand times. In some scenarios, I’d take her in my arms, we’d ask each other for forgiveness, and I’d tell her I want her back. She’d tell me it would be different from now on, and I would believe her.
In some scenarios, I’d say all of the things I practiced: that she gave up on me, that she didn’t need me, that she couldn’t need me, and that I had to move on. And I’d walk away feeling like I had achieved closure. I’d be able to get back to my life, and feel good for maintaining my resolve to end things between us.
But the scenario that I’m in now, the one that actually went down, well that one is shit. I said all of the practiced words–the ones that were supposed to make me feel better. But they didn’t; they made me feel empty.
I rub my eyes again and again, trying to ease the ache caused by weeks of stress and sleeplessness.
And somehow, being so deep in my own head, I’m oblivious when the seat next to me becomes occupied. I hear someone cough, and look up.
“Hey, Redwood. You look like crap.”
Fuck. Me.
I close my eyes again, and soundly curse the universe for having a really shitty sense of humor–then desperately try to remember what I ever did to deserve this. Unfortunately, a few things do come to mind, and that pisses me off even further.
I turn to face Marcus squarely so that there is no misunderstanding between us.
“Can you please just not speak to me right now?”
By silent mutual agreement, Marcus and I rarely talked throughout my relationship with Sarah. On those occasions when we went out with Sarah’s friends, we may have offered each other a quick nod, but that’s about it. It was better that we avoided each other, what with him being a dick and all.
He gives a soft grunt of agreement, and I turn back to my beer, doing my best to pretend that I’m alone.
“I just need to know one thing.”
Oh, for Christ’s sake. I glare at him. “What?”
“Why did you let me win at pool that first time we met?”
That was not the question I was expecting. It’s been months since that night; why bring it up now when it no longer matters? I breathe deeply, and focus my attention on the contents of my glass. This guy is actually waiting for an answer. Finally, I rub the stubble on my jaw.
“What makes you think I let you win?”
“Because I’m not as much of a douche as you think I am.”
“That’s debatable.”
I can almost feel his eyes boring into the side of my head. He ignores my comment, and goes back to the topic at hand.
“You sank all the hard shots and you missed the gimmies.”
I laugh a little to myself at that. He’s right; I made some great shots that night, mostly to avoid the pocket.
“The hard ones are much more fun.” I lift my eyes to meet his gaze, and he smiles shallowly, nodding.
“True. So, did you do it because you’re so fond of my sparkling personality?”
“That wasn’t exactly it, no.”
“You really do love her, then.”
It’s not a question. But it feels a little irrelevant considering that the last conversation she and I had effectively ended all future ones. I don’t bother answering.
“She told me you broke up. Is that why you look so depressed? I thought maybe they discontinued your hair gel.”
If I had just a little more fight in me, I would seriously contemplate a physical resolution to this conversation. Instead, I scan the bar for any other possible place to sit. With no other alternatives, I turn back to him.
“What is wrong with you? Honestly, do you just enjoy being an dick?”
He raises his eyebrows as if I
’ve missed the obvious, and instead of answering, takes a deep pull on his beer. He swallows, and then makes a face as the carbonation burns going down.
“You old enough for that?” I can’t resist.
“Fuck you.” He digs through the bowl of nuts, knocking a few over the side, and comes up with a cashew that he tosses in his mouth. Licking the salt from his fingers, he goes back for another. Gross. “Well, for starters, I recently lost the girl I was in love with, too.”
Marcus and I are hardly confidantes. He must know that I am truly not interested in his dating woes. In fact, I’d pay good money for someone to make him disappear at this very moment. But, short of a magician, I turn my attention back to my own pint, and make a mental note to avoid bar nuts from now on.
“Well, I guess ‘lost her’ isn’t really accurate,” he continues, uninvited. “She wasn’t my girlfriend; she’s my friend. She’s just never going to be more than that.”
Sarah.
He pauses for a minute, and in spite of myself, I turn in his direction. He’s not looking at me; he’s carefully pulling the label off his bottle. I take a deep breath, suddenly very uncertain, and a little wary, at the direction this conversation is heading.
“Anyway,” he continues. “She fell in love with this asshole.”
He looks over, catching my eye again, and smiles wryly. I just stare at him for a moment, and then a small chuckle bubbles out of somewhere that it’s been hiding inside me for weeks.
“And that pretty much ruined my chances with her,” he adds. “If I ever really had any.” With one last pull, he gets the label cleanly off the bottle in one piece. “I didn’t deal with it well at first.”
“You think?” I scoff. But, oddly enough, I can relate.
He huffs out an ironic laugh, and tilts his head back and forth in acknowledgement.
Although he’s making light, I get the sense that Sarah’s feelings for me have been far harder on him than his pride would have him let on. Of course he would have been in love with her. A guy like this probably never gets the time of day from someone like her.
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