To See You Again

by gard, marian

  I hear the plastic bag rattling near me, and then the sound of a Styrofoam container popping open.

  "Here, I have our sandwiches from lunch. Where are you?"

  "I'm next to you," I answer, batting the air around me, hitting nothing, and then I feel Collin's hand on my leg, and my breath hitches.

  "There you are," he says, releasing his hand. "Scoot over by me. I'll hand you your sandwich." I move toward the sound of his voice and stop when our legs touch. "There you are," he says again, and I feel him place his hand back down on my leg gently, tentatively, palm up. "Put your hand by mine and I'll give it to you." I lower my hand onto his and then I feel the crusty bread tickle my fingers.

  "Thanks," I murmur. We eat in silence for a little while and eventually I hand him what remains of mine. It felt good to eat, but I'm not sure I could've tolerated another bite without a drink. Collin cleans up what he can of our lunch in the darkness, and once he's finished rattling Styrofoam and plastic, the elevator swells with silence once again. Eventually, I find the courage to speak.

  "I'm sorry if I hurt you, too. I lied earlier when I said I just came to lunch because my boss told me to. I wanted to see you, even if doing so scared the crap out of me."

  I leave out the apology for the most critical lie I ever told him; when I denied the feelings I had for him as he stood in my kitchen looking like a lost child.

  Using the same hand he used to give me the sandwich, he takes my hand in his and laces our fingers together. I adjust slightly, closing any space left between us, and rest my head on his upper arm. He makes a contented noise that I feel, more than hear, and then squeezes my hand gently.

  "What I didn't lie about was that I'm happy to see you doing well. You're so transformed."

  "Well, I may not be as transformed as you think." I can hear his smile, and warmth washes over me as I snuggle close to him.

  "Oh yeah?"

  "I guess Victor was on to something when he told me a decent haircut and some grown up clothes would go a long way," Collin says flatly, but I hear the undercurrent of his humor.

  "Oh no!" I exclaim. "If you're endorsing Victorisms, pigs must be flying. Nice try though, Collin. I can feel things are different with you."

  He squeezes my hand again. "Oh you can, can you?"

  "Uh huh. Now fess up."

  "Turns out there was a little more to my brooding than we all thought." He pauses a minute while I quietly curse the darkness. "Um…so I saw a doctor a few years ago and was diagnosed with depression."

  This is definitely not what I was expecting him to say. "Wow, Collin, I'm sorry to hear that." I feel like an idiot for not having anything more empathic or profound to say. He's most likely already regretting telling me.

  "Don't be. It was probably one of the best things to have happened to me. I've learned a lot about it. I take meds, exercise, try to eat right. I even saw a therapist for a few years."

  "Has it helped?"

  "To quote you from earlier, yes and no." He clears his throat and shifts a little bit. I can tell he's holding back telling me more, even though I can't see him.

  "Do you need me to move?" I ask, suddenly feeling self-conscious about resting on him. I lift my head up.

  "No, you're perfect. Don't move unless you want to." He gently pulls me in closer to him and I feel his breath like a whisper on my neck, as I return to leaning on him.

  I inhale sharply. "So, what do you mean yes and no?"

  He pauses and I feel a slight tension pass through his fingers where his hand softly grips my arm. "Well, some days are still really hard. At first I really hated being on medication, and it was tough for me to adjust to that being part of my life, but it has seemed to help. One of the biggest realizations I've had was that there's a difference between just existing and actually living. Every day I get up and make the choice to live, but I still have issues—shit to sort through."

  "When you say a choice to live…does that mean you ever considered not living?" My pulse accelerates terrified of his answer. Careless, self-destructive, apathetic—these are all terms I would've used to describe Collin in the past, but never suicidal.

  Collin

  Rachel's question conjures a memory of a dark period, one I haven't thought about in a long time. In the clearest part of my memory, I remember hearing Reba creeping around my apartment, trying to be quiet, as she navigated through a floor covered with take-out boxes, magazines, unopened mail and God only knows what else. She probably assumed I was asleep. At the time, it was a fair assumption, because by that point, I had barely left my bed all week.

  "I'm awake, Reba," I called out to her.

  She appeared in the doorway of my bedroom. "Did you go to work today?"

  I rolled over in the bed away from her and pulled the sheet over my shoulder. "Seriously, Reba?" I mumbled into the pillow.

  I felt the weight shift on the bed as she sat down. "It stinks in here, Collin. Your place is trashed. Why don't you hire someone to clean it?" I didn't answer her, and after a moment she shoved me. "Collin?" She pushed on me harder. "Collin, listen, you're really beginning to freak me out, OK? Please talk to me. Why are you like this?" Her voice cracked like she was going to cry and I filled with dread. I didn't have the energy for her emotions. I didn't have the energy for my emotions. I didn't have the energy for anything.

  "Just go, Reba. I'm fine. I'm just tired, OK? I'll get the place cleaned, if that'll make you happy." I buried my head deeper in the pillow. I felt the weight shift again and I quietly prayed she'd given up. A moment later her face appeared in front of mine, as she knelt next to the bed and stared earnestly at me.

  "Collin, I don't give a shit about your place, or how dirty you choose to be. Although, it is gross. I get that you've always been angry or withdrawn or whatever." I closed my eyes and felt her run her hand through my unkempt hair. "But I have never seen you like this. Not even close. You're scaring the shit out of me, Collin. Are you sick? Did something happen? Please talk to me!"

  I moved slowly, sitting up in bed, and everything in my body ached. She scrutinized each movement, and I felt like a caged animal. I wished she'd just leave. I took a deep breath, exhaled, and stared down at my lap. "I don't know, Reba. I don't know what the fuck is wrong with me. I've felt like shit for months now—maybe longer and I'm just sick of it. I'm tired of always feeling so tired."

  She pulled on my limp hand. "Let me try to help. Please. You'd help me; I know you would. Let me do the same for you." I felt the pressure from her hand gripping mine and all I could manage was a shrug.

  Rachel

  "How do you do it?" he asks, sounding more awed than annoyed.

  "Do what?"

  "You have this way of getting me to talk about things that I don't tell anyone. On that note, very few people know about the depression diagnosis…so…"

  I squeeze his hand tight. "Collin, I would never."

  "Yeah, I know." He lets out a long breath and then inhales deeply the way someone would right before they attempt to lift an impossibly heavy object. Maybe that's what it's like for him to talk about these things. Perhaps that's what it's like for all of us when we are brave enough to unburden ourselves of the pain we carry deep inside. It's akin to pushing something substantial up and off of your soul, just so you can breathe. "I never tried to hurt myself, but there was this period when I thought a lot about not wanting to be around anymore." He's quiet for a minute and then he whispers, "And there were a few times when I thought about different ways to do it."

  "Collin." I feel desperate. The urge to try to hold him is completely overwhelming. I settle for pulling his hand toward me and onto my chest, as though I'm giving his arm a hug. He doesn't resist.

  "Is that when you decided to get help?"

  "Um…it was around that time. I sort of hit a rock bottom and it made me think about my dad, and how he would just shut down for days at a time. I had this week that was so bad I didn't know what day it was. It occurred to me that I had enough mon
ey for that to just be my life. I could live, cooped up in my house, having groceries and carryout delivered, watching cable TV, and going in and out of sleep. I just thought—there has to be more to life than this. There was for my dad, and he was too sick to see it. I didn't want to be found hanging in the shed," he says flatly.

  Oh, my God. I wince, and then immediately feel sick thinking about Collin dead, especially at his own hands. "When did it get better?" I ask, needing desperately to hear him tell me that he is better, that all of this is in his past.

  "It took a while, and I have Reba to thank for helping me. The first thing I did was get on meds, and it took a few weeks, but I finally had some energy again. I started to give a shit, a little bit anyway, about things I used to care about." He sighs again. "Everything else has been about balance in my life; trying not to have too much or too little of anything. I hardly drink anymore, and when I do, it's usually just one."

  "Do you still have thoughts like you did before?" I involuntarily squeeze his hand, thinking how I would give anything for him to never feel that way again.

  "Look, I don't want to freak you out. I really am OK," he replies firmly.

  I pray he's telling me the truth, and he isn't just saying what he thinks I want to hear, or can handle. For the millionth time today I wish that we weren't in total darkness. I want so much to see his face right now.

  "I haven't had thoughts like those for a very long time," he continues. "All of that happened before a lot of other things fell into place for me. I keep pretty busy these days, and that helps, too."

  "I'm sure you are busy running a large company. How did that happen?"

  "Victor left it to me," Collin says matter-of-factly.

  "He passed away?" I can't hide my surprise. Victor was one of those people I just assumed would outlive everyone. I pictured him as a crotchety old man, frowning in his easy chair, clinging to life just to prove a point that he could do as he pleased.

  "Yes, about a year ago now. He…um…wanted me to run it because James is always in and out of rehab, so he couldn't depend on him. He was too sexist to give it to Reba, even if she had been more qualified, which she wasn't. I'd been running my own company for several years by that point and much to his amazement, I hadn't screwed it up yet. In fact, we were profitable and doing well." He lets a little laugh escape, as though he's just as surprised as Victor had been. "Don't get too warm and fuzzy over it, though. Victor chose me because he felt I was the best shot of keeping his legacy alive, not because there was any affection between us. He wanted his company to remain in the family and I was as close to that as he could get."

  "Wow," I reply, dumbly.

  "Yup."

  "Well, congratulations, Collin. That's great. I mean, the company and everything…you at the helm. It's all pretty exciting." He doesn't answer me, but he squeezes my hand.

  I'm so impressed with him. I can't even imagine the courage it must have taken to reach out and ask for help with his depression, especially given how little family support he has…and then all his success…running this big company...wow.

  "Can I ask you something else?"

  "Sure," he replies, sounding calm.

  "Are you happy?"

  He pauses a minute before answering and then says, "Mostly."

  "Does Leighton make you happy?"

  There's an interminable pause and then he finally says that she does, but I can tell he's holding something back.

  "What about you and Beckett?" he asks, not hesitating even a moment to ask me the same.

  Collin

  As the questions leave my lips I'm overcome with the sensation of déjà vu. I know the cause of it immediately. It's induced by the fear that surrounds asking her a question I don't know whether I want to hear the answer to. A few minutes ago, I shifted to put my arm around her and she instantly relaxed into me, her body folded up next to mine, her delicate hand still in the grasp of my larger one, our legs touching on one side. I have held her like this twice before.

  The first time was the night she told me some dickhead had tried to force himself on her. At first she tried to be all tough about it, and downplay her own terror, and his actions, but I wouldn't let it go. Finally, she broke down, sobbing into my chest until my shirt was soaked. I stroked her hair and begged her to let me do something, anything. She wouldn't. Eventually she fell asleep in my arms and I carried her to her bed, tucked her in, and then retreated to the couch where I laid wide awake and raging, unable to quiet the thoughts of ripping some faceless guy's head off.

  The second time was the night when we made love. I fell asleep with her locked in my arms, sure that I would wake up in the morning to the start of something incredible, not the end of everything.

  "I think I'm happy," she murmurs. I'd give anything to see her face when she says this, to look in her eyes and see what they would reveal to me. "Beckett is a really good guy."

  When she says his name her hand begins to wriggle free from my own, like she's just realized what we must look like, or what Beckett would think if he could see us now. Acting on an unexpected impulse, I tug on her hand seizing it back into my grasp, and then I squeeze her gently, moving my head so it's nestled on top of her own. The scent of her—the feel of her—it's all almost too much, but I want this—whatever the hell this is—it's enough for me to take a shaky breath and repeat the words I said to her before, years ago. "Raven, I want to hold you. Please."

  She makes a little sniffing noise, and I worry I may have made her cry, but then she turns her body so she's nearly lying on top of me and I tighten my grip on her. She runs her free hand along my chest down to my abdomen, and I mimic her movements, running a hand down her arm, gliding across her side, and then onto her leg coiled on top of my own.

  "Say my name again," she whispers.

  "Raven," I say, breathing into her hair. I plant a kiss on the top of her head, so light that I doubt she's aware of it.

  We are dangerously close to crossing a line, if we haven't already. I don't want to care, but I know I have to, because I can't make this moment last. We won't be suspended in our lives like this for much longer. It occurs to me that this is when I should be concerned with déjà vu. If I let something happen between us now, I'll repeat history that shouldn't be repeated. I don't want her to cheat on someone to be with me, and as much as I now know that what I feel for Leighton pales in comparison to what it feels like to just be close to Raven, I don't want to hurt her either.

  Ten years ago I was not the man that Raven deserved. Today I might be, but pursuing what I'm feeling now could undo all of that. I kiss her once more on the top of her head, inhaling the floral scent of her hair, and this time she does notice, answering me with a mix between a moan and a sigh. I think if I tried to kiss her now, she'd let me, but this time I want to win the war, not just the battle. Shit.

  "Raven," I say, and it takes everything I've got to push the next words out, "we shouldn't do this." She doesn't respond, but her previously circling hand stills, resting right over my pounding heart. "I'm sorry," I whisper.

  Rachel

  His words waft over me like the distant smell of something burning—a quiet warning of danger. Clearly what I need is for someone to shout or shake me, to scream the words I need to hear in order to bring around my sobriety, like a cold shower to wash away this heated intoxication. I replay his words in my head. They're true and right and exactly what I need to do, but clearly not enough to coax me into letting go of him. His rationality is the opposite of what I want… But that's just it—want. That's what this is and that is very different than a need.

  I feel him solid and warm as my hands remain on his chest, rising and falling in rhythm with each breath he takes. The desire to stay in his arms absorbing all the intimacy and comfort that comes with it is undeniable. This reconnection with Collin is as confusing as it is wonderful. Years after he was gone, I coaxed my brain into trivializing the connection he and I had had. I reasoned that we'd been young, livin
g in the artificial world of college, and as a result of that everything had been intensified, magnified. I also told myself that the amazing sex we'd had that night, was just an exaggerated memory caused by the intense emotions of the night. Now, lying in his arms, inhaling his masculine scent, I'm reevaluating that logic.

  He whispers my name again and I know it's time to wake from this dream. This isn't real my mind warns in response. What I'm feeling now is artificial. A stress response, maybe? My life has been non-stop and on the go for years. I'm forever inundated with calls and emails from work, no matter what the day, or the time. Everything in my life is fast paced, demanding, competitive, and about some arbitrary bottom line. None of this would've happened if we hadn't gotten stuck in here. We wouldn't have talked about any of these things, and I realize how much of that has to do with life just being put on pause for a second. That's what this broken, piece-of-crap elevator gave us—a pause button. The quiet though—the absolute stillness all of this has generated—has made me realize just how crazed everything has been. I don't know the last time I've slowed down enough to just talk with anyone the way that Collin and I just have. So much of what I'm feeling now is based on circumstance, the reaction to the relief of everything coming to a halt. I need to let go.

  I pull away from him, extracting my limbs from his in slow motion, part of me wishing he would stop me, the other part thankful for his prudence.

  "It's my fault," he says, just as my hand is leaving his.

  "What is?" My voice is shaky.

  "Things getting like they did just now. I just wanted to touch you. I've missed you." His voice is low and I can hear sadness, or maybe even regret.

  "It wasn't just you. I've missed you, too, but you're right—when these doors finally open, we'll go back to our own lives." I feel a twinge of fear grip me. It feels like something cold and hard is lodged in the pit of my stomach.

  "You'll go back to Beckett," he whispers, and it sounds more like a question than a statement of fact.