by Matayo, Amy
Ben blinks, his mouth going slack before it slowly hardens. I’m looking at the jealous face again, and I don’t know why.
“Wow, someone’s very defensive of a guy she claims not to know much.”
“I’m not defensive, I just—”
“I think we need to take a little break in conversation here.” He stands up, rubs his hands together, then flexes his fingers a couple times. “I’m going to head home and watch the game. I might be back later, or maybe I’ll wait until tomorrow. I just need some time…”
“What’s this about?” I say, not ready to cower from his overt passive aggression. “Is it that hard to understand why I might have a problem with you poking fun at someone who had a public panic attack on stage, Ben? I feel bad for him. This whole thing hasn’t been easy.”
He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “I don’t feel bad for him. Teddy Hayes is a grown man with a job to do, and he’s failing at it. He needs to grow up and get over himself.”
You’re jealous. I think the words, but I don’t say them out loud.
“So out of curiosity, what you’re saying is, if I have a meltdown at any time in the future, I would also need to ‘get over myself?’”
“Now you’re making this about you,” he mutters, rolling his eyes.
“It is about me.” I look up at him, wishing that for once in my life someone would allow me to be human. To mess up. To cry and grieve and be afraid and feel the weight of loss and still be welcomed anyway. Then again, maybe my words are more accurate than I thought. Maybe this is about me. Maybe I keep choosing people who judge harshly because I’ve never stopped judging myself. “But you’re right. You should probably go.”
And that’s what Ben does, making sure to slam the door so I hear it loud and clear.
I lie back on the bed, wondering why I’ve done this for so long. It feels a little bit like wasting my life, though I can’t pinpoint anything that actually helps me draw that conclusion. I love Ben, I think. But if I’m being honest…we’re competitive. I keep him at arm’s length, and he knocks me down with digs and backhanded compliments. He likes affection, but I don’t. He’s passive-aggressive and I’m just passive, if passive means slightly self-loathing and too numb to care about much, including myself. The only thing we have in common is our job. I’m not sure that’s enough to hold together a relationship.
Funny that I never once shied away from Teddy’s closeness.
But the issue here isn’t Teddy. It’s Ben and me together.
Specifically, me being in the spotlight. I like fading into the background while Ben likes being the star of the show. And now I’ve brushed shoulders with the famous Teddy Hayes, and have been in the news all week for my specific brand of ‘heroics.’ Reporters used that word, not me. I kept him alive. I kept him company. I kept him hidden and out of harm’s way. For that, I’m called a hero and the media hasn’t let up. Every time another news story shows up online or on television, Ben bristles.
And that, friends, is the wrap-up of our current relationship status.
I stare toward the door, wondering if he’ll walk back through while simultaneously hoping he doesn’t. How many years of my life have I spent thinking this same thought about every man I’ve dated? Worse, how many more years will I spend in the future? I haven’t let anyone in since my high school boyfriend, and that ended horribly. We’ve only had one conversation about marriage. A conversation that wasn’t serious and concluded with no impending wedding date. The worst thing is, I’m okay with it. Something tells me healthy women in loving relationships wouldn’t be.
You know that saying about how you should live your life and not let it live you? Lately, I’ve wondered if I’m doing the opposite. Shame buries a person deep when it has had ten years to pile on.
I blink and come out of my trance-like state. The door hasn’t opened, and sitting here wondering if it will isn’t going to solve my problems. My private life is a tangled mess of grief, comfortability, routine, and a few uncertain feelings that should undoubtedly be very certain by now. But dwelling on my life won’t fix it right now. There’s only one thing I can fix, or at least try to.
Scooting back on the bed, I open my laptop and reach for my phone.
* * *
Teddy
What happened? The text simply says, as though it doesn’t shock the hell out of me and send my heart into my throat at the same time. She sent me a message. I didn’t think she would. Ignoring the way my will to live just quadrupled times a hundred, I text back.
I choked in front of everyone. Sweet, simple, casual, the truth.
I saw that, she replies, effectively draining away whatever was left of my ego. I was kinda hoping she hadn’t.
You and the rest of Twitter, YouTube, and the 5 o’clock news. It should be in People Magazine tomorrow if you want to grab a copy.
I don’t, but thanks. Where are you now? She texts back.
Flagstaff. I have a concert tomorrow. I doubt I’ll be able to perform, but I leave that part out.
Think you’ll be able to perform? So much for leaving things out. It’s been a long time since a stranger could see right through me. But that’s just it, isn’t it? Jane isn’t a stranger. In the oddest way, it feels like she knows me better than anyone. When someone sees you at your worst, it’s when you learn the most. Women—and some men—like the idea of me and nothing else. Any preconceived notions Jane had about me were smashed on literal impact. The moment she pulled me into that closet, all pretense was stripped away in the fight to stay alive. The number of times I gripped her hand was the best indication. You can’t grip someone’s hand through trauma without imprinting at least a part of yourself on them. I held her so much that I imprinted nearly everything I had, the good and the bad. Most people only see the false good. Jane saw the real terrible. I didn’t even bother to hide it, so why start now?
Honestly, no. Again, why bother?
That’s unfortunate. Mind if we keep talking for a while? Maybe it will help. I don’t ask if she means for her or me. It won’t help me, but I don’t say that. I want to keep texting her. In this singular case, lying seems to be a necessary evil. A questionable means to the very best end.
Maybe it will. It doesn’t, but we keep texting for nearly two hours.
Like I said, the very best end.
Chapter Fifteen
Jane
I have barely stepped inside my apartment when I hear it: a muffled ping coming from the inside of my bag. And it’s not the first one or the second or even the third. When it comes to texting, Teddy is persistent, something I wasn’t aware of when we were locked up. I would find his behavior a bit annoying if it didn’t feel so sweet. A man hasn’t cared this much about me in years. That thought pokes me in the conscience.
Ben cares, even if he hasn’t spoken to me in two days. Right?
Shouldn’t I be sure?
I press the questions down with a fist, deciding it isn’t fair to have them at all when Ben isn’t here to defend them. I push the front door closed with my hip, toss my purse on the tiny kitchen table, and kick off my shoes. Even low-top Converse can hurt after a while. I think there’s a blister forming on my heel and possibly another on my right toe.
I limp a little on my way into the kitchen, then retrieve a water bottle from the refrigerator and unscrew the top, recalling the way my heart nearly leaped out of my chest when I witnessed Teddy’s public meltdown. I’ve watched the video at least twenty times now. In jeans and a black sweater, he looked so much like the man I dragged into the closet, the GQ guy who turned out to be both friendly and fearsome, especially at the beginning.
Feeling a sudden wave of sadness at the memories, I hobble into the bedroom and remove my earrings and bracelet, tossing them onto my dresser, then snatch the phone out of my bag and fall onto my bed. My mother used to scold me for this. Never lunge for a bed. You’ll break the rails in the attempt to break your fall. Those words never made sense to me, not then a
nd not now. Whether or not anything breaks, it still leaves me lying prone in exhaustion at the end of the day, which is really all that matters.
I flip onto my back and read Teddy’s three—no, four texts. Trying hard to ignore the way my heart suddenly picks up speed, I begin to type.
Yes, I had a good day today and no, there’s no chance of me sleeping. I hardly do anymore. What’s on your mind?
That first part was a white lie, but white also stands for purity. It’s how I justify it. My day involved escorting some glitzy YouTube star to a fashion event in the city and listening to various make-up tutorials all afternoon. Did you know highlighters can really help your cheeks pop and give you a glow that lasts well into the evening? Well, so will sweat and wearing a bullet-proof vest all day while listening to YouTubers talk fashion.
My little white lie seems appropriate, considering the circumstances.
I stare at my phone, waiting for the three little dots of approval to appear that indicate he’s working on a response. Nothing. I continue to stare, certain they’ll appear any second. One, four, fifteen, sixty seconds go by. Nothing. The man can send text after text, but he can’t respond to the one single one I’ve sent him? I lay there, increasingly frustrated and angry and hurt—all those emotions lobbed at me one after another until I’m juggling them with shaky hands and dropping them all over the place. Eventually, they shatter, and all I wind up feeling is depressed and inadequate. When do you finally and fully move past the mistakes of childhood and the mark they make?
Five minutes. It’s been five minutes.
Ten years. It’s been ten years.
I’m done.
Standing with a huff and trying not to cry—irrational, I know—I yank my shirt over my head and toss it on the floor, then head for the shower. This day has been crap, my hair smells like fifteen different types of perfume, my feet hurt, and I’m filled with a sudden need to rinse the residue away right along with the memories.
The water is running at the perfect close-to-boiling temperature when I hear it. A ping. Followed by another. Standing there half-naked and shivering, I debate climbing in and ignoring him altogether. But of course, the part of me that misses him despite the awful circumstances surrounding the way we met...the part of me that needs desperately to connect with someone—with Teddy, because who am I kidding? He’s the only one I want to talk to—that part shuts off the shower and heads for my bed. The sound of gurgling water sliding down a partially clogged drain follows me as I snatch up the comforter, wrap it around my shoulders, and bury myself underneath it.
I read Teddy’s newest text and smile.
And then I respond.
* * *
Teddy
I toss my phone onto the pillow next to me and stare at the ceiling. It’s two a.m., and we’ve been texting since midnight. It’s been ten minutes since I sent my last text to Jane and she still hasn’t answered me. Something tells me she fell asleep despite her claim that she wouldn’t. I know I’m selfish for wanting her to stay awake, but nighttime is the worst. I’ve never been afraid of the dark in my life, but I am now, struggling with monsters in the closet for the first time in my life. It’s pathetic, but here we are.
Still, my last text was an important one, and I’d hoped to get a reaction. I was hoping she shared my struggle. Not knowing will keep me awake all night.
I push back my white down comforter and sit up, stretching my arms over my head. Bare-chested and cold, I make my way into the kitchen to grab a beer. Not the best thing to drink in the middle of the night, but the odds of sleeping were shot to hell the moment my agent called and told me fans were beginning to place bets on whether I’ll show tomorrow night. I’m jittery and anxious because I can almost guarantee I won’t. What if my career is finished? What if I can’t ever get onstage again?
I pop the tab on the can and lean against the sink, looking around at the spacious apartment.
I don’t rent; I own the place outright. All the stainless appliances and granite countertops and slate floors belong to me. In a couple years, thanks to a few extra payments on my part, and a little help from the guys, it will be one-hundred percent official. Not that I care all that much. I bought the place two years ago because my agent said I needed a safer place to live. I agreed to it without second-guessing him, though I can’t pretend my ego wasn’t involved in the sale. It was with a fair amount of pride and self-congratulation that I signed on the dotted line—a ten-year mortgage that I’m paying off much earlier, a payment more than triple in size from my last apartment, for more space than a bachelor needs all to himself.
It isn’t exactly that I regret buying the apartment now. It’s just that I know what happens to a person after the newness wears off. Instead of the high hopes you placed in your decision, you’re left with a fresh kind of emptiness, one that isn’t assuaged by shiny newness and fancy decorations.
In all the time I’ve lived here, I’ve never seen that six-burner stove used once. I believe in take-out, and the guys don’t know how to work it. We tried to figure it out early on, but all we got was clicking noises and the faint scent of gas, so we shut it off quickly. Who owns so many nice things they never even touch?
Suddenly feeling despondent, I toss the half-empty beer can into the trash and make my way to the window. The view is unparalleled, stars for miles and lights of the city twinkling below me like a year-round holiday. It’s Christmas at its best. A Norman Rockwell painting designed just for me. Yet it’s doing nothing to improve my mood. Why hasn’t Jane texted back? Why does it matter so much?
I try to work up some enthusiasm for the view because it is beautiful. It isn’t common to everyone, and I’m lucky. Blessed, even. Proud winner of the apartment lottery jackpot and I need to be more grateful. I’m right on the verge of convincing myself I really do love this place when my phone chimes from the other room.
To heck with the view. I smile to myself at the idea of finally hearing from her and pick up the phone.
Sometimes I wish I could go back, just for a minute. That’s a weird thing to admit, but it wasn’t all bad.
I stare at her words, relating to them and memorizing them. She would go back, same as me. It’s weird and it isn’t, and no one else in the world would understand that strange, messed-up catch-twenty-two but her. I make myself respond, even though I know it might open a door I won’t ever be able to close completely.
So would I. For a minute. Maybe a few more. I don’t regret everything.
The phone sits like fire in my hands. Feelings burn when they first come out, even if they come out as a tiny spark. I’m talking about the kiss, and we both know it. Sure I kissed her, but that action could always be blamed on last-minute desperation. The words I just typed expose way more than the kiss ever did; more than it seems on paper. Thoughts. Fears. Feelings. A whole bunch of tangled emotions, I can’t even begin to unwind. Jane might not recognize them for what they are. But I know she will.
My gut churns when she doesn’t respond right away. What is she thinking? Is she mad? Should I have kept everything to myself? I’m contemplating a nice enough way to backtrack when another chime finally comes through.
I have nightmares. So many of them. It’s the reason I hate to sleep.
I stare at the message for a long time, trying to gauge her meaning. But then I know...she’s giving me an out. It’s one I don’t want to take, but I appreciate the effort. Still, time might not be a bad thing. I once read that if you go too fast, you break things. I don’t want to break this, even if it never goes beyond simple friendship. I roll with the new direction she’s veered and type back.
What do you dream about? She immediately begins typing, though the message must be a long one.
The shoes lying around the arena. The kid in the closet with us. The gun. “Say It.” That stupid game keeps rolling through my mind. I have so many better questions I could have asked if I’d thought about them at the time.
Despite the serious subje
ct, that makes me smile.
You can always ask now.
Okay, I will. Do you…like to go camping?
I laugh and type a response. That’s the better question you would have asked me? Not what I expected. But yes, I like to go camping.
It’s an important question, and I needed to know the answer.
Why? Do you love camping or something?
No, I hate it. I’d have to sleep on the ground and use the bathroom in a bucket or something. I’ll camp at a Ramada Inn, thank you very much.
Ramada Inn? That’s her idea of a nice hotel? I smile at her simplicity, even while considering the over-the-top opulence of my own apartment.
Then I guess I’ll never ask you to go camping with me. You’d turn me down flat based on the bathroom facilities alone.
I wait, the phone resting in my palm like a lottery ticket one scratch away from winning. Once again, she’s gone silent. Once again, I’m holding my breath. And once again, I’m second-guessing the wisdom of my words. Maybe my innuendo is too much all at once. Maybe I should back off, leave her alone, give it my best shot at drifting back to the normal I knew before I met Jane.
But then a text comes through.
I might consider it. I would just need some time to think.
I blink at her response, unable to think past her implication. I don’t answer her. I have no idea what to say, because I don’t think we’re talking about camping any longer. Jane has a lot to think about, things I don’t even have to consider. I need to remember that right now, we’re just friends. Friends who’ve gone through a particularly crippling circumstance together, yes. But still friends.
I sit at the edge of my bed for the next two hours, analyzing that friendship while trying not to think of the monsters still in the closet…ready and waiting to pounce.