by J. R. Rogue
The clouds dance.
Puppet shows upon my thighs.
I will spend all day here.
Seated just so,
at an ebony dining table
overlooking the
stumbling
ants below
my window.
Sunday, every day is Sunday.
I had a dream that your voice
would grace my ears again as the
week yawned
& set itself to slumber.
Sunday, every day is Sunday.
I wait.
I cannot quit my wait.
New York City in November is a magical thing. Twinkling Christmas lights begin to litter every storefront window. A crisp chill enters the air. I used to love it, back when I was carefree. When the demons I battled were bottled up and battled by men, liquor, and any other vice I could conjure up to keep them at bay. Now, I felt everything so clearly. I needed the pain.
Writing about heartbreak was not my specialty as an adult. I had succeeded in avoiding that pain and genre for so long. Now, I ached. I ached in places I didn’t know existed. My body didn’t want to function. And yet, the world was still turning. I couldn’t fathom the fucking ‘how’ of it all. I simply wanted to stay in bed. Soulmates. I believed in that word now. This year I became a believer. What a bitch that was.
Seven months had passed since I left Missouri in a haze. After things ended with Chace, I went back to the old house we shared and tried to pack. Kat attempted to help. My hands didn’t want to move. Eventually we ended up on the couch, watching movies until dawn. I did not sleep. My friend eventually passed out next to me, exhausted from the shared pain. She always absorbed.
I searched the phone book for a moving company as the sun crawled over the surface of my now hollow world. Hired movers would put my heartache in boxes. I visited my mother that day. I let her know I would be leaving. It broke her heart. She had seen a glimmer of hope that I would be staying for good. And I admit, I was starting to believe it too. Chace was not at her house. She had been asleep when he made it there the night before. Andrew was gone too. I was not able to tell him goodbye, either.
I had booked a hasty flight and said my goodbyes to Kat when she awoke that morning. I wanted out. I wanted to give Chace his normal life back. I wanted to give him his home back. I was the thorn and I needed to be removed. I didn’t want to leave my friends and family. I wondered when I would see them again. I promised them it would be more often. I hoped my words were not as empty as my chest.
After making it back to New York, I went into hiding. I hardly left my apartment. I rarely saw the sun for the first few months. I slept and wrote. It was the only way I knew how to exorcise my pain. It barely worked. I hired a new assistant, since my last one sold me out. My new hire was given one golden rule to follow: to leave me out of everything.
I needed time to write out everything inside of me. I needed someone to keep the wolves at bay. My reclusiveness had a deadline. By late November I would need to be alive again. The final film would be releasing. I had until then to wallow in this misery.
My words were only for Chace. He was in every one of them. I sang for him, I bled for him, and the vein was heavy. Soon, I had enough, and I put my people to work on something new. Something real.
I announced my new project with a heavy heart and a queasy stomach. I didn’t know how my fans would react or if they would even follow me on my new journey. I dipped my toe in slowly. I posted a few teasers from my poems on my Instagram, Tumblr, and Facebook. I had my typewriter shipped back with the rest of my stuff. I tried not to read too many of the comments. They were always so hard to keep track of anyways. I had millions of followers.
I had bled too many words for a single poetry chapter book. So, I planned to release my work in three volumes. The first would release the Tuesday before the final film. Everyone on my team insisted it was the best move. I couldn’t argue with that. I felt sick with it still. My heartbreak would be on display for the world, but so would my love. It was the only thing that kept me alive. For every poem I wrote about our end, my pain, and my loss, I wrote another about the time we had shared together. Though it was a small window of time, it was the most honest thing I had ever known.
I knew I had been a coward. Leaving the way I did. Just over 24 hours after breaking his heart, and my own, but that was the way I worked. I was a runner. Humans shed their skin every day, but some things are so deep inside, they can never be divorced from our skin.
Chace never texted me when he woke. I stared at my phone. I had checked it incessantly the day I packed my suitcase. Nothing. Just before I boarded my plane I texted him again. Letting him know he could come back home. Still, nothing.
Now, here I was, in November. My phone buzzing in my purse brought me back to the present. I paused in front of a glittering storefront and began fumbling in my bag. My gloved hands were clumsy. I wished I could say I was surprised by the name I saw on the screen. But I was not.
One person I did hear from often was Tristan. I rarely responded, and when I did, I was short with him. He was relentless. I still did not understand his fascination with me.
Okay, I did have some ideas. The fact that our movie premiere was quickly approaching was one. I shoved my phone back into my purse, pulled up my collar, and headed to my apartment. It was just around the corner. I had an armful of presents, and they were making my limbs numb.
I would not be making it home for Thanksgiving. The guilt ate at me. I didn’t want to pull away from my family again, but I was a coward. I couldn’t face Chace just yet.
I was determined to conquer that fear by Christmas. Perhaps I was foolish. I knew a tiny part of me was hoping he would forgive me when my book came out.
Once inside my apartment, I unloaded my arms, and hung my purse. I didn’t have much time. I was meeting Gemma for drinks. She wanted to celebrate my release week before all of the insanity began.
She was the only close friend I had in the City. She had taken care of me when I made it home, checking on me often, clearing my place of discarded food cartons. I had fired my housekeeper too. I wanted solitude.
We would be joined for drinks by her friend. Her male friend. Her gay male friend. There was something there. I felt that my friend was falling for him. I inquired about her feelings for him, but she quickly shot my suspicions down.
He was successful, smart, and beautiful. I could see how it would happen. The old me would have immediately went searching for a beautiful gay male to attempt to seduce, hoping for a story. Now, I just hoped my friend would be able to hold onto her heart.
I crept into my room and fell onto my bed. I grabbed my iPad from under my pillow. I had a few minutes before I needed to get dressed up. I saw the alert for Tristan’s message again. Annoyed, I opened it.
Tristan: Can we please talk? I know I’ve been annoying as hell with these messages. But the premiere is next week. We need to be on the same page. How are we going to handle this?
“Handle this?” Handle what? The fact that the media dissected our every move still? You would think we were Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston. Would they ever get over our breakup? Okay, maybe it was nowhere near that level, but at times, it felt that way.
Me: We will smile for the cameras. We will pose in group pictures together. Hell, we will have pictures taken of the two of us together if they want that. You’re an actor. I can fake it too. We will get through it.
Tristan: Will you be bringing a date?
Me: Why?
Tristan: If one of us brings a date and the other doesn’t then that person is the asshole, and the other is the one everyone feels sorry for. It sucks all around. I know. I’ve dated costars where this kind of stuff came up. I’m sorry. But it is the truth. Maybe neither of us should bring someone.
Me: I did not plan on bringing anyone.
Tristan: Me either…
Tristan: Let’s go together.
Me: No.
/> Tristan: I figured that would be your answer. I’ll keep asking…
Me: Whatever you feel you need to do. Goodnight!
Tristan: Goodnight.
The man was unyielding. I had almost begun to feel bad for him. Months would go by with no reply from me and still, he texted at least once a week. Millions of women all over the world dreamed of being in my shoes. But he was not ‘Tristan the movie star’ to me. He was simply an ex who cheated. A blip on the map. He was not Chace.
It was because of him that I felt a certain softness towards Tristan. I was now in his shoes. I was not beyond yearning for an ex. I did not text Chace. I did, however, text my brother asking occasional questions. He humored me. Chace was not seeing anyone. Andrew told me he was back to working nonstop. Chace had wanted to take the summer off. My brother told me that did not happen. He enrolled in summer classes and worked often. I wondered if he needed the distraction. If I haunted him, too. I ached with the thought of him.
I pushed myself off my bed and stepped into my large closet. I pulled out a small black dress. A dress from the past. I couldn’t remember the woman who used to wear it. I had thrown away every white dress I owned. I was not her anymore. Tonight would be the first time since coming home that I would be having alcohol with friends. Since moving home, I had given many things up. The only liquor consumed was the occasional glass of wine, at home. Sometimes I had two, while writing.
I had given up sex as well. I cleared out any numbers from my phone that had tempted me in the past.
I met Gemma and her friend around the corner at one of my favorite bars. I found them in the back sitting in a small booth. They were seated close together, looking at something on his phone. The glow of his screen illuminated their faces.
I dropped my purse onto the table and scooted next to my friend. They both looked up, startled.
“You’re heeeerrreee!” Gemma squealed. She turned in her seat to hug me. I noted the empty glasses on the table. I hugged her back.
“Am I late?”
“No, we got here early,” she giggled. “I’ve had a few.”
“Yes, I can see that.” I caught the eye of a waitress and nodded. “I better catch up.”
“I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve missed getting drinks with you. I love you, Jaxt,” she said as she turned to her guy friend and reached out, squeezing his arm, “but I need my best girlfriend.” He chuckled in return.
“I know. I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve been a crappy friend this year. But the book is almost here. The writing is done. It’s time for fun.” I almost believed it. I was about 50/50.
After a few drinks, I found myself at 80/20. Some of my release week nerves were slipping away. I was laughing. I hadn’t laughed in so long. I think the last time was about a month ago at an episode of Friends when Ross went on and on about his sandwich. I had missed my friend. She and I did not have the history Kat and I shared, but she meant a lot to me.
Soon, we were giggling like fools. Jaxt did not drink much. He kept a watchful eye on Gem. I was glad for it. Despite my suspicions about her feelings for him, I was glad she had someone to look out for her.
One in the morning rolled around quickly. Jaxt and Gemma walked me to my place and all the way up to my door. I hugged them both more than once. Before closing my door, I glanced back at them. They were holding hands and I felt an ache in my chest. I wanted that closeness again. That affection. I shouldn’t have hid at home away from my friends all these months.
I stumbled to my bed and landed face first. I could feel regret forming slowly. I knew what I was going to do. It was another reason I had stayed away from alcohol. I grabbed my phone from the floor. The contents of my purse were dumped next to the bed. It wouldn’t be too late where he was. I pulled up an empty message and typed.
Me: All of my words. They are for you.
I silenced my phone, tossed it across the room, crawled under my covers, and welcomed the black.
I woke Tuesday with a multitude of emotions choking the air out of my bitter lungs. Fear, excitement, anxiety, numbness. In a few short hours, my first of three book signings scheduled for the week would kickoff. And, for the first time ever, I would be reciting a few poems.
It was so easy to hide behind the fiction of my writing. Too easy, I had been doing it for years. Hiding from the healing I desperately needed. This collection of poems was different. It was raw and real. It was a side of me the public had never seen. I didn’t want to let my past grip me. I wanted to remove the anvil from my chest.
I had spent Monday nursing a hangover, and nursing the regret I felt over texting Chace. He never responded. The wound was open again. I wiped the tears that fell from my eyes the morning after, and refused to let any more fall. I could not think of it today. Ironically, it’s all I would be thinking about today since I would be reading words inspired by him in front of so many people.
My mom texted me saying she wanted to be there for me this week. I missed her. I needed her. I booked a flight for her right away. She would be by my side for all three signings, taking a cab straight over from the airport to the first bookstore.
I had sent her an advanced copy of my book. It made me nervous in a way I wasn’t used to. I wrote explicitly sexual books. It never bothered me to know she may pick one up. This was different. This was not a character. This was me.
Nothing I hid from her about my childhood was in this volume of work. It would be in the second though. I could put off that panic attack, for a while.
Today was going to be fucking scary, but the day that second book came out would be… my stomach fell at the thought. I didn’t want to think about it. It was next year. Another lifetime from now.
I shook my head and pulled myself away from the past, away from the future, and into the present. I got off my bed and walked to my closet. I pulled out my favorite dress. The one that made me feel luminous when I was scared. It was a leftover from the days of dating Tristan when I had a personal stylist. I didn’t want to look ridiculous in front of the cameras that followed me around during our relationship. I didn’t keep her long. It made me feel pretentious and silly.
As much as I hated to admit it, I did have a dress that would look better. Tristan had one sent over with a note that simply read “good luck this week.” I groaned, but tried it on. It was perfect, it fit every curve. It hid the spots I was insecure about and highlighted the places I loved. Even still, I would not be wearing it. He didn’t need a morsel to grab onto.
I wanted to text him and scold him about crossing lines, but with the premiere being this weekend I felt the need to keep the peace.
Book signings were insane. The energy I felt from my fans was tangible. I could feel it all around in the building. I could hear the murmur of their voices seeping through the walls that separated me from them.
I sipped once more from my bottle of water and concentrated on the music in my headphones. It was my ritual. Nothing but the sound of music for a half hour before the Q&A. Q&A’s always took place before the signings.
I felt a hand on my shoulder. Gemma was letting me know it was time to go. I pulled my headphones off and downed the last of my water. I clenched my eyes and pressed my thumb into the spot between my eyebrows, trying to ease the ache there.
“Are you ready?” Gemma asked.
I looked up into her warm eyes. She squeezed her hand just a bit and I smiled. I was glad I had asked her to help out today. I needed the support.
“Yes,” I lied. I wasn’t but I didn’t have a choice. I smoothed down the fabric on my thighs and stood. I walked to the edge of the stage, hidden by the curtain. She walked out ahead of me.
I concentrated on the floor as I heard her talking to the crowd. The low rumble of their laughter in response to her voice met my ears. I didn’t know what she was saying. I was lost staring at my designer shoes. They looked foreign on my feet. I had been walking around my apartment for months, barefoot. When I left, the rare times I did, I wore t
he white converse I had often thrown on in Missouri. I stared at the toecap often, wondering what date to write on them, but that was Chace’s thing, and I wouldn’t do it.
I was pulled away from my red-soled high heels by the sound of applause. Gemma came back behind the curtain and put her hands on my shoulders, staring at me full on.
“You can do this,” she urged. I set my jaw and reached up for her wrists, nodding. She stepped aside and I walked out onto the stage.
The sound was overwhelming. I had heard it before. I had felt it before, but this was different. I was proud of my work. I was proud of myself. Inexplicably, a smile spread onto my face. It wasn’t forced, it wasn’t strained. It felt strange and beautiful. I took a seat on a stool with a microphone next to it.
Gemma reached in front of me and grabbed the microphone, starting the madness.
“To start things off we will have the Q&A,” she directed. “Raise your hands when the time comes and I will pick who gets to ask a question.”
She handed the microphone to me and stepped back. I reluctantly grabbed it and cleared my throat.
“First I just want to thank you all for coming,” I started. “The support I have received over the years has been, unbelievable. I do not know what I have done to deserve you all. This has been a scary journey. I am not the woman I was before. I am always growing, changing, moving. We all are, right?” The crowd chirped in agreement. “You make me proud to have taken this step.” Chace had helped me get here. I paused, and then pushed my chair back.
“I know this is different. This is not what is expected from me. But I could not be more proud than I am right now. As a poet, you leave it all out there. If anyone has ever wondered who I am, who the author behind the page is, the answer is in your hands right now.”
I wondered how many had read it cover to cover already. The bookstore had already been open for eight hours. I wanted to know what they thought. I looked back at Gemma letting her know I was ready. She nodded. I turned back to see hands in the air.