Calm Like Home

by Clark, Kaisa

  I shrug, not really sure what he means. It's not like it's a skill that needs cultivating.

  He sits in contemplative silence for a moment. “Aren’t you a little early?”

  “When my brother and I were kids we always decorated the weekend after Thanksgiving. It was sort of a tradition. Plus this way I can enjoy a whole month with my tree friend. He can keep me company while you’re gone.”

  His eyes meet mine. “All right, let’s decorate a damn tree then.”

  He helps me haul the box in from the storage unit on my deck. I find a Christmas music station on my phone and we begin pulling out all the pieces, scattering them across my living room floor. He paws at me with one of the branches, pretending it’s an extension of his hand, and I squeal away from his prickly grasp. Adam helps me hook the base together, inserting the rods until slowly the tree takes shape.

  “What’s next, Clausen? Knowing you there’s a definite plan for how this gets done.”

  I chuckle. “So you think you have me figured out, Westbrook?”

  “Yes I do, seeing as how we’re in love and all.”

  I press my palms to his cheeks and kiss him firmly on the lips then open my eyes wide. “Lights.”

  He sets to work twisting twinkle lights around the tree, walking in wide circles so he can wrap me up as well. But once the lights are turned on, Adam becomes increasingly reserved. I hand him ornaments to put on, but he just toys with them in his hands, avoiding looking at the tree. I pretend not to notice, wrapping the branches with thick ribbon and beads and finally hanging the ornaments myself. By the time the tree is finished he’s just sitting on the floor with his back pressed to the couch, staring down at his hands.

  I pull him onto the couch with me and we lay in the near darkness, the room lit by the Christmas lights and the glow of the fish tank. He’s staring at the tree with a haunted look and I’m starting to wonder if I somehow should’ve known it’d be a bad idea to put it up while he’s here.

  I touch his shoulder, make my voice as gentle as I can. “What is it Adam?”

  He looks over at me, a look of shock or horror or heartbreak written on his face, I’m not sure which. “I….” his voice trails off. It’s a fragment of the usual sound. His grip tightens on my arm and he swallows hard. He opens his mouth again but nothing comes out.

  I gaze up at him, my eyes imploring him to just tell me. Come on Adam, let me in.

  He takes a deep breath and lets it out, heavy, dejected. “It just brings back memories is all.”

  He doesn’t say anything else and when his eyes flick back to the tree I try again. “Memories of what, love?”

  His eyes connect with mine, dark pools holding back so much. He just shakes his head and pulls me tighter to his chest.

  We’re still entwined on the couch when Adam’s phone buzzes to life with a text. He stretches to retrieve it then eyes me over the screen.

  “Damien wants to celebrate downtown. Want to go?” His voice sounds a tinge reserved and I wonder if maybe a night out will do him some good.

  “For sure! Let me text Annabelle.”

  Up for going out with the guys tonight?

  Um YEAH! I’ll meet you there.

  I change and Adam retrieves a clean shirt from his car.

  “Can we take your car for a change?” He jingles my keys in the air. I slide into the passenger seat and he immediately takes my hand, bringing it to his lips.

  “This is why I wanted to take your car. Free hand.”

  He doesn’t let go for the entire drive, clutching it tightly in his own, stroking his fingers up and down the lengths of mine. When we finally arrive downtown, we struggle to find a parking spot. The whole place is packed with people back for Thanksgiving break and all the bars already have a lengthy line.

  “Where to?” Damien asks when we all meet up. “The Berg?”

  Annabelle shakes her head. “Nah, we always go there. We’re celebrating, let’s class it up at Mercado.”

  We make our way to the end of the line and huddle together against the cold. The bar is one in one out and the line is barely moving. It takes an eternity of slow shuffling and breathing into cold hands, but finally we’re almost to the door. An obviously drunk guy comes stumbling up to the front of the line and stands with the people directly in front of us. It’s clear they don’t know him by the way they glance back at us; he’s just acting like he’s part of their group so he can get in faster.

  Adam bristles and I can tell instantly by his menacing glare he doesn’t care for it. “What the fuck, dude? There’s a line.”

  “Hey man, I’m just trying to get in like you.”

  Hearing the edge to Adam’s voice, Damien shifts forward, wedging himself between Adam and the guy in an attempt to de-escalate the situation. He grips Adam’s shoulders. “Not here, man. Let it go.”

  Adam is unfazed. He sidesteps Damien and glares at the line-jumper. “Like me? You can go to the fucking end like me.”

  “Chill out, man. I’m just standing here,” he slurs.

  Adam shakes his head, lightly smirking. “There’s no way I’m letting you in before us.”

  “Are you going to try stop me?”

  “Not try. I’m going to stop you.” His voice is eerily flat, devoid of emotion. Annabelle eyes me with alarm and I reach for Adam’s arm, hoping my touch will calm him down. He quickly shrugs it off, his rebuff stinging my pride.

  The guy chuckles dismissively. “Whatever, man.”

  “Try me. Just try and see what happens.” Adam takes a step forward, staring the guy down with frigid, hollow eyes. I recognize the look from the night of the fight at the house. He isn’t my Adam anymore; something else has taken hold.

  “Hey, hey! Easy.” Damien moves again to intervene, knowing Adam’s just moments from an explosion. We’ll never get in if he starts a fight in line. Damien presses the other guy in the chest, forcing him to take a step back from where Adam is standing. “Move along, son. You’re not getting in here.”

  A couple guys from behind us in line voice their agreement and the guy finally backs off, grumbling and heading in the opposite direction.

  Even after he’s gone, Adam is heated from the brief encounter. He fidgets and mutters under his breath, “That’s fucking bullshit. I don't expect shit from anyone.”

  “Hey,” I say gently, stepping in front of him. “It’s fine. You’re here with me. Let’s just enjoy the night.” But it’s like he doesn’t even hear me. He keeps his eyes averted and shifts restlessly back and forth on his feet until we finally make it inside. When we clear the door we immediately make for the bar, with Damien buying us all a round of shots.

  “To breaking in back doors!” he shouts, gesturing wickedly from Adam to me. I glare at him but take the shot nonetheless.

  “Whew!” Annabelle shrieks and wipes her lips after downing the shot. “That was disgusting. I need to dance that off.” She grabs my hand and pulls me towards the dance floor. As soon as we’re out of earshot she leans into me. “What the hell? I’ve never seen Adam pissed before. Ever!”

  “Intense, right?”

  “Yeah, he looks pretty scary when he’s mad. It’s kind of hot.”

  I nod but don’t say anything else. I’m not in the mood to joke about his anger when it’s so clearly in response to some deeper emotion. After a couple songs Adam cuts through the throng of dancers to find us, evidently having had enough time to cool off. His hands rest on my hips and I move my body with his, trying desperately to absorb into his fluid movements, his light touch, his breath on my neck.

  As the night goes on I attempt to push the altercation from my mind, but there’s something disconcerting about the way a switch flips and it’s like Adam becomes a completely different person, someone so dark and heavy, when I know he can be so carefree and light. Combined with all the times he’s stopped short of telling me something and his lapses into melancholy, which seem to be growing more frequent, I’m truly alarmed. I don’t know why h
e won’t talk about it with me, why he always changes the subject or brushes it off like it doesn’t matter when it so clearly does. We’re together now, we’ve said those words, so why is he still holding back?

  Feeling weary, I take a breather and collapse into an open booth. Damien spots me from the dance floor and comes to sit beside me.

  “You good?” His tone is light, all signs of his usually pompous exterior erased. His genuine concern lets me know he’s always looking out for Adam. He’s a good friend. The best.

  I nod. “I’m good.”

  “Try not to worry. He always gets this way around the holidays; he’s moody as hell, is always picking fights with people. The last few weeks have been miserable.”

  What could be weighing on his mind?

  Damien must notice my puzzled expression because he sighs and goes on. “Things haven’t been the same since before.”

  I shift my gaze to look him directly in the eye. “Damien, what aren’t you telling me?”

  He looks down at his hands. “It’s not my place to tell. I’m just saying he hasn’t always been like this. Give him time. He’s getting there. You don’t know what you’ve been to him.”

  I shake my head. “You’re right. I don’t. I don’t know anything.”

  “Just hang on.”

  I give him a weak smile. I’m grateful for his reassurance but hate feeling like I’m being kept in the dark. It’s like I’m loving a dream, a whisper, a breeze; he moves over me but doesn’t truly let me in. Selfishly, I want every part of him, no holdouts. I want to love every inch, every dirty detail. Most of all I want his confidence. Without that, the rest seems tainted, not quite enough. And that’s the one thing he can’t seem to give me.

  As Adam drives us back to my apartment, my conversation with Damien continues to nag at me, weighing heavily on my mind. What had he meant? What isn’t Adam telling me? The connection between the two of us is undeniable and yet the closer we become the more I realize how little he’s given of himself. How can he be fully committed to this relationship if he doesn’t even trust me?

  “Damien said something tonight.” The words tumble out of me before I realize I’m saying them. Damn it if public speaking didn’t make me a little too brave.

  “Oh yeah?” he asks, looking slightly intrigued.

  I pause, weighing whether to go on or brush it off as some joke. I give serious consideration to the latter, but I’m so tired of ignoring the situation, pretending it doesn’t exist. If it means something to him, it means something to me. “He said you weren’t always like this, that things haven’t been the same since before.” I say the words tentatively, unsure what his response will be.

  The amusement drains from his face when he realizes where this conversation is going and he fixes his attention to the road.

  “Before what, Adam?” I ask gently. I study his profile as he stares out the windshield, his jaw clenching and his fingers gripping the steering wheel so hard they turn white. “What happened?”

  Silence hangs thick between us. He doesn’t blink, he doesn’t move at all. He just stares pointedly ahead, all taut features and sharp, narrowed eyes.

  “It’s like you don’t trust me. Why can’t you just tell me the truth?” I say the words slowly, my voice barely a whisper, but it doesn’t disguise the hurt I feel. As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I know I’ve gone too far. Rage explodes onto his face, twisting his features into an angry grimace.

  “God damn it, Alexa!”

  He punches the ceiling of my car twice in quick succession as he says the words, leaving two small indentations where his knuckles connect with the fabric. His eyes never leave the road, but I can see the bitterness in his gaze, can practically feel it boring into me.

  “Don’t you think if I wanted you to know you’d fucking know by now?” He’s seething, anger radiating off his body, his chest rising and falling with every ragged breath. “Just let it go.”

  His words are biting, clipped, vicious. It’s as though every ounce of love has been stripped from him. He slams his open palm against the steering wheel so hard my own hand practically throbs. “Just fucking let it go,” he repeats through clenched teeth.

  His outburst stuns me. It’s a shock having his anger directed at me. I recoil into silence, my throat burning and heart pounding in my chest. When we reach my apartment he slams the door to my car, then walks to his own, not bothering to say goodnight.

  I can hardly sleep that night. I lie awake wondering where this side of Adam came from, why all this rage came pouring out of him at a simple question. I keep coming back to it. What happened? Why won’t he tell me?

  The sun is high in the sky when I hear the knock at my door. I find Adam standing there, looking disheveled, like he hasn’t slept either. His face is gaunt, his eyes dull and expressionless, purposefully avoiding my own.

  “Can we talk?” he asks, urgency straining his voice.

  I open the door wider and let him in, but he doesn’t embrace me. He doesn’t sit down.

  He runs a hand over his hair, refusing to meet my eye. “I’ve been thinking,” he says just above a whisper. His voice is hoarse, rough, unfamiliar. I study his face, watch as he jams his hands uncomfortably into the pockets of his jeans. “I don’t think this is going to work.”

  I feel the blood drain from my face, feel the pit of my stomach drop out, nose-diving for the floor. Every ounce of air is expelled from my lungs. I try to breathe in sharply but it feels like I'm drowning, choking on his words. The shock and horror of their meaning comes crashing into my reality, crippling my conscience. How can he be saying this? How can he ever think we can’t make this work? I stare up at him in disbelief, searching his face for some kind of explanation, but he won’t look at me. With each second I can practically feel him slipping through my fingertips, feel him drifting further from my reach.

  “I need some space.” He exhales thickly, eyes fixed steadfastly on the floor. “I can’t think when I’m around you.”

  “What is there to think about, Adam?” I ask, my voice breaking. I can hardly see through the cloud of tears shrouding my eyes. They spill over my cheekbones in thick salty rivulets, but I don’t bother to brush them away.

  “You don’t have to be alone in this,” I whisper.

  “Please don’t do this. Don’t make it worse.” His voice is strained, not his own. His eyes flick to mine for an instant and they’re so laced with pain that it breaks me to the core. Then he turns and walks out my door.

  PART IV – The Winter

  Chapter 24

  I don’t know how long I stand there, door open, just staring blindly ahead, shattered, broken. I suck in a breath, feel it rasp in my chest. I’m slipping, falling, clawing for reality. I grip the door handle for stability, but I’m sinking to the floor. This cannot be real. This cannot be my truth. This cannot be happening. Not to us. Not to two people who love each other so fully, so completely. How could this be the thing to break us? A day ago I would’ve thought this impossible. Now he is gone. My hands and face are numb; the only thing I can feel is the gaping hole in my heart. I finally nudge the door shut and lean against it, my body ravaged with the pain of having pushed him away.

  I did this.

  I went too far.

  I try to heave myself off the floor, try to clamber off the entryway tile, but my legs can’t seem to support my weight. I look around for something to grasp, but everywhere I look I see his face. He is spread out on my living room floor, eyes half-shut in ecstasy. He is relaxed on my couch cushions, spooning up heaping scoops of ice cream. He is carrying me through the kitchen, mac and cheese on the stove. The walls of my apartment feel like they’re closing in on me, taunting me with his memory. I know I can’t be here, not without him here with me. I press Annabelle’s number into my phone, struggling for words when she picks up.

  “Can. I. Come over?” I ask between ragged breaths. Try as I might I can’t help the sob that breaks through. It is deep and all-
encompassing, starting in the depths of me and working its way out.

  “What’s going on?” Her voice is hushed but deeply concerned.

  “He’s done.” It’s all I can manage.

  “Oh my God, what? How can that be?”

  I’m weeping, long, sad heaves into the receiver. “I. Can’t. Be here.” The words come out as broken, jumbled fragments; exactly the way I feel.

  “I just got to work but there’s a key under the mat.” Her voice is tight. I know she doesn’t like hearing me like this. “Alexa, please be careful driving.”

  I blindly grab for my purse and head out the door, not bothering to put myself together, not bothering to retrieve my coat. My hands are shaking as I fumble to fit the key into the ignition. When the car stirs to life I make out the familiar lines of a love song playing faintly on the radio. I jam my fingers into the volume button. I can’t take it. Not now. Not after this.

  I don’t know how, but I make it to Annabelle’s apartment complex. I don’t remember the drive at all, just streets and houses blurring together outside my field of vision. I shut the car off but stay where I am, keys in the ignition, not bothering to pull them out. This is where it all came apart. If I had kept my mouth shut, if I had let him tell me in his own time, maybe he’d still be here with me. This is my fault. I wrecked this. My body slumps against the steering wheel, missing him madly already.

  It grows bitter cold with the car shut off and no coat, so I finally stumble up the steps to Annabelle’s apartment. I fold myself into the corner of her couch, clutching my stomach, my chest, my heart. My face crumbles and tears fall, pathetic rivers flooding her pillows. Even the smooth fabric holds raw memories from last summer. I can’t escape him. I can’t get away. I feel like I’m caving in on myself, like I’ve been cleaved in two, my insides sputtering and throbbing with his rejection. I ache for him with every muscle, every fiber, every atom.

  I can’t take the gnawing in my chest, the raw empty part of my heart that’s been overflowing with love for him for as long as I care to remember. I push myself up off the couch and scrounge through Annabelle’s kitchen cabinets. I just want to numb myself, to dull this ache long enough to stop crying. I find a bottle of vodka and make myself a drink. I mix it with orange juice, take a sip, and then add another heavy glug. I don’t want to remember anything about this day. I just want it to be over, to slip into oblivion, to not feel a thing.