Strawberries for Dessert

by Marie Sexton

  “What about the wine?”

  “It’s a Zinfandel.”

  “We’re going to need two bottles.”

  “Okay.” He leaned down and kissed me. His lips were soft and a little hesitant and so sweet that it brought a lump to my throat. He pulled away to look into my eyes. “Anything you want, Jonny.”

  The dinner was fantastic, but I wasn’t nearly as appreciative as I should have been. I let myself get ridiculously drunk and passed out in my bed while he cleared the table. The next morning I was hung over and completely miserable for the entire day. He was infinitely patient.

  He stayed by me the whole time. He was unusually quiet. And not once did I see the clouds in his eyes.

  Date: May 18

  From: Cole

  To: Jared

  I have found hope in his misery. Does that make me a terrible person? I know he is devastated, and yet, all I can think is that now, we can stay together. The answer is so clear. If only he will accept it.

  I SPENT a couple of weeks being miserable. I snapped at everybody. I didn’t jog or shave. I was sullen and angry, and any intelligent person would have stayed far, far away. Cole, on the other hand, proved to be a glutton for punishment. He was there the entire time, making meals, putting up with me, still making love to me when we went to bed at night.

  After two weeks, I was able to accept that sulking would get me nowhere. I made myself straighten up. I worked up my résumé for the first time in nearly ten years and started looking for a job. Still I was hostile and jaded. I had gambled away a portion of my life, banking on a payout, and been shit on instead. My attitude was far from stellar.

  Finding a job proved to be impossible. Lots of companies were downsizing, and the market was flooded with men and women of all ages scrambling for the few positions that were still available. I had a handful of interviews, but it seemed that if I wasn’t under-qualified, then I was over-qualified. It was hard to accept that there was nothing I could do. The entire process was unbelievably frustrating.

  On top of that, things between Cole and me were hot and cold, and I had no idea what to do about it. I was absolutely crazy in love with him. There was no other way to put it. And at times I thought he felt the same way. We spent most of our time together. We rarely argued, and if we did, it never lasted. The sex had reached an all-new level of intensity that left me breathless. We would have periods where everything seemed perfect.

  And yet, more and more, I saw those clouds in his eyes. More and more, as I tried to pull him close, he would push me away as he had done in the past. He seemed sad and restless. I tried to ask him about it a few times, but he would just give me a strained smile and say, “It’s your imagination, love.” All I could do was hope that he wasn’t lying.

  I returned one afternoon from an interview that had not ended on a promising note to find him sitting on my couch. His back was to me, and at first I thought he had curled up in the corner of the couch to read, as he often did. But when the door closed behind me, he jumped. He turned toward me for only a moment, probably on sheer impulse, before turning away to cover his face with his hands. But in that moment, I saw what he was trying to hide from me—that his eyes were red and wet with tears.

  “Hi, sweetie,” he said, standing up, but not turning to face me. He was wiping his cheeks. “How did the interview go?”

  “Terrible.” But I didn’t care about that. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing! I just nodded off. I guess I’m tired. I shouldn’t have fallen asleep, though. I’ll start dinner. Are you hungry? I was going to make—”

  “Cole,” I said, interrupting him, because I knew he was lying. I knew that talking a mile a minute about inane bullshit was his primary method of avoidance. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Nothing, love. Really.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I was so tired, but I’m better now. Just give me a minute….” His words trailed off as he went into the kitchen, trying to escape, but I followed him. He was pulling things out of the fridge, still refusing to look at me.

  “Why are you lying to me?” He froze, and hung his head. “Are you angry at me? Have I done something to upset you?”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head, and his tone sounded sincere.

  “Then what?”

  He covered his eyes with his hands, and I knew he was fighting not to cry again. “I need some time,” he said shakily, “to get myself together. I can’t face you like this.”

  More than anything, I wanted to pull him into my arms and hold him, but when I reached for him, he flinched away from me. It was painful, being kept outside his walls. I wished they were tangible so I could tear them down with my bare hands. “Please,” he whispered, pleading. “We’ll talk after dinner, Jonny. I promise. But I need you to give me some space right now.”

  “Okay,” I said, not because I wanted to. It broke my heart to have him push me away again. But I knew that honoring his wishes was the only thing I could do. I changed out of my suit, and after debating it for a while, I decided to join him in the kitchen. I tried to help him cook most nights now. I knew nothing, and mostly I just got in his way and drank wine, but it was still fun. Tonight was no different. Although he was awkward with me at first, once he realized I wasn’t going to push him, he relaxed, and when I put my arms around him from behind, burying my face in his hair, he actually leaned back against me and sighed as I kissed his neck.

  I was a little bit curious about what he would have to say after dinner, but I wasn’t concerned. Most of the time, he seemed happy with me, and I wasn’t worried. We ate, and I wasn’t surprised when he didn’t say anything immediately afterward. I did the dishes while he read on the couch. When I came out of the kitchen, he took me into the bedroom, and we had sex that I truly would have classified as earth- shattering. When it was over, he moved to the other side of the bed, not touching me. And then, lying in the dark, he finally spoke.

  “Come to Paris with me.”

  I wasn’t sure what I had been expecting, but that certainly wasn’t it, and I actually laughed. “Are you serious?”

  He didn’t laugh with me. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  I realized then that, although I didn’t understand why or how, this was connected to whatever it was that had had him in tears on my couch earlier. Whatever this was, it meant a great deal to him. I quit laughing and thought about what he was saying. Paris? “I would love to, Cole, someday, but—”

  “I mean now, love. Soon.”

  “I….” I still couldn’t quite believe that he was serious. “I can’t.”

  He was silent for a moment, and as usual when he started these conversations in the dark, I wished that I could see his face. “Why not?” he finally asked.

  “I have to find a job. My severance will be out soon. I have some vacation pay coming after that, but—”

  “Once you find a job, you’ll be stuck here, love. You won’t get vacation time for months. If we’re going to go, this is the time to do it.”

  He was right about the vacation time, of course. It would probably be a full year before I was afforded a single week of vacation time. Maybe a short trip wouldn’t be too irresponsible. I would still have time when I got home to find a job. “I could go for a few days—”

  “No, Jonny.” He turned toward me and rolled so that he was lying on top of me, looking down at me in the dark. I wished I could see what was in his eyes. “I’m not talking about a few days. I’m not talking about a quick trip, and then back to Phoenix.” He stopped, as if he had to gather his courage. “I’m asking you to come to Paris with me indefinitely.”

  “Cole, I don’t have that kind of money. Two weeks, maybe. Max. But—”

  “Jonny.” It took him another second to say the next words, but when he did, I realized why he had been so hesitant. “You don’t need money.”

  My first instinct was irritation, as it always was wh
en he talked about money. But hot on its heels came anger, and I tried to beat it back. But my voice was harsher than it should have been when I answered him. “You want me to allow you to support me?”

  Another moment of silence, and then, “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “I have plenty, love. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. And then, when we come back in four months, or six—”

  “Six months?”

  “—you can find a job then. We could—”

  “No!” I said, louder, and he stopped short. He pulled away from me, almost as if I had slapped him. “No,” I said, gentler this time. “I can’t do that, Cole. Let’s go for two weeks. I can spare that—”

  “And then you’ll be working again, and we’ll never get anything more than that,” he said, and I could hear him fighting to sound normal, although I suspected he was near tears again. I didn’t understand. I couldn’t see how this could mean so much.

  “Cole….” What could I say? “I just can’t. I’m sorry.”

  He was silent. And then, in the darkness, I saw him nod. “I understand,” he said with quiet resignation.

  “Really?” I asked, not wanting him to be upset.

  “No,” he said. “Not really. But it’s what I expected you to say.”

  He moved off of me, but to my surprise, he didn’t move back to the other side of the bed like he so often did. He cuddled up next to me with his head on my shoulder, and I wrapped my arms around him.

  “Cole,” I said, wanting to tell him how much I loved him. But he seemed to anticipate me, as he always did, and his soft fingers fell on my lips, quieting me.

  “Shhh, Jonny. Don’t say it.” He moved his hand away, wrapped his arm around me and snuggled closer. “Goodnight.”

  He didn’t mention Paris again. And if over the next two weeks I saw clouds in his eyes more often than not, I did my best to ignore it.

  Date: June 19

  From: Cole

  To: Jared

  I understand addiction now. I never did before, you know. How could a man (or a woman) do something so self-destructive, knowing that they’re hurting not only themselves, but the people they love? It seemed that it would be so incredibly easy for them to just not take that next drink. Just stop. It’s so simple, really. But as so often happens with me, my arrogance kept me from seeing the truth of the matter.

  I see it now though.

  Every day, I tell myself it will be the last. Every night, as I’m falling asleep in his bed, I tell myself that tomorrow I’ll book a flight to Paris, or Hawaii, or maybe New York. It doesn’t matter where I go, as long as it’s not here. I need to get away from Phoenix—away from him—before this goes even one step further.

  And then he touches me again, and my convictions disappear like smoke in the wind.

  This cannot end well. That’s the crux of the matter, Sweets. I’ve been down this road before—you know I have—and there’s only heartache at the end. There’s no happy ending waiting for me like there was for you and Matt. If I stay here with him, I will become restless and angry.

  It’s happening already, and I cannot stop it. I’m becoming bitter and terribly resentful. Before long, I will be intolerable, and eventually, he’ll leave me. But if I do what I have to do, what my very nature compels me to do, and move on, the end is no better. One way or another, he’ll be gone. Is it not wiser to end it now, Sweets, before it gets to that point? Is it not better to accept that this happiness I have is destined to self-destruct?

  Tomorrow I will leave. Tomorrow I will stop delaying the inevitable.

  Tomorrow I will quit lying to myself, and to him.

  Tomorrow.

  What about today, you ask? Today it’s already too late. He’ll be home soon, and I have dinner on the stove, and wine chilling in the fridge.

  And he will smile at me when he comes through the door, and I will pretend like this fragile, dangerous thing we have created between us can last forever.

  Just one last time, Sweets. Just one last fix. That’s all I need.

  And that is why I now understand addiction.

  HE WOKE me in the dead of night, his soft hand gripping my arm. It was something he had never done before, and it took me a minute to even figure out what had happened.

  “Cole?” It was pitch dark in the room. I could barely make out the shape of him, lying in front of me. His face was nothing but shadow.

  “Is something wrong?” He didn’t answer, but moved quickly into my arms. He was never hesitant about sex, and I knew if he had woken me for that purpose alone, he would be pursuing it already. This was something else, and it troubled me. Everything about it was wrong. He was too still, too quiet, too stiff against me. “What is it?” I whispered.

  He wrapped his arms around me. He was trembling, and his lips were soft against mine. “Just one more time, love,” he whispered.

  It was slow and gentle, and I found myself wanting to touch every part of him. He was quiet the whole time, his breath shaky, his soft, slender hands urging me on, his legs tight around my hips. And when I kissed him at the end, I tasted tears.

  I stopped then, wondering if I was mistaken. I brushed my fingers over his cheeks and found them wet, and his breath caught in his throat.

  “Tell me what’s wrong.” But he didn’t. He just shook his head. He buried his face in my chest, and he quit fighting. Whatever it was that was bothering him, he gave in to it, crying quietly, shaking from the force of it, and I had no idea what to do. I held him tight until he fell asleep, his cheek still damp upon my chest. Long after his breathing had slowed, I lay awake, my chest aching with a sense of foreboding. I told myself it was nothing. I told myself it would be fine.

  It was nearly five by the time I fell asleep. When I woke up two hours later, he was gone.

  MY FIRST thought was only that he had gone to the store. He almost always made breakfast. I was probably out of eggs or bacon. Or maybe he had decided not to cook today, and he would be back soon with bagels and lattes. I went for a jog, expecting to find him in the kitchen when I got home. But he still wasn’t there. I wondered about it, but I wasn’t worried. Not yet. It wasn’t until I was in the shower that I thought about what had happened in the night. How still he had been.

  His tears on my lips. His quiet whisper.

  “Just one more time, love.”

  And I knew then, in an instant, that something was wrong.

  The trepidation I had felt as he lay sleeping in my arms grew into absolute dread. I called his house, but he didn’t answer. I called his cell phone, and it went to voice mail. I dressed as quickly as I could and drove to his house.

  His eyes, when he answered the door were sad and a little bit red.

  He turned quickly away. “Would you like some wine?” he asked with forced casualness. As if this was okay. As if the ground was not shaking beneath my feet.

  “It’s not even nine o’clock yet.”

  “I know what time it is, love. I’ll mix it with orange juice if it makes you feel better about it.”

  “I’ve been trying to call.” He was silent, staring resolutely away from me. That seed of dread in my chest was blooming into full-blown panic now. “Is something wrong?” I asked.

  “No,” he said, although his voice was strange. Strained. A little too quiet. Nothing followed except tense silence, and he still wasn’t looking at me.

  “I don’t know what’s happening here, Cole, but you’re scaring the hell out of me. Please tell me what’s going on.”

  It took him a second to answer. One second, and a deep shaking breath, and then: “It’s quite simple, darling. I’m leaving.”

  That panic I was feeling exploded then, cutting off my air, squeezing my chest, threatening to choke me. My heart was pounding, and I had to grab on to the back of the couch, just to keep the world from spinning away while I stood there in numb shock. “You’re leaving me?” I finally managed to ask.

  “I’m leaving Phoenix.”

&nb
sp; Breathe.

  I made myself breathe. Made myself count to five. Made myself think.

  Leaving Phoenix did not necessarily mean leaving me. It didn’t have to mean that we were over.

  “How long will you be gone?” I made myself ask.

  “I don’t know yet, darling.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “To the Hamptons for now. Maybe Paris later.”

  In a flash—only a heartbeat—my panic was gone, replaced by something much worse. Something ugly. “To Raul? Is that where you’re going?”

  “No,” he whispered, and I could hear the tears in his voice.

  “Am I not good enough for you?” I snapped, and I saw how hard it hit him. I saw his shoulders start to shake under the weight of my indignation.

  “That’s not it,” he whispered, and my momentary anger melted away. I was left with nothing but pain and confusion and the unwavering conviction that I could not lose him.

  I closed my eyes. I fought back the tears that were burning behind them. I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. How could this be happening? If it was hurting him as much as it was hurting me, and I was pretty sure that it was, then why?

  “Cole?” I said, opening my eyes, and he finally turned to me. His cheeks were wet, and I could see in his eyes that I was not wrong. He was so close to falling apart. “Cole,” I said again, pleading this time,

  “talk to me.”

  “I have to go,” he said, his voice breaking on the words.

  I crossed over to him. I took his face in my hands and tried to look into his eyes, but he closed them tight against me. I kissed the tears from his cheeks. “Then go,” I said. “But tell me you’re coming home to me eventually. Please tell me this isn’t over.”

  “It has to end,” he said.

  “Why?”

  He took a deep, shaking breath, and when he opened his eyes again, they were swimming with tears. “Jonathan,” he said. It was his real voice—not the lilting cadence he normally used, but the quiet one underneath it. It wasn’t any lower than normal. It was still slightly feminine. But it was different—softer, and full of fear. And that one word, only my name, hurt me more than I would have thought possible, because it meant that he was deathly serious. “If I told you that I would see nobody else while I was gone, would you believe me? Would you take me at my word? I may be gone for two months or four or even six.