by Sarah Skye
“I hope not, Morgan. But for now.”
I throw myself on him. He scoops me up like he always does and holds me tight, but there’s no passion now. Just pain, waves of it, flowing from both our auras. When I finally rein in the tears, I look up at him and touch his throat.
“Keep working on your chakras, boy.”
He blinks, and his lashes are wet. “I promise I will.”
With a final dust of my lips on his, I turn around and run out the door. Then, I run all the way home.
25
MARCO
“Are you okay, Marco?”
Dr. Imana’s brows are at his hairline as he gazes at me with wide, worried eyes. I shift in my seat across from him. I can’t blame the guy for the horror on his face. I look like shit.
I haven’t shaved in almost a week, haven’t brushed my hair. I’m wearing a rumpled-as-fuck orange hoodie and striped basketball shorts that I’m just now realizing don’t match because I grabbed them from the floor of my bedroom without looking. The first time I showered was this morning when I woke up, half an hour before I was due to come to therapy.
I bite back a groan at the headache throbbing in my skull. “Uh, yeah, I’m fine.”
Jesus, look at me. I’m lying during therapy. But I don’t want to admit the truth—that I’ve been holed up in my condo, drinking and crying, ever since Morgan came over five days ago and ended things. I don’t want to admit that every single fucking day I stare at my phone and talk myself out of calling her so I can beg her to give us another chance.
I don’t want to admit that I refuse to change my bedsheets because they still smell like her.
I don’t want to admit that whenever I think about just how much I miss her, it hurts to breathe.
I don’t want to admit that I ordered a goddamn deck of tarot cards, and when I’m not passed out or drinking I’m flipping through them. I have zero clue how to read them. I do it because it reminds me of her.
What good would admitting any of that do? It won’t change anything. I’ll still be without her.
“Marco.”
The way he says my name, his tone calm and knowing, has all my nerves on high alert. His expression turns concerned, and on the inside, I soften. This is so weird. I’m not used to people seeing me so wrecked, so broken, and responding with kindness.
“Marco, you don’t look fine. Did something happen?”
The pressure inside my chest intensifies. It feels like a bottle of acid is lodged in my ribcage and it’s about to blast it open. My eyes burn, and the lump that’s set up camp at the base of my throat ever since I held Morgan in my arms as she told me we were over grows a thousand times bigger.
I try to open my mouth, but all that comes out is a croaking noise. One tear falls down my face. Then another.
I shake my head. “I’m not fine.”
Dr. Imana hands me a box of tissues, and I quickly wipe my face.
“Morgan broke up with me last weekend.”
“Oh, Marco. I’m so sorry to hear that.”
I fall forward and rest my elbows on my knees, shoving my hands in my hair. With my gaze glued to the carpet, I let out a sob. “I get it. I really do get why she ended things. She’s best friends with my exes. There’s no way we could ever be out in the open and have it all be okay with everyone. They wouldn’t be friends with her anymore if she’s with me.”
I stop to catch my breath and grab another few tissues from the box. I can’t remember the last time I cried like this, let alone in front of someone. Then it hits me: I cried this hard when I was twelve, alone in my bedroom, when Grandma Sofia died.
The thought lands like a brick to my face, and I choke on a breath.
“Morgan’s friends mean the world to her. She—she never had a family she could count on, other than her grandma. She’s an only child. I understand why she can’t lose her friends. I just...”
A shuddery breath rockets from my mouth. When I stop to inhale, I notice my hands are shaking. But I can’t stop talking. It’s like I opened some floodgate inside of me and all the words that have been bouncing around in my head for the past five days are pouring out.
“Part of me wishes that she would have fought harder to figure out a way to make this—make us—work. And part of me hates myself for every single fucking thing I’ve done in my life prior to these past few months. I essentially ruined any chance of us being together in any real, meaningful way before any of this started. Part of me wishes she would have said fuck everything and everyone, let’s run away together, just you and me. She’s spent her whole life putting everyone else first and herself second because she’s the most selfless and giving person I’ve ever known, and just this once she deserves to do what she wants. But part of me wants to punch myself in the face for being so selfish to think any of that. Part of me wishes I would have told her that I loved her before she left my place that day, maybe that would have made a difference. And part of me knows that it wouldn’t have mattered…”
I trail off, my heartbeat screaming in my ears. Wow. I sound like a psycho.
And then I realize how out of breath I am. I tug my fingers through my hair and shake my head before leaning up and falling against the back of my chair so I can blow my nose. When I build the nerve to finally look at Dr. Imana, I’m thrown by his expression. This guy is completely composed but with sincerity in his eyes. Damn, is he a consummate professional.
“Marco. Thank you for sharing all that with me. I know it’s so hard to be open and vulnerable when you’re hurting, especially as someone with avoidant attachment disorder. But I want you to acknowledge just how far you’ve come. I remember in our first session how you admitted that you’ve never felt emotionally close with anyone you’ve dated. You admitted that you had never said ‘I love you’ to a romantic partner. You admitted that you always cheated or ghosted. But here you are, shattering all of that past dysfunctional behavior. You expressed your feelings to Morgan. You were emotionally open with her. You didn’t betray her trust by cheating on or ghosting her, and you didn’t close off emotionally when your relationship ended. You’re letting yourself cry. You’re openly talking about how you’re feeling. All of this is huge, and I’m so proud of you. And you should be proud of yourself that you’ve made so much progress.”
Bewildered at the compliment, I mutter thanks.
“I’m sorry things ended with Morgan. It sounds like you two were really happy.”
“We were. I mean, I think we were. I was. And I felt like she was happy too.” For a second I press my fist to my chest, hoping it eases the pressure. It doesn’t.
“I wish I had some magical words that would help erase your pain,” Dr. Imana says as if reading my mind. “But there are none. I think being here in therapy, talking about your feelings and processing them, is the best way to cope.”
I nod, quietly noting how much better I feel. Yeah, I ranted and sobbed like a maniac, but it feels better than holding everything in, which is what I’ve done the past five days.
“I don’t know what to do other than feel like shit,” I admit.
“That’s exactly what you should do.”
“What if I feel like crying all the time?”
“Then cry.”
I almost laugh at how casual he sounds when he answers.
“There’s no magical way to get over the heartbreak of ending a relationship. You just take your feelings as they come, and acknowledge and process them, one day at a time,” he says. “Some days will be harder than others, but it gets easier the more you do it.”
“I don’t know how to let go of this, how I’m supposed to move past her—past us. I love her so much.”
Dr. Imana’s face twists slightly, like he knows I’m in for a hell of a lot of pain.
“It doesn’t happen overnight,” he says. “But if you’re patient with yourself and give yourself the space and the time to grieve, it gets better, little by little. It can be a long haul, but you’ll notice one day
that the pain isn’t as wrenching. And then those days will outnumber the days where you’re hurting. Eventually, you won’t feel hurt at all.”
I don’t believe him. Not when the pain is this raw, this unbearable. But then I remind myself that he’s the professional. He’s done this tons of times with countless other clients. If he says it gets better, I should trust him that it will.
I swallow and straighten up in my chair. Even though my cheeks are dry, I know I’m not done crying. But that’s fine. It’s part of the process. I’ll be okay. Eventually. I guess.
When I pull into my parking spot at my building, I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror and flinch at how bloodshot my eyes are. It makes sense, given how much I cried in Dr. Imana’s office. Still though, my eyes resemble those of a stoner who missed out on a week’s worth of sleep.
I step out of the car and head for the entrance, but the sound of my name halts me. When I turn around, my eyes bulge.
“Mom?”
She’s not her polished self as she walks toward me. She’s dressed in a skirt and blouse, like usual, but there’s fatigue in her face. The lines around her eyes and mouth are deeper than I remember. It makes me wonder if she stopped doing botox or if she’s been having trouble sleeping. Or maybe she’s stressing about something. There’s something different in her frown, in the purse of her lips. I’ve seen her make this sour, disapproving face a million times in my life. But as she steps closer to me, there’s a sadness that registers.
“What are you doing here?”
My question halts her instantly. She shuffles in her heels before folding her hands in front of her.
“I came to see you.”
“Oh.”
We stand in silence for a few seconds, a mother and son who are more like two strangers that barely know how to talk to each other. Fuck, how depressing.
She squints up at me. “Are you okay? You look tired.”
I rub the back of my neck, unnerved. She sounds concerned about me, which is weird. In my life, I can count on one hand the number of times I can remember her asking me if I’m okay.
I ignore her question. “What are you doing here? Really.”
“I left your dad. We’re getting divorced.”
My jaw pops as it unhinges from my skull. “What?”
She crosses her arms. “It can’t be all that surprising. You’ve noticed more than anyone just how deep mine and your father’s problems go.” A sad smile flickers. “You always were so perceptive. More than any of the rest of us.”
Her tone is detached as usual, but there’s sadness in her eyes. I flash back to that dinner all those months ago, when I called both of them out for the infidelity that’s lasted the entirety of their marriage.
“No, that’s not…” I shake my head. “What happened?”
When her bottom lip starts to tremble, I freeze. I’ve never seen my mother cry.
She gazes off to the side at the street nearby as a few cars pass. “I’ve been thinking about what you said to us at the restaurant. You were right. Your father and I have no right to judge what you’ve done in your romantic life given our track record. We haven’t been happy together for a very long time. And we can’t stay this way. At least I can’t.”
She mutters the last sentence as she wipes a tear rolling down her cheek. I pull a clean tissue that I got from Dr. Imana’s office from my pocket and hand it to her.
She says a quiet “thanks” and dabs at her face, then tucks a chunk of her wavy dark brown hair behind her ear before looking at me again. “And then that day at the coffee shop, when you and your father and brother got into that… altercation… I remember the young lady you were with. The way she defended you. The way she took you by the arm and led you away. I could tell just how much she loves you.”
Her eyes glisten under the glow from a nearby streetlight as I think back on that moment. I have no idea if Morgan loves me, but I love her. And when she defended me and cared for me, it felt like love.
My throat starts to ache so hard that I cough.
“Your father and I don’t love each other like you two do. We never have.”
Her shoulders shudder as she breathes, and I wonder if I should hug her. That’s what a son would normally do, comfort his distraught mother. But we’re not even close to normal. So I keep my hands at my sides and stay still.
“I finally realized, after all this time, that I can’t keep living like this, going through the motions, sharing a life with someone I can’t stand to be in the same room with. So I’m not going to.”
For a few seconds, I just stand there and take in everything that she’s said.
“I don’t know what to say.” They’re the least comforting words I could utter, but she nods like it’s okay.
I shake my head and try again. “No, actually… that’s good. I’m glad you’re splitting up. Maybe now you can both figure out how to be happy on your own. And I’m sorry you were unhappy for so long.”
Her eyebrows rise slightly, but I can tell she’s shocked at what I’ve said.
“I’m the one who should be saying sorry, Marco. I haven’t been a very good mother.” She hesitates for a second. “The truth is that I struggled with a lot of things after you and your brother were born. I think I was depressed for a long time and didn’t know how to ask for help. I had these two babies to take care of and I had no idea what I was doing…” She hugs her arms around herself as her gaze falls to the pavement. “I just… motherhood didn’t come naturally to me like it does to some people. Like it did to my mom.”
Just hearing her mention Grandma Sofia wrecks me. I bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t break.
“She was pretty great. She was better than all of us.” I say it quietly. Any louder and I’ll cry. “I had no idea you struggled with depression. Have you thought about talking to a therapist?”
Her mouth opens like she doesn’t know quite what to say.
“I see a therapist now. It helps a lot.” I speak without an ounce of shame or embarrassment. Finally, I get it: there’s nothing wrong with seeking help when you need it.
“I think I’d like that,” she finally says. “Grandma Sofia would be proud of you, Marco. Of how you stood up to all of us. Of how you’re bettering yourself. Of the work you’re doing now.”
I’m about to ask how she knows about my work, but she speaks first.
“I heard from one of Ed Maldonado’s colleagues that you’re offering free legal services for senior citizens.” Her eyes water once more, but this time the sadness is gone. “I’m really proud of you.”
“Thanks.”
She purses her lips together for a long moment. “I know I don’t have any right to come to you like this. I know you have your own life with your girlfriend now, but—”
I exhale sharply, cutting her off. “We’re not together anymore.”
“Oh.” The way her expression falls feels like a punch to the chest. “I’m sorry.”
I shrug. “It is what it is.”
I hate how callous I sound. But the way my mom looks at me, it’s like somehow she understands.
“Whatever you’re going through, I hope you two work it out.”
I mumble a “thanks,” wishing like hell that there was some way we could but knowing it’ll never happen. Morgan hasn’t reached out to me since she left my place. She’s clearly not interested in getting back together.
Mom steps forward and reaches up, gently cupping my cheek with her hand. The soft touch is familiar and foreign all at once. When I close my eyes, my memory slingshots back to the last time I saw Grandma Sofia, when she held me just like this as she said goodbye.
I love you so much, my Marco.
From behind my closed eyelids, tears burn.
When I open them and look down, Mom gazes up at me, her eyes shiny with her own tears. “It’ll be okay,” she says softly.
Taking a breath, I swallow and nod. Her hand falls away and she backs up a few steps. “I don’t
blame you if you don’t end up doing this, but you can come to me anytime. I’m here for you. Always.”
I tell her a quiet thanks and watch her as she walks to her car and drives away. When I make it to my apartment, I collapse on the couch. I glance at the coffee table, which is littered with tarot cards. But only one catches my eye: the bright red heart with a bunch of knives through it. I reach over, grab it, and crumple it in my hand. And then I pass out.
26
MORGAN
I stand on the bridge with my legs planted wide, hands firmly on the metal railing. The black leather pants hug my legs so well, I’m tempted to keep them for myself. The four-inch Christian Louboutins on my feet are tempting, too, but I’d have to sell several organs to afford those babies.
Besides, where would I wear them? I’ve sworn off dating forever, remember?
With a deep sigh, I tilt my head backward so my wavy hair ripples down my back. Good thing the photographer can’t see my face. I’m quite sure my eyes are red-rimmed yet again. It’s become a default in the last five days.
A wolf-whistle breaks my reverie and makes me laugh.
“Yeah, baby, looking smashing!” Calder’s accent is laid on thick as he strolls up in his own leather pants and a blood-red dress shirt to match my shoes’ soles.
“Not too shabby, lad,” I return easily.
But Calder ducks his head to examine me closer. “Allergies bothering you?”
I wave the comment away. “Change of seasons and all.”
He hums like he knows this is bullshit but turns as the makeup artist hurries over.
This is a fashion shoot, so we get to work together fully clothed and outside of a bed today. Once I’m touched up on mascara, the photographer leads us through a series of poses on the bridge, some of which require a lot of acrobatics from me. Standing on the railing, even with Calder holding me firmly, is quite a challenge in these heels. But work is a good distraction, and so I’m up for whatever the photographer suggests.