Bombora

by Mal Peters

  “No secrecy here,” says Nate, and by the lengthy pause that follows, I know he’s waiting for me to turn around and look at him. Like he needs my permission to continue. I do, very hesitantly, because his gaze itches and burns between my shoulder blades. For several long moments our eyes meet and he doesn’t smile. “I have to talk to both of you,” he explains, more to me than Hugh, it seems. “Together.”

  “So talk,” snaps Hugh, clearly antsy.

  Nate nods. “Let’s go into the other room,” he suggests and, off the blank look shared between Hugh and me, adds, “It’s just more freaking comfortable, okay?” He then turns and walks away with the clear expectation for us to follow. Exchanging another glance, Hugh and I do just that. I inhale sharply when I feel his hand brush reassuringly across my shoulder. The gesture of support comes out of nowhere and could crumple me where I stand.

  In the living room, Nate gestures for us to take the sofa while he himself paces awhile before settling lightly on the edge of the coffee table. His fingers drum an anxious tattoo against the wood. It makes me uncomfortable that Nate sits closer to me than he does Hugh, slotting our legs together in a way that’s loose and perhaps even unintentional, for his thigh barely brushes my knee unless I jostle it around. A little voice suggests he’s trying to be close to me, and I know then that this conversation won’t be good, not if he’s steeling himself like this, reaching for whatever support he can get. Why does he think I’m the one to give it? But still, when I catch his knee bouncing nervously, I want to reach out and still it with my hand. After all this time, it agitates me to see Nate in a state of struggle.

  He clears his throat a little. “I know it’s weird to call a meeting like this, considering we all practically live here….” Or did, I think. “But I’ve been thinking through some stuff in the last twenty-four hours and made a few decisions I couldn’t sit on any longer. I’m sorry if this seems out of the blue,” he adds.

  Oh Christ. Not only is this bombshell going to be bad, but it’s going to be big, because Nate doesn’t give these types of wind-up speeches for anything. It’s clear he’s working himself up to it as much as he’s trying to ease us in.

  Surely Hugh must know this, too, but he groans and says, “Jesus, Nate, just spit it out,” like the anticipation is killing him too much for the warm-up. He wants it ripped off like a Band-Aid, no preliminaries and no courtesy. I’d understand, except I know that whatever comes out of Nate’s mouth next won’t affect Hugh half so much as it affects me. This is it. He’s going to ask me to leave, I realize, and my hands tighten on the sofa cushions as my stomach flips violently.

  Sure enough, Nate’s eyes flicker over to mine, confirming that Hugh is here to receive the information, but otherwise this conversation is between Nate and me. “This isn’t working,” Nate says, voice catching, and he gives a little shake of his head. “Guess that ain’t no surprise, but one of us has to get the fuck on out of here before someone gets hurt even worse. I can’t do it anymore.” The silent Phel tacked on to the end of that statement is terribly clear to me; clear to Hugh, too, since he glances over once. I swallow and open my mouth to speak, but Nate shakes his head again, with more firmness, and says, “Don’t. Just… no more arguing.”

  “What are you trying to tell us?” asks Hugh, sounding unsettled. I don’t know what he and Nate talked about last night, or any of the conversations they’ve had since Nate came to California, but from the way Hugh’s jaw tenses, I get the feeling his thoughts are a lot closer to my own. Pieces start to click into place about why Nate has called us both here. “You can’t just ask Phel to leave, if that’s what this is about,” he says. My breath catches, because that—that I didn’t expect. “Obviously you guys have got problems between you I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole, but you can’t expect him to pack up and go because you can’t deal with it anymore.”

  To my surprise, Nate doesn’t respond angrily to this decree—doesn’t even seem taken aback. He just nods. “I know,” he answers, then meets Hugh’s eyes for a brief instant before turning back to me. “I’m not asking anyone to take off or give up their home. I came here to tell you I’m the one leaving.”

  “What?” I assume the cry comes from Hugh, because my stomach is so busy twisting itself into knots that it’s a miracle I don’t vomit all over myself. But Nate and Hugh’s heads both swivel in my direction, suggesting that I, in fact, am the one responsible for the protest.

  Nate smiles at me in the least happy way imaginable, and sighs so his eyes fall shut for a moment. “I called Emilia yesterday,” he tells us gruffly. “At the time I didn’t exactly know why I did it, but I managed to get her on the phone for the first time since this all started and… we talked. I realized we’re at a dead end here, and I for one can’t keep chasing after things that are never gonna happen, not when there’s a whole stack of problems back home I need to stop running away from too.” We lock eyes again, Nate and I, and I notice his are starting to go glossy and wet with tears. He reaches out and slides a hand against my cheek, calloused fingers catching against the stubble on my chin.

  “I love you, Phel,” he murmurs, and my heart wants to clench around the words so hard I think I actually flinch. I don’t know how I can want to hear him say that so badly, and yet not want to hear it at the same time. Meanwhile, this moment is so painfully private that even Hugh shies away, letting Nate continue. “I love you, and you know deep down I’d give anything to make things right between us. Anything.” Nate swallows, forehead deeply furrowed, and my throat contracts in sympathy as I lean forward into him. “There’s nothing left to prevent us from being together, Phel—no secrets, no marriages, no reason to be afraid someone will find out and try to come between us. For the first time ever, we actually have a shot at being together the way we wanted from the beginning.” Nate’s fingers stroke against my jaw one last time before his hand withdraws.

  “But you’re still so angry, man. I can’t say or do anything right, and I don’t know what will make you let go of that. Hell, you don’t ever have to; you deserve to feel how you want after what I did. But this is how I feel, and we’re just gonna go on floggin’ the dead horse until we’re both even more miserable and Hugh can no longer stand the sight of us. So maybe it’s time we call it quits for good. Before things get any worse. You got a life here in California you should go about building; I want that for you. And I got a son back in Ohio who needs a father. It’s time we both do what’s best for us. The last few weeks haven’t been good for anyone.”

  Hesitantly—for a moment I’d forgotten entirely he’s still here—Hugh speaks up. “So… you and Emilia are gonna forget all this ever happened?” His tone suggests what he thinks of that plan, and I silently thank him for buying my spinning mind some time to continue its useless whirring.

  With a grunt, Nate rubs his palms against his thighs, and I see the faint dampness left behind as further proof of his anxiety. “No, we’re still getting divorced,” he answers. “Nothing else for it. But after two hours with Em on the phone yesterday, she eventually admitted she doesn’t want Liam to grow up in a broken home any more than I do. We don’t need to be married or in a relationship to raise our son together, and the rest… we’ll figure it out when I get there. She told me I could take the guest room while we decide if we should stay in the house, or if I should get my own place. It’s not perfect, but it’s a start. I know Liam will be happy.” To Hugh alone, he says, “You know I’ll always be around when you need me, Hugh. Right? Whatever it is, I’ll be there, and you got Phel to make sure you don’t do anything too stupid out here when I’m gone.”

  It shouldn’t escape Hugh’s attention that we haven’t decided—or he hasn’t—whether this is a possibility. Whether it’s what we both want. Do I wish to stay in California and build a new life that is finally my own and not the structured false security of a rehabilitation program? Persuade a couple of rough, hippie craftsmen to let me buy out their surfboard business on the beach? Make a
name for myself? Yes, that’s what I’ve wanted for months now, to be past this whole debacle. But it isn’t so simple, and both Hugh and the hard knot of fear in my stomach know it.

  “Well, aren’t you going to say something?” Hugh asks me. Though the words are harsh, his voice isn’t, and before I can speak up with an I don’t know, Nate spares me the effort.

  “No, Hugh, it’s okay,” he says, looking right at me. Like last time, there won’t be a good-bye, and even though I’m no longer the one who’s running, I know I’m still the one who could stop this all right now by taking Nate’s hand in my own and saying, No, stay. It’s all he’s ever wanted to hear from me. Those two little words, proof there’s someone who will fight for him. But I can’t get them out, can’t pull them into the light through all the mess of anger and heartbreak and pain still swirling inside me. Nate knows. With a penetrating look that strips me of whatever capacity for speech I might have still possessed, he says, “It’s better if he doesn’t say anything.”

  TODAY is my last day at Palermo. Nate left a couple of days ago, heading north along the I-5 on a route that will take him through Eastern California, Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, Missouri, Illinois, and Indiana, then up into Ohio. As I’ve been largely unable to sleep at night, or any other time for that matter, I’ve followed his route in my head out of a sense of pique aimed at no one but myself. Not long before that, Nate was still a warm weight in my arms. Now he’s so far out of my reach, so far beyond what I can see, there’s not much else for me to do besides stand here and take stock of what’s left.

  The bedroom closet yawns open before me in sharp throwback to a time, not so very long ago, where I stood in much the same position in Columbus and thought about all I’d be leaving behind, the majority of my worldly possessions no longer necessary to my life. I once had two apartments’ worth of belongings and more suits than a Seville Row tailor, and now, having culled most of my old wardrobe, everything I own fits into a single suitcase. There’s nary a pinstripe in sight, while the softness of Italian leather shoes and silk ties are completely unsuited to the sand and surf of California. I kept a few items for sentimental reasons and discarded or donated everything else.

  Certainly it’s a rude awakening to realize how little I owned in my old life beyond what I needed for work or making myself presentable to my parents. I had no hobbies, no personal memorabilia outside my relationship with Nate, no family heirlooms I cared enough about to take with me except a single picture of Aurelia and me as children. Even my collection of movies and music felt secondary, and reminded me far too much of Nate to warrant keeping. My sister, in addition to helping me unload what I could and arranging for my properties to be put up for sale, promised to safeguard the rest until I had my life back in order. But I now know I’ll never be that Phelan again. More importantly, I don’t want to be. If the past few days have taught me anything, it’s this: that man is dead. Pity I wasted so many months trying to revive him, with zero success. It’s in packing up the bare minimum of what I need to survive that I realize how hard I was hanging on to a ghost.

  Contrary to what Nate probably thinks, I didn’t run out on him out of spite on the day Hugh discovered us; rather, I hightailed it because I knew another second alone with him in my house would shatter every last iota of willpower I had. How close I was to giving in terrified me—I wanted so badly to lose myself to the fantasy Nate conjured for me.

  Of course, having failed to impart this to him, it’s an empty excuse—as empty as any of the excuses I could possibly come up with for how I’ve treated him. I was hurting, yes, and angry, and at the time it was easy to pretend I didn’t care what impression I left him with, or how angry or hurt I left him in return. “Let him think I’m lost to him forever” was my original idea, like this was the all-important big picture I wanted to make him see all along. But I barely made it down the road before I realized how absurd that was, that I was striking out at an enemy that no longer existed, if it ever had. Never mind integrity. Never mind trying to be the kind of man I’d so wanted to be, once upon a time, for Nate. For myself.

  Immediately I wanted to march right back there and apologize, only to discover the chutzpah had deserted me. Instead I chose to wander the grounds until I thought it was safe to go home, alone except for my shame. Now I have even less than that, naught but a bitter taste in my mouth that isn’t likely to go away anytime soon. No matter how much I try to reassure myself that pride isn’t an easy demon to buck, that better men have destroyed themselves for less, it’s a hollow comfort. I should have tried harder, realized sooner what—and who—I was turning my back on. This entire time, I’ve told myself that person is Nate. It never occurred to me the real answer might be myself.

  You know what they say about hindsight.

  By the time Nate made his big announcement, I was desperate to go to Willa for advice. She was my mirror, though I was afraid of what I would see looking back at me. Our next and final appointment was scheduled for the following morning, thank God, but I wondered how much flak I would get for canceling so many of our previous sessions. She and I hadn’t spoken in a couple of days, not since our debate about the power dynamic in my relationship with Nate. So much had happened since then, it felt like it’d been several years rather than a few days. Because I was still sore about that last conversation, and too caught up in everything else after that, I wasn’t much in the mood for a sit-down chat. But after Nate announced he was leaving, I found I just… didn’t care. It was a conclusion, after all, to my time with Willa and my stay at Palermo, and in the midst of everything, I realized I was compelled to apologize.

  Of course I was wrong about everything. I’m not such an asshole that I can’t admit it. I felt guilty about what I said the last time I saw Willa, and not only because she was on the money. Going into that conversation with Nate and Hugh, I had a sinking feeling I would find out how much the power balance had shifted in Nate’s favor, though the whys and wherefores were still largely unknown to me. He didn’t know it either—still thought I was the one in control. But I’ve never been that person. By day’s end, there were no illusions about who held the reins, not for either of us. I just wish it hadn’t happened so late.

  Once again, however, I’m getting far ahead of myself. I went to meet with Willa, and in about thirty seconds flat, we moved away from small talk about my upcoming emancipation and on to the subject of Nate, Hugh, and the unceremonious revelation of the whole affair. Much to my surprise, Willa didn’t ask me how I felt about it. It was as if she knew starting with the most obvious subject would only result in further tension and confusion between us.

  Instead she folded her legs beneath her on the soft, comfortable chair she liked to sit in during our formal sessions, which were held in her office, and tucked her hair back behind her ears in that habitual way of hers. “Earlier today I was going through all our session notes from the past few months,” she began. “I realized there’s one thing we’ve never talked about this whole time.”

  There was something we hadn’t talked about? I was surprised. I probably said as much in the glance I shot her, but for her benefit, I asked, “And what’s that?”

  Willa smiled at the dryness of my tone. “Your interaction with Nate’s wife, Emilia,” she explained. “You once mentioned she was how your family found out about your affair with Nate, but never elaborated. I thought, since this is our last session, you might be willing to talk about it now. You have to admit it bears some thematic consistencies with your current predicament.”

  Snorting, I cocked my head. “Is that a polite way of saying I fucked up both times in the exact same way?”

  With a soft chuckle, Willa shook her head. “You’re giving yourself too much credit, Phel. You don’t deserve all of the blame, though I do think history was bound to repeat itself in light of some of the choices you’ve made. Most people don’t realize how much their lives will follow a certain pattern until they make one small change, a simple a
djustment to their reactions or way of thinking that can put everything onto a different track entirely.”

  I fought the urge to get my back up at that. “Willa, you’ve made it abundantly clear you don’t approve of the decisions I’ve made with Nate.” Swallowing, I then add, “And you were right. He’s gone—left me behind. Is that what you need to hear?”

  She smiled. “That’s where you’re mistaken, Phel. You respond to these conversations as though I’m someone you have to impress or justify yourself to—I have my opinions, obviously, and objectively speaking I recognize where you have certain patterns that keep repeating themselves. But I’m not here to tell you right from wrong. What the heck do I know? I’ve made plenty of mistakes in my life. My only purpose here is to be your friend and help you understand the choices you make. Maybe to help you make better choices in the future too. That’s all. No judgment, no preaching, just rigorous honesty like we agreed at our first session. Right? Whatever it takes to get you back on track and happy again.”

  Back on track to what, I wondered? Everything’s gone. And if I was honest with myself, I wasn’t all that happy before either, unless I counted the delirious year I spent with Nate. No, the most I could hope for was a blank slate and some assurances my best friend wasn’t going to take out a hit on my life before the end of the day, and maybe after that I could hit the road and find a new dream. First, however, I had to get through this conversation. “Talking about Emilia Santos-Fessenden makes that possible?”

  With another chuckle, Willa sighed and tapped her pen against her writing pad. “No,” she said wistfully, “maybe not. But I must admit I’m curious, myself, as to how things unfolded. And also why Emilia is the one person in this whole affair, other than Hugh and Liam, you don’t bear any ill will towards.”

  Shrugging, I hesitated to answer. “I’ve had time to feel many different things towards Emilia,” I began, “but ill will isn’t one of them. She’s what my father would call a class act. Despite being in a position to make my life even more of a living hell, she never did. Not like I would have done. She never gave any sign she resented me either.”