The Takedown (The Hookup Book 2)

by J. S. Cooper

  “Aw man.” I squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry. That has to be hard.”

  “I wrote a story for them. About them. Well kind of. It was to celebrate their story, but told from my point of view of their situation.”

  “Can I read it?”

  “It’s a bit depressing,” he said, though I could tell that he seemed eager for me to read it. “If you think you’d want to.”

  “I’d love to read it, Nate,” I said honestly, so happy that he was willing to share more of his work with me. I was really getting inside of his head now. He was letting me into parts of his past that I hadn’t even known had existed before. This was special. We were becoming closer. This was an important moment. I could feel it in my soul. I didn’t know if we were going to end up together and get married and have kids, but I knew that this man was my soul mate on some level and that would never change. I wanted to be there for him, no matter what our relationship was.

  “There’s a twist to it,” he said with a small smile as he sat up and grabbed his laptop. “I won’t tell you what it is, but let’s see if you get it or figure it out.”

  “Okay.” I sat up as well and smiled. “Now I have to read this. Let’s see if I can get it.” I took the laptop from him and started to read the short story on the screen.

  In the Darkness

  Remember m. Remember e. Put them together and remember me.

  I can see in darkness. I don’t have any special powers. I’m not a werewolf or vampire. I can’t see through walls. Or read minds. But I can see in darkness. I can see the shadows as they loom over me, towering close, tempting me with their eager graceful prowess as they dance along my walls, guided by the moonlight. There are several different shades of black that live in my room: the deep noir of night that vanquishes everything in my mind and consumes me into a void, the browny black that exists when I close my eyes trying to forget, and the gray black that teases me from the ceiling when I stare up wondering how and why and where.

  I can see in darkness. I can hear in darkness. I can smell in darkness. I can feel in darkness. It pervades and permeates through my brain, making me question, making me think, making my heart tick, tick, tick, as my stomach drops slowly and the blood drains from my body. Sometimes I lie there and I hold my breath, waiting patiently for an answer to come.

  I can see in darkness.

  Twirling ships and whirling winds. Pirates that laugh and snarl, while navigating their next adventure. Whales that leap. Sharks that bite. Kids that skip. Balloons that fly high up in the sky, making both enemies and friends of bustling clouds. Wisps of flowers, petals that dance gently and manically, away from bees and toward the sun. Trees that grow high, with long strong trunks embedded into the ground, telling the world of their old age, no shame to be had. Grainy white sand, fine to the touch, annoyingly coarse to the skin, used to build sand castles, wishes being made in their moats. Pennies being thrown into wells for other wishes. Quarters by those who truly want their wishes to come true, their eyes closed as they aim and think hard, hoping for a miracle. Or better yet, the prayers through tunnels as breaths are held and dreams are floated out into the atmosphere. So many ways to wish for a change. So many loves to be found and attained. So many riches to be made. So many promotions. So much weight to be lost. So many sicknesses to evade. So many minds to pervade. So much hope that magic can exist.

  I can see in darkness. I can see the power and the joy of hope. The desperation. The beauty. The brilliance. I can see his fingers on my skin. I can see him smiling for me. Or at least I can pretend. I can see in darkness. The wonder of a first kiss. Any kiss. The trepidation on a first date: nerves controlling the stomach, heat controlling the skin, fear controlling the mind. Anger between feuding friends and family. The narrowed eyes of suspicion or hatred. The mumbled words of confusion. The cautionary steps back of a dying era. The ending of it all. The regret. Birds swooping down, predators in the light of day, not caring who sees as they desecrate the body, pulling with wild abandon. Eager to taste, eager to fight, happy at the smell of defeat and loss. I can see in darkness. Even though now, I just can’t seem to move.

  I can see in darkness.

  Heathcliff. Dancing across the moors. What a laugh that would have been. Heathcliff would never dance across the moors. Though to be fair, we didn’t have moors where we lived. We didn’t have much of anything. Heathcliff. I try to forget. Want to forget. Need to forget. Twenty-two questions run through my mind. I can see in the darkness.

  That’s the gift he left me.

  ***

  He has twenty-two questions to ask me. That’s what his voice mail says. I’m mad that I missed his call. Though, that’s a bit of a lie. I heard the phone ringing, but I didn’t answer. I just needed time. I was angry with him, didn’t want to just surrender on the first ring. I wanted to ignore him. I wanted to give myself time to think. To ponder. To hate him. To hate myself. To once again, hate the fate that life had bestowed upon me.

  Twenty-two questions. That’s what he said he had.

  “I’ll leave some of the questions here. You have to call me back for the rest.” His voice is happy, though now I know his happiness masks his pain, something deeper. Something I can’t fix, though we both hoped, at one point, that I could.

  “Do you love me more than life itself?” He wants me to cry.

  “Will you be my Catherine?” A flighty spirit that neither of us would want me to be.

  “Will you dance across the moors with me?” Of course.

  “Am I a part of your soul?” As much a part as he’ll ever be.

  “Can you live without me?” His voice drops and my heart sinks. Fear sets in like a shackle, twisting my wrists tightly, cutting off my blood flow, making it hard for me to breath. I close my eyes and press the phone against my ear. Ironically the action makes me feel not so alone. What’s he going to do? He knows the answer to every question. Though we both know it’s not enough. I am not enough.

  “I can still be a part of this world. I can still be with you.” He laughs then as if he knew how ridiculous he sounded. “Is that melodramatic enough for you?” he says and I can almost picture his smile. Almost.

  His voice turns serious then. “I can be a part of this dark world if I am with you.” My heart stops, for what seems like the tenth time in the last minute.

  “But you have to see in the darkness, my love, you have to see in the darkness.”

  I call him back, angry at his words. Wondering if I’m too late. Wondering if he’s given up. Wanting to scream at him. Wanting him to know that he can’t leave me. Not now. Not ever.

  The phone rings and rings and rings, the sound taunting and tormenting me. Each second that passes by, a memory of loss and hopelessness. Each second a reminder of mortality. Each second a question that will go unanswered.

  He doesn’t pick up. And I know. It’s the end.

  ***

  “I’m your best friend, right?” He sounds uncertain; the words aren’t the ones he wants to use, yet we’re both more comfortable this way. Even after our declarations and proclamations.

  “Duh,” I respond, comfortably curled up into his arms, listening to his heartbeat as we sit back, just enjoying our time together.

  “I’m your best friend and you love me?”

  “You know I love you.” Even now, it’s hard to say the words. Not because I don’t think them or feel them, but because a part of me understands only too well what they mean.

  “You told me you loved me, yes.”

  “And your point is?” The wind whirls past both of our ears and I strain to listen to the noises coming from outside. The cat running along the fence, searching for prey, a car driving too quickly, slamming on the brakes, tires screeching at the appearance of a cop car, two friends, perhaps lovers, strolling down the street, the man serenading her with a song. An owl hooting, letting the world know it’s night. I listen to the noises because that’s what I want to focus on. That’s what I want to think about.
Not the voices in my head. And not Heathcliff. I don’t want to go on the journey that they want to take me on. I want to run away and hide, pretend that the knife isn’t turning.

  “I want you to always remember me. Always. No matter what happens. If we drift apart. Or break up. Or if I die.”

  “If you die?” I sit forward, upset at his words. “Maybe we shouldn’t have listened to Wuthering Heights after all. You’re being so melodramatic.”

  “I know. I’m taking over your job.” He laughs and he grabs my hand and squeezes. I can hear the dogs snoring next to the couch, taking a break, knowing that when we’re together they don’t have to be so alert. “It was a good choice. I enjoyed it.”

  “I thought you said it was too romantic and depressing?”

  “In a ‘I want to die because I love you so much way.’”

  “That’s not romantic, that’s sick.”

  “Maybe not sick. Maybe codependent.”

  “Hey, wait, you’ve called us codependent before. I don’t know that that’s a good thing.”

  “Codependent in the good way.” He laughs. “Not the I want to ruin you way.”

  “There’s a good way?”

  “As long as you continue to love me, there’s always a good way.”

  “Heathcliff.” My voice is tinged with melancholy as I say his name, sounding out both syllables slowly, loving the way his name sounds on my tongue. I reach over and run my fingers across his nearly bald head, familiarizing myself once again with each bump and groove, wanting to remember exactly how smooth the landscape of his skull is. Committing it to memory. My fingers run down to his jawline and then to his nose, his chin, his lips, his eyebrows, and his forehead. I press my forehead against his and kiss him lightly, breathing him in, wanting to read his mind. Wishing he could read mine. Wanting to share how afraid I was.

  “Are you trying to consume me?” he jokes, his lips moving against mine as he talks, tickling me slightly, but I don’t pull away.

  “Do you miss having hair?” I change the subject because he’s too close to the truth. If I could consume him, I would. I am obsessed with every part of him. Once again, I run my fingers along his baldhead and we both laugh, knowing that hair is the last thing he has to miss or worry about.

  I don’t want this moment to end. I had my mother take me to a wishing well yesterday. I threw in ten dollars’ worth of quarters and made the same wish over and over and over again. I want to tell him what I wished. How badly I want to tell him, but I don’t. I don’t want anything to change and if I tell him the wish won’t come true. If I tell him, he might know that I’m mad at him. He might realize that there is no one in the world that is infallible and that we’re all breakable. And I’m an imperfect creature, torn apart by demons that exist when he is not around. I don’t know if it’s better to be with or without him. I don’t know that any of this is even real.

  ***

  All the walls are a stark cold white. Depressing and sterile. There are some posters of families, smiling and happy on the walls, or at least that’s what I assume, based on when I visited my grandma in the hospital as a child. I can smell the antiseptic of the waiting room: it’s familiar, yet not exactly. A mix between Lysol and Pine-sol. Not the most disgusting, but not pleasing either. There’s a baby crying behind me and it’s making my head pound, the wails driving me crazy, seemingly in sync, with every piece of dread floating through my head like a roller coaster, leaving me breathless and out of equilibrium.

  “Next time we come, we should listen to an audiobook,” Heathcliff says, reaching out and squeezing my hand, reading my mind, knowing I’m driving myself crazy or at least being driven crazy. And not really by the baby, but by the unknown.

  “If we listen to an audiobook, we can’t talk,” I mumble back to him. I’m here as his support. I should be stronger. Happier. I should be making him laugh.

  “We can hold hands and talk afterward,” he says, his voice as pleasant as always and I want to cry. I want to cry at how he always thinks about me first. Even in this situation.

  “We can talk about the book,” I say understanding, wanting to think about something other than the reason why we come to the hospital every other day.

  “We can talk about the book,” he agrees.

  “And not the cancer,” I say, the words tripping out of my mouth uncomfortably. Tears welling up in my eyes. I haven’t cried so much in ages. I’m glad he can’t see how blotchy my face gets. Though I know he can hear it in my sniffles and the way my voice croaks.

  “Yes, and not the cancer.”

  “So we don’t have to talk about the possibility of you dying.” I feel dead inside and hope that he doesn’t know me well enough to know that I can’t live without him.

  “Yes, so we don’t think about if I’m going to die.”

  “It’s not going to happen,” I say, my voice positive and strong.

  “Of course not.”

  “We’re going to grow old together,” I say, not wanting to think about the fact that he’s been getting chemotherapy for the last three months and his prognosis isn’t great. I don’t mind that he’s going to be bald, though my fingers miss playing with his silky tousled tresses. Though these days, my fingers normally just roam around his face, exploring his gaunt sunken cheeks, the landscape of his face changing each week, becoming sallower, thinner. Making me obsessed with committing to memory every single detail. Because he’s all that matters. And he’s all I can think about.

  “We’re going to grow old together and that’s all you need to think about. Just happy thoughts. Always happy thoughts. I want you to see and feel and think only of us as we can be, living life to the fullest,” he says and our fingers hold onto each other tightly. He’s becoming more a part of me than I am myself. “I want you to think of us as pirates, navigating the wild oceans together. Think of us as whales or dolphins swimming in the sea, jumping high with abandon, flipping over ourselves, trying to impress each other. Think of us as little kids running through the fields, with kites or balloons, letting go, watching them fly high into the sky, dancing in the wind. Think of us as trees, with squirrels and birds perched upon our branches, protecting all who seek our warmth. Think of us on the beach, the sun kissing our faces as we bury each other in sand and we laugh with cheerful abandon, just happy to be in that moment together. Think of the first time I kissed you and how scared you were. How we’ve tasted each other’s tears. How we’ve argued. How you’ve hated me. Think about it all.” He stops then and silence sits comfortably between us as we think about everything, but his dying.

  “What book should we read?” he asks and then laughs. “Or rather, what book should we listen to?”

  “Wuthering Heights,” I say, without hesitation.

  “Why?” He sounds surprised. “Isn’t that a dreadful gooey romance?”

  “No.” I laugh. “It’s not.”

  “Then why?” He sounds curious. And I know this is the time. This is the moment.

  “Because you’re Heathcliff.” I pause. “And because I love you.”

  “I love you too.” Each word from his mouth seems to last an eternity. It’s as if he’s been waiting forever and I only wish that I’d chosen a different moment than this.

  ***

  “We’ve been friends for a year now.” He coughs slightly as he talks.

  “If you can call us friends.” I can feel his shoulders rubbing next to mine gently as we lie back in his bed, talking into the night. I can feel myself yawning, sleep wanting to take over my body, but my mind not wanting to succumb just yet. He starts coughing again, this time it lasts for a good couple of minutes and I frown.

  “I think you have more than a cold,” I lecture him. “You might have the flu or pneumonia or something. You should go to the doctor.”

  “I’m fine.” He sounds exhausted as he clears his throat and then starts coughing again.

  “You’ve had a persistent cough for over a month now. Go to the doctor.”
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  “You’re so bossy.”

  “I’m bossy because I care.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Because I’m worried.”

  “Why are you worried?”

  “Because you’re sick and you need to get some antibiotics so you can get better.”

  “But why are you worried?”

  “What are you asking me, Heathcliff?”

  “You worry too much.”

  “Okay?”

  “I’ll start to think that you like worrying about me and caring for me.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll start to wonder why.”

  “Wonder then.”

  “I know what it means, you know?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” My body flushes hot and cold.

  “Yes, you do. It’s okay. I feel the same way too.”

  “What way is that?”

  “I’m not going to say the words until you do.”

  “I still have no idea what you’re talking about.” Panic flitters through me.

  “One day you’ll be able to tell me. You’ll be screaming it from the rooftops.” He laughs again and I wonder why he laughs so much. Why he’s always so happy. So I ask him.

  “Why do you laugh so much?” I’m eager to change the subject, not comfortable with expressing feelings or the weirdness that exists in my brain when I think about him. Not wanting to define what it is we may or may not have. It’s too scary. And life is too dark without him in it.

  “I laugh because I’m happy.”

  “Why are you always so happy?”

  “Because I’m with you,” he says and my heart soars, even as I try to ignore what that elated feeling means.

  “I’m rolling my eyes, by the way,” I say in response as we continue to lie there. We’ve been friends for a year now. I can’t imagine not having him in my life anymore. I can’t imagine where I’d be if I hadn’t met him in that first class. I can’t imagine navigating the world without him by my side. And that’s why I don’t tell him what we both know. I don’t want to ruin a thing. I don’t want anything to change. Even though I do. In every possible way. It’s just scary to think about what could happen.