by Frey Ortega
“Then do you not trust me?” he asked.
I couldn’t quite answer. It was a direct question, and I had to answer as honestly as I could. “I want to,” I started. “But I keep hearing these voices in my head—not in the same way a crazy person would, mind you—but more like I keep hearing little voices telling me that this is too good to be true. It’s saying that I shouldn’t trust what’s happening between us. This is happening quickly, and it’s…it’s scary. I think that’s the best way I can put it. I don’t know. Everything you say is perfect to the point that it’s coming off as a little shady to me. And I think it’s stupid of me to say that, but at the same time, I can’t help but think about it because everything is happening too fast for my head to catch up and the way I feel for you is…growing.”
I didn’t know what word vomit possessed me at that moment to be completely candid about our situation. I didn’t know if this was just the height of my inner saboteur coming out, as Camille would put it, and I didn’t understand why I had to say everything I needed to say now. But it was bubbling out of me like I’d been keeping it all inside. I talked to my friends about this already. I knew the answers to my problems. My friends had spelled them out for me.
What did I hope to glean from this situation?
There was a silence that suddenly spanned between us. It wasn’t the comfortable kind of silence that lingered when we had our first date. This was the kind of silence where I knew Joe was scrutinizing me, trying to form the right words…and maybe he was just about to tell me off.
On second thought, it felt as though that was exactly what was about to happen.
Joe moved toward the remote control, and actually pressed pause on the movie when he turned to look at me. It took him a couple more moments before he replied.
“Do you remember what I told you when we first started our interview?” Joe asked. His voice was quiet, almost dangerously so.
I blinked. I managed out the smallest voice I could, a little bit afraid of what Joe was about to say…if he was going to say anything, I mean. “What was it?”
“I told you that I didn’t play by the rules,” Joe said. “And when I told you that I saw you and realized that I really liked you and wanted you, and you reacted so poorly to it, I thought maybe I should adhere to some rules, at least when it comes to you. You told me I was cocky, so I reined it in a little. You told me you were unsettled by my being aggressive, so I dialed it down a little, too.”
I nodded. “And I appreciate that.”
“And I guess it just came to me, but if this were a game we’re playing, I’ve been playing by your rules,” he said. “But you haven’t been playing by mine.”
Before I could even start speaking, he continued. “It seems like the game you’re playing is always set to sabotage, Emmett. I do something perfectly, and you don’t give me credit because you feel like it. I try to score us a touchdown, but you don’t count it. You tell me you’re trying to look at things rationally, but you’re not being rational at all. Just like you said, you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. You’re waiting for me to fail, and it’s not good for either of us. It’s toxic.”
That struck me more than it should have. I was being the overdramatic, overthinking, overwhelmed person I always was. I couldn’t just be…whelmed. I couldn’t just leave things be.
Joe continued. “Every time I feel like we’re taking one step forward, we take another two steps back because you keep trying to find reasons why this thing between us would never work. I thought maybe I could get you to chill out and relax a little, because during that interview, you were charming. You were constantly smiling. You were light and breezy, and you were confident! I thought maybe that person was hidden beneath. I still think that. And you know, when you’re in your element, you’re amazing. You don’t let your guard down then because you don’t have a guard, then. You’re an unstoppable force when you want to be.”
“When you’re not letting your head get in the way of your heart, you’re just like a quarterback throwing the winning touchdown. But this thing between us? Dating? It’s not just out of your comfort zone, it goes beyond that. You don’t think I ever doubted myself on that field? You don’t think I was intimidated by the enemy team, by what was at stake whenever we were up for a championship? You don’t think I was hearing those voices in my head telling me I couldn’t fuck up or make a mistake?”
This was probably the most he’d ever talked, and while I was bristling and wanted to snap back at him, I stifled my impulses. Somehow, in some way, I knew I deserved this.
He’d talked to me about these things before. I was candid with him about my damage. I could feel an ache in my chest that made my lips quiver and tears threatened to fall from my eyes.
“But you know what? I didn’t have the time to doubt myself then. I couldn’t do that. Not once, not ever in the years I was playing pro football. I just had to trust in myself and in my teammates. In this situation, we’re supposed to be a well-oiled machine. It’s imperative that we know each other and can practically read each other’s minds, but every time I pass you the ball, you fumble it or you toss it back at me instead of scoring us a goal. And it’s not because you don’t trust me. It’s not that you don’t want to trust me, but I think it’s just that you can’t. You’re like one of those experts on television criticizing the team’s strategy. If we win, you’re not going to be happy, and if we lose, you’re just going to feel vindicated, because you were right.”
The sports analogies were going over my head, but his message had been clear enough.
I fucked up.
My friends had been right. I was clearly wanting to fuck this up so bad, that I kept saying I was going to give Joe the benefit of the doubt, but I…didn’t. That self-sabotaging part of me couldn’t. I just felt like it was too much of a stretch for someone like him to want me.
I thought that this was too good to be true, and I was the one who was ruining it by constantly doubting everything. If I’d just let everything be, maybe his words would have meant more in the future and how I felt, how he felt, and how we wanted things to be, could have caught up with the reality of the situation.
Instead, I fucked us both over.
I must have made a good impression of a fish right then and there, because I was bobbling my lips and trying to form the right words. When I could finally speak, I still couldn’t really find the right words to speak. “I…I mean…”
But Joe was quiet. He was looking at me with such an intense expression in his eyes. When I looked at him, his expression was dark. It was scary to see the way his brows furrowed, the downward turn of his lips, and even the way his neck tensed. The deep, calm brown of his eyes looked black this time around, almost frosty-looking in his grimace.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered under my breath. I couldn’t really say much more than that.
It took a few moments before Joe answered. But when he did, it made the pain inside my chest grow even stronger. He looked down at me with an expression I couldn’t quite place, but maybe it was because tears were threatening to fall down my eyes.
“I’m sorry, too.”
Chapter Fifteen
I fucked up.
It was probably over.
Joe gave me a kiss on the cheek good night and left the apartment as soon as our conversation was over.
“Call me when you figure it all out for yourself, Emmett. I can’t play a game where the rules change every five seconds.”
Which meant to me that this was probably over, in a matter of speaking. I had a feeling I knew what he meant with those words. That single sentence left me more hollow and empty than anything else I’d ever heard in my entire life. It’s because I knew he was right. Why did I have to open my mouth? Why did I have to say those things then? Why did I have to ruin everything? Why couldn’t I just leave everything be?
In the world of football, I would have…thrown a foul, or something. Were there fouls in football? Shit. W
hy was I even handling Joe’s article? I knew nothing. I was a phony. I was a fake. Above all else, I was a terrible person who sabotaged everything that I ever really wanted. I was…fucked up beyond repair.
And the only thing I could do was seethe.
Why was I the way I am? Why was I like this? Why did things have to be this way? Why couldn’t I just accept things the way they were as a good thing?
There were so many questions running through my head, but all I could think about was Joe’s face as he kissed me goodbye. I could still see the way his eyebrows furrowed, showing me the tiniest hint of a scar underneath. I could see the tension in his neck from the frown he was trying to keep at bay. Hell, I could even see something shining behind his eyes. But above all else, I could see the expression on his face, that seemed to me like a cross between sadness, frustration, and anger.
I was the one ruining everything for the both of us.
Unlike in the movies, there was no person-from-Joe’s-past. There was no third wheel trying to keep us apart. Even his parents were being supportive—if I could believe him, that is. His mother knew about me and encouraged him to follow his heart. On my end, my friends told me to do the same. There was nothing fighting us being together except…me.
I was the villain in my own story.
But if your head and your heart fight, how did you know which one was right?
I was so upset I started to rhyme in my own head. Fuck.
I curled up into a ball, looking at the bowl of food that Joe left on top of my coffee table. I stared as the sauce started to dry on the rim of the bowl, and wondered how I got to be this fucked up. I was so excited, preparing myself and my apartment for the evening. When I wasn’t face-to-face with Joe, I could keep my demons at bay enough to be able to function. But being in front of him, I seemed to always find a way to ruin things.
During our after-interview tryst, I thought it was a one-time thing, never thinking that Joe would actually be interested in me.
When he sought me out at the office, I was convinced he was stalking me and thought poorly of him.
When we had our date, I tried to find a way to twist his words into something insulting.
And finally, I managed to push him away because deep down, I didn’t know if I was worth all the effort.
Every time he made an effort to take a step forward, I took two steps back, like he said.
I didn’t know if he was angry, but he had been feeling some type of way and I could see it on his expression. The way his eyes lowered and his eyelashes, which were surprisingly long, kissed the tops of his cheeks would have been beautiful to me just mere hours ago, but now, I was scared by how those downcast eyes would look at me.
His handsome, chiseled face—on a guy that actually liked me, who was financially and emotionally stable, knew what he wanted out of life—that I managed to push away because I was afraid he was just playing with my feelings, because I was afraid that what he was saying wasn’t real and I would end up being the fool who invested time and effort into this.
I knew the truth deep down. I knew I was finding a hard time believing that I deserved to be loved.
But he was investing just as much time and effort, too. I could have been jaded about everything and looked at each and every one of his actions with intense scrutiny. I could have been convinced he was emotionally manipulative, that he was a stalker, that he was a whole list of different, negative things, but was he, really?
I had been intensely scrutinizing everything he said and did, and was making sure I would never get too close to him.
He was right. I was sabotaging everything. In this game where I was the referee and one of the players, I was simultaneously paralyzed and constantly trying to pull away from him because I was never completely satisfied. I had all the control, and I was constantly moving the goal posts.
Even if I kept making theories about everything that was happening, the only thing I knew for sure was that I screwed everything up.
The only logical conclusion I had was that my parents, how I raised, even my strained relationship with my siblings was to blame. I wouldn’t be like this if I wasn’t raised to be fearful, to always be stuck in my head, to be…me. I was dependent on other people, that the slightest bit of strain in our relationship had me terrified. The stress left me with a constant guard about anything and everything. But at the same time, I didn’t know if this was all true, or I was just over-analyzing myself.
I stared at the table, at our empty bowls for a while, before I decided to leave my apartment. I’d already gotten myself dressed, I just threw on a light jacket, put my keys in my pocket, and decided to head out into the night.
I needed to clear my head. I needed to get out of my house. Although I’d considered it my safe place, now all I could see was Joe’s disappointed face in every nook and cranny of my own home.
Thoughts continued to rush through my head, and I was just walking—one foot in front of another—until I reached a quiet coffee shop maybe about fifteen minutes and about three or four blocks away from my apartment building. It was a good thing that I’d decided to stop inside, because it had started to rain suddenly, and it wasn’t like I had the forethought to grab an umbrella.
Could this get any more dramatic?
I had barely registered the décor or the soft greeting of the barista when I shambled over to the counter like some kind of corpse, ordering some coffee and one of those chocolate muffins to stay. Even though I had some perfectly good food at home, I just couldn’t be there. Not right now, anyway.
I needed something new. The golden fluorescence and the soft piano music in the background was helping me a little, soothing my frayed nerves. Whenever I took a deep breath to calm myself, my chest felt freer and less constricted than the time before that.
The more I thought about things, the more aggravated I felt. When I finally drank that first sip of coffee, it was like the jolt I needed—the strength that I required—to do something. To say something. I called up the only person I knew I needed to talk to at that moment in time.
Click.
“Emmett, what a surprise.”
My mother’s voice was as cool and calm as ever. She didn’t sound surprised at all. There was a hint of coldness to her that accompanied every syllable of her words.
“Hi mom,” I said weakly. All at once, the resolve I had seemed to melt away under my mother’s even tone.
I had so many words I could say to her. I wanted to go off on her. In my head, I had all these choice words and phrases ready to lob at her.
But I didn’t say any of them. I didn’t have the guts to.
My mother was the one to fill the silence. “It’s a weeknight, sweetheart. Why would you be calling me at this hour?”
“I screwed up, mom,” I replied. I took a deep breath. “I mean—I don’t need bailing out or anything like that. I just…I need someone to talk to.”
There was a silence on the other line. It sounded like she was shuffling for a place to sit. After a moment, she spoke. “Go on.”
That’s when I told her everything. I told her about Joe, about the interview, about how he made me feel—and how quickly he made me feel these things—and all the romantic things he’d done. I talked, maybe for half an hour straight, just telling her about everything that had happened. I told her about how my friends were trying to help me, about how they were trying to make me see that it wasn’t all bad, and the many pep talks that they gave me.
I spilled the beans on everything happening in my life, and as usual, it was coming out like a geyser of word vomit. At this point, there was no stopping it.
Even though I wanted to shout at her, to scream at her, to voice out every frustration I had at how she raised me, the words wouldn’t come out. I wanted to blame her for everything. I wanted to blame her for how screwed up I was.
But I couldn’t. Maybe a part of me was still afraid of her, or maybe I was just afraid that while I was saying something, it wa
s going to sound dumb or foolish. I didn’t want to give my mom any ammunition on me.
I told her, instead, about how afraid I was, about how I had a tendency to sabotage everything that got too close. I told her about how I felt co-dependent, and even though I knew this was who I was and this wasn’t something I could easily fix about myself, and how I felt like I was a broken person.
Throughout it all, my mother seemed to listen. I didn’t know for sure, anyway, until she responded to me in a voice she’d never used with me before.
Her voice quavered, ever so slightly.
“Did you know that this is the first time you actually started talking to me about a problem you were having?” She said. There was something new…something strange to her voice. Was it emotion? I couldn’t tell for sure.
I scrunched up my face. “No, that can’t be right,” I replied. “I remember telling you about some of the stuff happening in my life. There was that time, for prom, remember?”
I didn’t want to remember that particular problem, but it was the only one that I remembered off-hand.
“No, you never have, my dear. For that prom situation, you only told me when you already solved it yourself,” my mother said. “I assumed you were doing okay because you never opened up to me. I was hard on your sister and your siblings while they were growing up because they were making mistakes they could never recover from. Your oldest brother was—is—an alcoholic who smoked two packs of cigarettes a day, while your other older brother knocked up three different women in a five-block radius from our own home. Just to compare, the worst thing you ever did was poop yourself at Disney World when you were six.”
I visibly reddened at that. I felt the heat course through my cheeks. Thank God, we were talking on the phone instead of face-to-face.
My mother continued. “Raising as many children as I have, you and Emily were probably the only ones I thought I got really right, and it saddens me to think that there was all of this going on underneath that I didn’t know about. It tells me I did okay, but I could have done better.”