Much like before, I spent the night in Jackie’s dorm room. Both nights she’d found me in various stages of desperation, and had learned a habit of mine I was and will never be proud of.
I stopped being a heavy drinker after my Dad reappeared. I hadn’t been wasted in years when Evan’s party came around. Still, Jackie learned a damning detail about me when we first met – I was troubled.
To this day, I consider Jackie’s friendship to be the thing that brought me in from the sea. She wasn’t perfect, as she’ll often assure you, but she was reason, and I needed reason. Without Stellan or Evan in my life, I’d felt somewhat unsure of myself in that new guise – the quirky girl, the cartoonist in art classes filled with painters and sculptors, was now surrounded by Abercrombie and Fitch wearing business majors, and I was lost. So rather than drink until I was off my head, I would pretend to. Jackie held a mirror up to my world, forcing me to see how it was being ruled. She made me look at all the times I’d smiled a little wider and spoke a little freer because I knew that ‘drunk Faye’ could get away with what ‘sober Faye,’ or ‘sensible and grown up Faye’ – the Faye Stellan knew - would never do.
She searched my face, and I felt miniscule. I thought of Stellan pushing me away, a sloppy version of myself, and I shuddered.
Was I really that drunk? Did I have seven as I’d proclaimed, or had I had three? Dear god, what would I have done if Stellan and my paths had crossed at one of those ridiculous parties, with the arm of some disgusting frat boy around my waist, heading to his dorm, his apartment - a bathroom stall? I might have died from shame. The thought of him seeing me in the various stages of humiliation that Jackie once saw suddenly made me almost nauseous. There was a very good reason why I didn’t call him the night I was stranded on that street corner near Fenway.
Alcohol, I’d learned, doesn’t change you; it reveals you.
“What is wrong with me?” I whispered.
“There’s nothing wrong with you, Faye.”
“I’m supposed to be a grown up. God, I hate that you know this about me! Why can’t I act like a jackass without everyone knowing?”
She patted my knee. “I’m not ‘everyone,’ and you’re not exactly at 100% right now, honey. You can’t expect perfection all the time.”
I laughed, with a hint of disdain I couldn’t hide. “Yeah, that’s just another excuse, isn’t it? God, I’m fucking pathetic.”
“No, you’re not. Don’t say that.”
“It’s not untrue, Jackie. I’m just saying.”
The corners of her mouth drooped a second, then returned to a smile. “Explains why he pushed you away.”
She hopped up, and I faltered a moment.
Finally, I hurried to follow her. “Yeah, he didn’t want to make out with me.”
We threw our trash away and headed toward the Boathouse. I nearly broke a nail when I pulled on the door handle. It didn’t budge.
Jackie’s eyes brightened. “I heard a rumor about this.”
Before I could ask for explanation, she pointed to a sign, declaring her meaning.
Thank you for Twenty Five great years! – The Boathouse Bakery
I stared, agape. “Are you kidding me? This place has been open since I was little.”
“From what I hear, the owners had to choose between maintaining this or their second house.”
I frowned. “I’m almost heartbroken. I mean, yeah, their prices were astronomical, but – I mean my Grandmother used to bring me here.”
Jackie pouted. “Hopefully it won’t stay closed forever?”
I shrugged. “I wonder if Stellan -”
And I stopped. My immediate thought was to tell Stellan, or ask if he knew – share my righteous disappointment and ecstasy at his auburn coffee shrew being out of a job. Then I remembered.
Jackie and I stopped by Helen’s for ice cream – a sad substitution for Cannolis, but still sweet – and walked back to my house. I managed to keep my eyes straight as I crossed Monument Square this time.
I would not glance toward his house, hoping he might walk outside at just that moment, see me, and come running across the common, arms out, declaring his undying love.
“So when do you think you’ll speak to him about it?”
I was almost surprised to hear her return to the subject of Stellan. Almost.
“Never? I was actually considering joining the Peace Corps.”
She laughed. “You have to talk to him, Faye.”
“Why? Can’t I just pretend it never happened? I’d rather not have that conversation.” I dropped my voice, doing my best Stellan impression. “‘Yeah, thanks Faye, but I’m all set.’”
“You really think that’s what he’ll say?”
I almost coughed on my ice cream. “What else would he say? He pushed me away.”
She stopped, her brow furrowed. “I won’t push, you know - but just think about it. Would he be Stellan if he hadn’t pushed you away? He thought you were hammered.”
“So?”
“So, Stellan doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who would, you know, take advantage.”
I stared into my Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream. “Right. What guy doesn’t want action when it’s offered?”
“If she’s drunk? Good ones.”
I scowled. I wasn’t ready to hear logic, because this brand of logic might give me hope. I couldn’t go through having it dashed again. “Fuck that noise.”
“Seriously, don’t just take it as ‘he doesn’t like you.’ You need to have a conversation. Otherwise, you’ll never know, you know?”
Damn it, Jackie. Stop making sense.
We walked home talking about the loss of the Boathouse, the desperate need we both now felt for Cannolis, Jackie’s sudden decision to learn to make them herself, and how much we missed college era visits to Mike’s in the North End of Boston.
The one thing we didn’t mention again was Stellan. Despite not speaking of him, he never left my mind.
By ten that evening I was back in bed, my hair now washed, thankfully, and ready to forget by way of dreams. I’d curled up with my bedside lamp on, reading a recent Charlaine Harris novel about vampires and such when my phone started vibrating again.
To be honest, I was expecting another frustrated text from Stellan, but it wasn’t a text.
Festering Asshole Calling...
I felt every muscle from my throat to my groin tighten and shoot up into my mouth. What do I do? Do I answer? What do I say? Hello, Festering Asshole? Oh God, what do I do?
“Hello?”
“Oh wow…you answered.”
His voice was as foreign and familiar as the night sky. I swallowed. “I did.”
Then I waited.
There was silence on the other end of the phone. I waited for a moment or two, listening to him breathe. It was rhythmic, almost sharp. I let my mouth fall open as though to speak, but a sudden realization caught the words in my throat.
“Cole?”
He was crying. Softly, as though I were listening to him in another room, but certain. The sound made me sad.
God damn it, how dare you call me crying? You’ve no right. No fucking right!
I didn’t say those things. I waited.
Finally, he croaked at me. “I miss you so much.”
I covered my eyes as my whole face scrunched up. A flood of accusations, angry questions, even primal screaming all came rushing to the fore.
You coward! You bastard! You’re not Stellan! You’re not the voice I wanted to hear! Fuck you for that! Fuck you for everything!
These thoughts clamored and fought to be first, tearing at one another like a trampling crowd in this unexpected moment of power. Yet, as they fought, a calmer tone passed them and slipped out.
“It’s nice to hear your voice.”
His breathing shook again. I’d said the right thing, it seemed. “What do I have to do? I’ll do fucking anything!”
I was startled by the intensity of his tone. “For what?”
“Can I see you? Would you let me see you?”
I paused. “I don’t know.”
He gave a hoarse chuckle. “I drive by your road - more than I want to admit. I went by your house last night, but you weren’t there.”
I felt my insides twist. What would I have done if I’d come home to find him here? I would have disintegrated into the soil under my mother’s petunias. I imagined the sight of him, catching a glimpse of him from around a corner, or driving down the road as I reeled from the sensation of having been rejected by Stellan. I’d had the thought in a thousand weak moments over the past few months – of what it would be like to stumble across each other’s path. Yet he’d never appeared. Then Stellan wiped away the want of his appearance.
Suddenly, the want of someone’s presence, unsatisfied and aching, was leaving me weakened. I knew it, but I didn’t hang up.
I started, unsure what I wanted to say, “I’m not -”
“I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry, I understand if you don’t want to ever see me again. I just – I just don’t know what to do. I feel lost.”
I searched for words. Finally, one of the brawling thoughts broke free from the group. “Why didn’t you call before now?”
Like before I’d started pining for my best friend and had my heart shattered in an instant by a broken kiss.
“I couldn’t. I wanted to. Every day I wanted to. I was just so scared you’d tell me to go fuck myself. I was afraid - it would kill me. Then last night -”
His voice cracked again, and he coughed to stifle it. Hearing him in tears or in constant threat of them was painful. The man had never shown an emotion beyond irritation before now, yet here he was, pouring out his soul.
I waited, but he didn’t continue. “I don’t know if I am ready to see you, Cole.”
He took a sharp breath. “Do you think you would – do you think you’ll ever be ready?”
I thought a moment. The moment was short. “Maybe.”
I could feel him deflating, hear the tension soften. He muttered ‘thank you’ and ‘I’ll make it up to you’ as though he were giving some whispered prayer. He agreed to let me sleep on it for a couple nights before we hung up the phone.
I rolled onto my side, curled up on my bedspread still half dressed, and searched my mind for Cole’s face. I saw him there, his dark hair tousled, his head pressed into the pillow beside me. I saw the way he looked at me when we were first together; I saw his smile, saw the sleepy look to his eyes that warned me he was about to reach for me. I’d missed them so desperately once. The new anxiety settled in my stomach like a cannonball, forcing out the sadness for a moment. I embraced the reprieve, smiled back at the imaginary face on the pillow, and quickly realized it had changed.
I wasn’t smiling at Cole. I was smiling at Stellan.
I fought to replace Stellan’s face and closed my eyes.
I cried myself to sleep.
Reprieve, by definition I believe, is short lived – and if it isn’t just humor me. I discovered this quite abruptly when I woke in the wee hours of the morning to my mother rapping at my door.
I grumbled in response. She didn’t hear, and rapped again.
“Come in!” I growled.
She snuck in through a crack, as though opening the door fully might cause it to bite her.
“Honey, are you and Stellan alright?”
What? I thought. My mother is so adept at reading me that in a quiet afternoon she was able to decipher our rift? Was she a Geiger Meter?
“We’re fine, Mom.”
“Are you sure?” I lifted my head and glared at her, but she continued. “Because he’s sitting on the porch downstairs and won’t come inside.”
I shot up onto my hands and searched her face for any sign that she was kidding. She wasn’t.
“He’s downstairs?”
She nodded. “He says he’s fine on the porch. I’m worried he’s upset, but I have to run out the door.”
I muttered some choice words to myself as I got out of bed. She stepped aside to let me through, the tassels of her shawl tickling my arm as I passed her. She followed a few steps behind as I descended the stairs and caught Stellan’s profile in the living room window. He was sitting in one of the Adirondack chairs, reading.
Faahk!
This wasn’t a text message I could avoid. There was no fleeing him here. I scolded myself for forgetting who I was dealing with and patted my hair down atop my head. Then I froze. It was as though my feet were anchored there beneath the floorboards. Part of me wanted to hide in some corner until he went away, avoid him at all costs, but I knew him well – he would wait me out.
I took a deep breath and scolded myself.
Don’t be a coward, Faye.
Mom grabbed her bag and turned to search my face. “I’m heading out, honey. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
She waited a moment, then went out to her car. She kindly left the door wide open, letting the crisp morning air in to tickle at the bare skin of my arms. Still, I couldn’t move.
Stellan didn’t glance around. He sat reading, tapping his bookmark against the arm of the chair. I could see him clearly, the face I’d been fixated on for a month now; the face I’d last seen staring down at me with confusion, concern, and perhaps even pity. I didn’t want to have this conversation. If he wouldn’t go crawl under a rock and forget I existed, why wouldn’t he let me?
I pulled my legs forward, moving as though I’d grown roots, and stood in the open doorway. He still didn’t look up from his book.
“You can come in, you know?”
The tapping of the bookmark grew sharper a moment, then stopped. He placed it in the pages of his tattered copy of Ender’s Game and stood up, stuffing the book into his back pocket. He stared out to the walk below and buried his hands in his pockets.
He towered there, silent - a column of denim in his ancient jean jacket. “We good?”
His voice was soft, but stern. So stern it startled me to hear it. I’d lost sight of how upset he’d been the night of the party, the sound of his voice on the phone with Evan. I’d caused that worry. I’d caused it, and I’d made no amends, nor attempt at such.
I let myself stare up at his face, something I’d avoided until this moment for fear that he might actually look back at me. His jaw was set, the tendons below his ears bared with tension. I felt a knot growing in my throat.
“Are we?” I asked.
He turned on me, coming to stand like the Colossus of Rhodes over me. The familiar scent of him nearly knocked me over, but I stiffened myself against him.
“I don’t know, Faye. Given the fact that I had to come sit on your fucking porch at the butt crack of dawn to get you to even talk to me, I’d say we might not be great.”
“It’s only been a couple days -”
“Oh, is that all?”
I turned and stormed into the house. He followed on my heels like we’d choreographed it. No one shut the door.
“Where ya goin, Faye?”
His tone was snarky, almost condescending, and I turned back in the kitchen hallway to retaliate. Instead I met with the reality of what read on his face. His forehead furrowed between his brows, and his eyes narrowed. He was hurt. He was hurt, and it was my fault.
“I didn’t know what to say to you!”
“So what? Behave like a fucking adult and have some fucking manners when I try to contact you.”
“Oh you’re one to fucking talk! How many times have you given me the fucking silent -”
“You practically tried to eat my face the other night, and you didn’t think we might need to talk about -”
“No, no, no, no! Shut up! Don’t fucking say it!”
He stopped and stared at me. I’d lost my ability to speak calmly, and even I had been surprised by how shrill I’d sounded.
>
I fought to catch my breath before he would speak again. “I didn’t know what I was doing. I was fucked up.”
“Oh…alright. So is that supposed to explain why you scared the shit out of me – why you didn’t speak to -”
“I said I didn’t know what to say to you!”
He came back without pause, his volume matching mine. “Anything is better than nothing, Faye!”
I felt the knot pulling and twisting in my throat, but I would not cry. I was done crying. I feared he’d read it as grief, some mourning for a pathetic love affair I’d imagined in my sad, heartbroken mind.
The receiving end of Stellan’s righteous anger felt like being shipwrecked.
“I’m sorry!”
He straightened, swallowed hard, and stood there facing the staircase, as though waiting for someone to come down. I watched him and waited for a motion, a word. He glanced back, and his face softened. I almost flinched when he reached a hand toward me, but instead I let him pat my hair down on my head.
He gave a sad smirk. “Ok. We good then?”
I pursed my lips against tears and nodded. I knew the face I was making – the I-just-ate-a-lemon-that’s-all-don’t-fucking-look-at-me face. I tried to turn my head away, but he saw it. He pulled me into his chest, my face planted against the collar of his shirt, and he kissed the top of my head. There, sheltered under the weight of his long arms, there was no fighting the surge from my tightened throat. I was seconds from losing it in his arms.
No, damn it. No.
I felt a pang of grief. This embrace would never be more than it was. There would never be tenderness here, the kind that could warm my heart and my bed. Still, I assured myself that I would rather have him in this guise, than not have him at all. I fought to keep as still as possible, scolded myself when I shuddered.
I pulled away, thinking, ‘get out of his arms, say you need the bathroom and cry there, not here. Not here.’
He didn’t release me. I pulled harder this time, and he took my arm, turning me to face him so he could inspect my face. I’d managed to hold in the tears, but just barely.
He looked down his nose at me, one eyebrow raised. I waited to know his mind.
“Wanna get some breakfast?”
Catch My Fall Page 22