by gard, marian
"Holy crap, Reba," I whisper. We sit in silence for a moment, and I feel overwhelmed and afraid, but then I think about the truth in everything she's just said. I consider how much time I've spent wishing I could've been there for him when he needed it most. An opportunity to be the friend he deserves is staring me right in the face, and I can't let fear paralyze me. I have no idea how to help, or if I even can, but I know I need to try. I stand up and use our clasped hands to pull Reba up with me. "Alright, let's do this."
"You're in?" Reba questions.
"I'm in."
A huge smile erupts on her face. "I knew you would be."
I want to smile back with equal enthusiasm, but I am too freaking scared to do so. "Does he know I'm coming over?"
She smirks at me. "What are you, nuts? Of course not."
"Great," I mutter.
Reba heads through the door first and I begin quietly removing my coat and shoes. She reaches to take my purse from me and we both freeze at the sound of Collin's voice.
"Rachel?" he says, staring down at me. His hair is haphazard and messy and his clothes are disheveled. On his face he wears an expression like he's just swallowed something sour. He puts a hand on his forehead as though it hurts, and asks, "What are you doing here?"
I shoot Reba a lightning quick apology with my eyes and then answer. "Reba called me. I'm so sorry about your Mom. I wish I'd known sooner. I would've helped…somehow…" My voice trails off. I already suck at this.
He shakes his head. "Not necessary," his voice is barely audible, "and neither is you being here." He splits a not-so-subtle look of disapproval evenly between us and then walks away. Holy hell.
I turn toward Reba, helplessly, and she gives me a stern look and nods, urging me to follow him. I take a deep breath and head up the stairs to his kitchen where he stands, gulping down what I hope to God is just water.
"May I come in?" I ask sheepishly.
He shrugs. "Not much of a party here, Rachel. I appreciate your concern, but I'm sure you have better places to be on a Friday night."
I shake my head. I think about making a joke about how my life has just imploded in the last two hours, but frankly, my heartbreak pales in comparison to what he's going through. Besides, Collin doesn't look like he's up for any jokes, not even the sardonic kind. I turn and look behind me. I have no idea where Reba has disappeared to, but it sure looks like we're alone. I walk over to him and reach up, tentatively touching his bicep. I feel it tense beneath my hand. He doesn't turn away from me, but he doesn't turn to me either.
"Hey," I say. He doesn't answer and I try again, this time reaching across and pulling on him. "Hey," I repeat. I tug him into my arms. He's not pulling away, but he's not returning my embrace either. I put my head on his chest and pull him as tightly to me as I can. Every inch of him is solid and stoic. "Collin," I whisper, and it's a plea. Finally, I feel his arms wrap around me and he shudders an uneven breath. As if it were possible, I tighten my grip on him even more and he responds, clenching me tighter. We stay like this for a long time, just holding one another, in the tightest, longest hug of my life. I'm struck by just how healing touch is. I need this. He needs this.
Eventually, he reaches down and strokes my hair. "Still breathing?" he asks.
I shift my head to look up at him. A small smile is on his face, though his eyes are wet. "Yes."
"Good. I got worried there for a minute that I'd squeezed all the air out of you." He loosens his grip, releasing me. My arms are still around his waist loosely for a moment, before I realize, and drop them to my sides. We're both silent, just staring into each other's eyes and it feels so intense. Simultaneously, we both look away and then he asks me if I want some water. I nod and he pours me a glass and we head out to his living room.
After an intimate embrace like the one we just shared, it feels weird to sit far away, so I settle in right next to him, my feet curled up to my side. He's still very quiet, even for him, and the silence fills me with uncertainty. I glance around the room in a state of nervous avoidance and my eyes fall to the couch across from us, remembering how I sat there with Beck just a few months ago. I feel my stomach clench. Just the thought of how I've lost everything with him in the span of a few hours, practically gives me vertigo. I can't think of him or anything that's happened. Not yet, anyway. Not here. I reflexively place a hand to my mouth. I close my eyes and try to center myself on the task at hand, and forcibly silence all thoughts of Beck and the proposal I destroyed. Instead, I see the beautiful ring and his broken face. I ruin everything. How can I be trusted to help Collin? When I open my eyes, Collin is staring at me, looking perplexed, but also something else? I hold his eye contact and study him. I've seen this look before. He wants to talk to me. It won't be easy to get him to do it, but the want is there. I can see it.
I smile at him, and the gesture seems to relax me enough to let a little hope seep in. "So, you've had a few shitty weeks, I hear."
A smile struggles through to his face and then quickly recedes. "Yup. You could say that." He eyes me, speculatively. "So, Reba was worried I was going to go off the deep end again? Thought she needed to call for reinforcements?"
"Is that what I am?"
He looks at me with great seriousness. "I have no idea what you are." I feel my breath catch in my lungs, as the tension seems to hang between us.
After a beat I say, "She loves you, you know. She just wants to help." He looks away from me and rubs his jeans like he's trying to iron them out with his hands.
He turns back toward me. "So, how are you? Feeling better, I hope?"
He's such a master at avoidance. I'll let it slide, this time. "Yes, back in good health. Much thanks to you, I might add." He just smiles. "How is the Marshmen account?" I ask, doing my best to sound annoyed.
He laughs. "Yeah, about that. Vanessa told me your boss is crazy. Do you want me to tell him I had that one in the bag already last year? I hate the idea of him blaming you, when your company never stood a chance."
"Never stood a chance, eh? Geez. Confident much?"
He cocks an eyebrow. "When it comes to some things, absolutely."
"Jerk," I say, slapping his knee.
He cracks a spontaneous smile. We both laugh.
"I didn't come here to talk about work though, Collin. I'm worried about you." His smile fades again.
"I appreciate that, Rachel. It's really nice of you. I'm OK, though." He nods at me, as though doing so will make me take what he has to say at face value.
I lean toward him and look him in the eyes. "Are you? Because it would be completely normal if you weren't at all." I lean in even closer and whisper, "It's OK to be messed up for awhile. I can't necessarily speak from experience, but I think most people are."
He nods, but doesn't respond. An awkward silence stretches out between us and then he says, "Can I show you something?" He bites his lower lip and I can't help but wonder what he has in mind. Trepidation from him is a rarity.
"Of course."
At my affirmation he hops up and scoots out of the room and I hear him thump up the stairs. After a few minutes he comes back in, holding a piece of yellow, college-ruled notepad paper. He sits back down next to me, closer than we were seated before. "Did Reba tell you about the letters from my dad?"
I wince as I nod, knowing how private he is, I'm sure he isn't thrilled.
"That's fine." I give him a skeptical look. "No, really it is. I don't have to explain it all, now. Anyway, there are a bunch of them, but I thought you'd like this one." He hands me the wrinkled paper and written across the center of the page it says:
My Dear Collin,
Don't create because you're trying to make something great. Create because the act of doing it will BE great.
Dad
I run my finger across the ink, thinking how lucky I am to still have a dad, imperfect as he may be. "That's beautiful, Collin. Thank you for sharing it with me. It actually reminds me of you." I hand it back to him.
/> "Yeah?" He glances at me sheepishly and then looks back at the paper, like he's reading it again, searching for a new meaning.
"Definitely. Your art was always so personal, and whenever you were creating, that's when you were at your best." I smile at him and feel warmth spread over me.
He stares at me long and hard. "I'm glad you're here."
"Me, too," I whisper. We sit there quietly just looking at each other, and all the previous awkwardness has fallen away. It feels like enough, like just being together is what we both need. I break first. "Hey, have you eaten any dinner?" He shakes his head ‘no' and I slap his knee. "Well, let's remedy that." I march out to his kitchen with feigned confidence. Knowing Collin, there won't be anything frozen or ready-made, unlike my house. I'll be lost. I turn around to ask where he keeps his pots and pans and he's already behind me.
"Maybe I should handle this?" He smirks.
"Fine, but you're going to let me help." I force a firm tone.
He opens the refrigerator and pulls out an armload of food. He tosses me a pepper and commands, "Chop that up." I obey, grabbing a knife and cutting board. "Frittata OK?"
"Sounds amazing, Collin."
He sighs, and I can tell his heart is still so heavy. "It'll do."
A short while later we sit at his kitchen table and I blow on a forkful of frittata. "If this tastes anywhere near as good as it smells it will officially be the best meal I've had all week."
He glances over at me. "That's really sad, Rachel." After a beat he cracks a smile, that for the first time tonight, looks like it stands a chance at lasting.
I take a bite and moan. "Yep. Best meal all week." He laughs.
We chat over dinner and I feel him coming a little more into himself. I know I can't solve his grief overnight. I recognize what a long road this has been for him, and will likely continue to be, but I need to believe talking with me is a more healing alternative than for him to just lie in bed all day and night. When we're both finished I stand and start to clear our plates. He grabs my wrist and I feel my breath hitch and a simultaneous flush of embarrassment. I can't believe how much his touch affects me.
He examines his hand on my arm and then looks back up at me. I wonder how much I'm giving away. "You don't have to clean up."
"You cooked. I'll clean. Fair is fair." I shrug and smile at his serious face.
He releases me and rises out of his chair. "You helped cook, too."
I scoff. "That's generous." He smirks at me and I hip check him gently. He checks me back. We collect the dishes from the table in silence and I feel like the air is charged between us. It's different than the electric feeling I had with him in the elevator, but it's powerful just the same.
He takes a handful of silverware from me and says, "Sorry if I was a dick before. You just caught me really off guard."
"Well, if we're going to trade apologies, than I'm sorry for just barging in and forcing you to make me dinner." I grin at him and he grins back.
"Anyway, it's so nice to have you here, but I really hope this doesn't mean I'm ruining any big plans for the night. I don't know what Reba said to you, but I do know how demanding she can be." He glances at me as I hand him a dish I've scraped for the dishwasher.
Part of me wants to laugh. Not because anything is really funny, just at how genuinely messed up it all is right now. If he only knew the plans Beck had had for me tonight! Actually, part of me does wonder what he would make of Beck's proposal and my refusal of it, but there's no way in hell I'm bring that up. His eyes widen. He's waiting for me. So I muster up the closest thing to the truth I can handle. "Um, I didn't have anything planned. In fact, it was kind of a shitty day."
A crease forms on his forehead and I recognize the look of concern he wears. His expression is so familiar and comforting that I have a strong desire to indulge in it. I don't know how many know it now, but I used to think that was the piece of him he saved just for me. When I needed him to be, he was always kind, always gentle, always there. I pull myself out of my reverie and vow for that to be the last comment I make on the topic. Tonight will not be about me.
He begins to fill the sink with warm, soapy water and after a beat he looks over at me. "So, how shitty are we talking here? Shitty like go to bed early because this day has sucked so much, or really shitty like slam your bedroom door and blast Counting Crows as loud as your cheap speakers can handle?"
I'm a little thrown by his reference until I recall doing something pretty close to that one night after an argument with my boss over my timecard. I was so pissed. He was forever confusing me with this other girl and thought my hours were all wrong. He'd basically accused me of falsifying my timecard and while I kept my cool with him, I totally lost my shit the moment I arrived home. It got sorted out weeks later, but that night I was convinced I was only going to get compensated for half of what I was owed, making paying rent that month nearly impossible. Collin was there when I got home and witnessed my tantrum. As if he's been timing my recollection of the event, a wicked grin erupts on his face just as I register the memory.
"That happened once! Once! You always mocked me about it as though it was something I did every Tuesday night!" I attempt to feign anger, but I just can't—there's so much relief in his teasing. I feel like I've found him again just as we left each other so long ago. I stamp down the urge to embrace him. He starts laughing hard and I join in.
"I mean, come on Rachel, you could've chosen Nine Inch Nails or something, like a normal person," Collin huffs out between laughs.
"What's your deal with Counting Crows?"
"My deal?" He pulls a hand out of the water and unintentionally splashes us both, producing another fit of laughter. "I don't have any deal. I just think you don't know how to pull off blasting rage music, that's all." He shrugs and fights to suppress a smirk.
"Um, OK? I had no idea there was a right way to do it. So, tell me, what would the correct choice have been? To blast Radiohead, like you?"
Collin gives me a look of incredulity. "When did I ever blast Radiohead?"
"Headphones count, dude. You played them so loud while studying I didn't even bother to turn the radio on!" I see recognition wash over him. Yeah, he knows what I'm talking about.
"What?" He cries in mock defense, looking affronted, but comically so. We both erupt into another fit of laughter.
I wipe a tear away from the corner of my eye and try to catch my breath as Collin does the same. We've been laughing the way some people do just before they cry, when you're right at that place where grief and joy intersect. My mother used to say she was getting her emotions all mixed up, but I've always felt like the two were closely related, not opposites at all. Real tears and laughter are the most tangible expression of our authentic selves. It's hard to get truly lost in either, but when you do, the release is always worth it.
Collin begins humming Radiohead's Creep and then we both lose it again. Our laughter crescendos once more, before fading away altogether, and I'm treated to a smile from Collin. Our burdens have been lifted, even if it was just for a moment, and this exchange between us has been about so much more than either of us could've expressed with words alone. I don't know what it all means, but even if it was just for an instant, I felt like myself again.
We fall into a comfortable quiet as we load the rest of the dishwasher and finish with the remaining items he prefers to hand-wash. He washes, I dry. I feel it again—the serenity of being with someone who knows you so well that silence can feel like comfort.
When we're through, he removes two wine glasses from the cabinet and raises his eyebrows at me. "Merlot?" I nod and watch as he uncorks the bottle and carefully fills each glass. I take one and then follow him back to the couch, where we sit together again.
We talk about work, and he shares what it's been like to run a business. He's surprisingly frank, and talkative, discussing openly his fears and trepidations, stumbling blocks and successes. He coaxes me into talking about my job, and I lamen
t how I seem to have stalled out and lost sight of my goals. He's supportive and encouraging and for the tiniest moment I feel like I see myself, as he seems to—driven and capable. If there's one thing Tim has succeeded at lately, it's been to make me feel like I'm neither. One topic flows seamlessly into the next and I'm struck at how our connection with each other feels as intact and as undeniable as ever.
I ask about his stepbrother, and he becomes more serious. As he talks, I study the expression lines adjacent to his eyes, crow's feet, my mother would call them; they don't detract from his handsomeness in the slightest. In fact, this is my favorite version of Collin. His hair is a little messy, he's casual, and we're just talking about anything and everything. I'm listening to him, but I still find myself drawn to these tiny wrinkles, stealing glances at them, especially when they're amplified by his smile, which much to my relief, seems to be appearing more and more as we talk. I ponder my attraction to these tiny lines, and then realize I have no recollection of them from our late teens or early twenties. They didn't exist then, of course. I feel pangs of regret take hold; the sensation is almost like jealousy. I wasn't there when those creases formed and deepened. How much I've missed! The appeal of growing old with someone seems to make more sense than ever.
I want to be with you when all your wrinkles form. I want to know the story behind each scratch and every scar life gives you.