The Anatomy of Perception

by AJ Rose

  “Okay, first of all,” Dr. Rodriguez said patiently. “You told him the truth. That is the combination of words you needed, regardless of the exact adjectives and verbs. The point of telling him of your past wasn’t to change his mind about you. It was to rectify the falsehoods you’ve felt guilty for leaving him with since you first met. It was to unburden you. Second, people see things with the color of their own experiences. As laid back and accepting as Craig is, you’re a sore subject for him, so his experiences are tinged with pain. Craig is a compassionate man, and seeing you again likely has reminded him of a lot of hurt. You’ve just told him a painful story of your upbringing, so his mental association with you has gotten more difficult. Separating the heartache of the end of your relationship from the new ache of knowing you grew up abused is going to take him time. It would anyone. Layer in your revelation that you lied about Dr. Ballard, and it’s very likely he has a lot of different emotions to sort through. The last thing he’s thinking about is the exact phrasing you used.”

  I closed my eyes and swallowed, understanding her at a visceral level. There was something about the way Dr. Rodriguez communicated with me that I just got, that reached me where I lived.

  “And I can’t control how he reacts to me.”

  “No, you can’t. But we discussed this too, Dane. It’s natural for you to want to fix things, to still care greatly for him. But you have to be prepared to accept that reconciling with him may not be possible, or that he may only want friendship. You and I talked about how your life will go on as it has the last several months, regardless of Craig’s reaction or lack thereof to your opening up to him.”

  “I know,” I said quietly, chagrined. “I just hoped….”

  “Of course. Aside from Holly, he’s the only other one who really knew you.”

  The guilt roared to life in the pit of my stomach again, a fire I normally kept banked until fuel spurred it to lick at the edges of my gut, threatening to send boiling bile to linger in the back of my throat.

  “And even then, he knew New York me. Not the whole me.”

  “Well, he does now. He knows everything, and maybe after some time he’ll see your courage and strength and want to be in your life again.”

  I cringed. “He doesn’t exactly know everything.”

  There was a beat of silence over the line, then a guarded, “What didn’t you tell him?”

  “What happened to Dylan.”

  “Why didn’t you tell him?” There was no censure, just detached curiosity. It was that which allowed me to admit the rest.

  “He was already overwhelmed with the parts of my past I had spilled. I didn’t want to freak him out more. He was kind of pissed he hadn’t even known I had a brother.”

  “This is reasonable, Dane. It’s also reasonable that you left more about what happened to Dylan out of the conversation. Do you see why?”

  I gave it some thought. “Because I didn’t hide the information for the sake of protecting myself or a desire to bury my head in the sand. I took cues from him and reacted accordingly without thought of myself.”

  “Exactly. You’re not in that self-created bubble. I’m proud of you for knowing where the line was with regard to Craig’s tolerance for more information, and for not crossing it. This makes you compassionate, too. You realize that, right?”

  My cheeks heated with her matter-of-fact compliment, still fighting the initial denial that I deserved any kind of praise. She must have known what was going through my head, because she spoke into my prolonged silence.

  “You are a good man. You deserve to be happy. You’re not less human than the rest of us, so you get all the same rights we do.”

  I chuckled sarcastically. “Tell that to the rest of the states that still don’t have equal marriage laws.”

  “Dane,” she admonished. “Let’s stick to getting you through the day and not take on the whole world, okay?”

  I grinned despite myself. “Yes, Doctor.”

  “How do you feel now?”

  I took a cleansing breath. “Better. No more lurking insecurity threatening to drown me. You’re a miracle worker, Doc.”

  She didn’t exactly laugh, but the tenor of her breathing changed and I could tell she was amused, even if she would still correct me like she always did. “You’re the one doing the work here, Dane. I’m just shining the flashlight for you.”

  Though I’d heard it a thousand times, it still made me smile. “Well, how much work could I do if I were still flailing around in the dark, right? I won’t keep you from your next appointment, Doctor. Thank you for calling me back.”

  “The bill will be in the mail,” she joked drily.

  “I don’t doubt it. See you next week.”

  “Next week,” she confirmed and rang off.

  Taking advantage of a break in duties for patients, I lay back on the bottom bunk and scrolled through my phone. Resisting sending Craig a text was much easier now than it had been twenty minutes ago. It had been just shy of four days since I’d spilled my guts. If Craig needed room to sort through how, if at all, my story changed things between us, then I would give him that room. It was the least I could do.

  Neil was at our small kitchen table, hunched over a bowl of cereal with his e-reader when I got home from my shift. I gave the fridge’s uninteresting contents a glare and a grunt, then shut the door and was considering my takeout options when he spoke up.

  “You have a voice mail.”

  “I do?” I asked, surprised. The hospital, the chief and Dr. Rodriguez, and Holly and Braden were the only ones who knew I’d moved back in with Neil. Everyone else I knew had my mobile number. Who would leave me a message at home?

  One other person knows I’m here. Someone who might want to say what he needs to on a voicemail instead of risking me picking up a call on my cell.

  I darted to the table next to the sofa with the phone, which displayed a red number one in the window. My finger shook as I dialed the password for my inbox. My blood rushed, flushing my skin with heat and giving me the impression my head might pop off my shoulders and blow around the room like a filled but untied balloon.

  It was Craig.

  “Dane, I need you to answer this one question. I can’t talk to you until I know for sure, and even then, I don’t know that we’ll talk after you give your response. I can’t promise anything. I just need to know. You say you didn’t fuck Sabrina, and I believe you. I think. Yeah, I do. I believe you. But I have to know if you ever wanted to. I need to understand why you kept her around, even knowing how much I despised her. So….” His words trailed off, and all I could hear was his slight breathing. “Yeah, this is awkward, but if you could tell me that, then maybe…. Well, you have my number.”

  Maybe? Maybe what? Maybe he’d speak to me again? Maybe he’d consider giving me an epic second chance? Maybe he’d come up with more questions?

  I shook myself and hit replay one more time, turning to notice Neil watching me with interest through the French doors separating the kitchen and living room. I shrugged. He turned back to his e-reader and Cap’n Crunch.

  Gently hanging up the phone, I sat on the sofa, staring into space. Neil’s voice coming from the kitchen startled me. I figured he would go back to ignoring me and keeping to himself. We didn’t have an antagonistic relationship, but he’d definitely grown accustomed to living alone after Braden and I had moved out during our second year in med school, and he’d already been an introvert before that. Braden and Holly had gotten a new place together, and I’d gone to Craig’s loft. Neil had acquired the brownstone apartment by default, and through an unexpected inheritance from an uncle he hadn’t known, had been able to keep it during school and through his intern year until his salary kicked in.

  “Craig?”

  I looked up sharply. “Yeah. How did you know?” I hadn’t played the messages on speaker.

  “Because you’ve been a twitchy bird the last few weeks, and you were like that when he was drawing your fac
e all over the city. He’s the only one I’ve ever seen you fidget over.”

  “Huh.” The sound escaped me, but I was barely aware of it. Made sense, considering Neil had not seen how twitchy I’d been when I was worried about my father. He knew what had happened, but only secondhand. He hadn’t seen it.

  “So, what’s the deal?” Neil brought me out of my short trance.

  “Oh, uh. Well, I’ve been talking to him again. Hoping….”

  Neil paused, then finished for me, “Hoping he’ll take you back.”

  “Yeah.”

  He stood and went to the sink to rinse his bowl, then came to lean on the doorframe. “Look,” he began, eyes anywhere but on me. “I know I was a jerk when you first told me you’re gay. But I’d like to think I’ve grown up from the self-absorbed prick I was in school. I know none of this is about me, but it seems like as good a time as any to apologize.”

  I smiled, remembering how he’d stopped talking to me after I came out. Braden had approached him to see if I needed to move out for my own safety. Neil had admitted he just couldn’t relate, and since he was already awkward enough socially, he was being quiet because he didn’t know what to say, not because he was angry or disgusted. He hadn’t wanted to stick his foot in it.

  “I know. Braden explained you just wanted to study hard and get through classes. I didn’t take it personally.” Not after I knew he wasn’t going to bash my skull in while I slept. “Besides, you didn’t hesitate to let me move back in when I needed to. That says more than words ever could.”

  Neil shrugged, uncomfortable but seemingly determined to say what he’d been thinking. “Well, I don’t really know what happened with you and Craig, but you were good together from what I saw. I hope it works out.”

  I smiled. “Thank you. I hope so, too.”

  “Anyway,” he shuffled, breaking the tension. “I’ll leave you alone so you can call him back. But if you need something, I’m around all night. No shift until the weekend.”

  Was he offering to listen to me complain if my phone call sucked? It sounded like it.

  “Okay. I appreciate it.”

  He grunted, moving to his room down the hall and shutting the door, leaving me in the quiet of the living room with the phone beckoning me to pick it up, make the call, and see if this was the beginning of Craig forgiving me.

  I dialed his mobile number, and after two rings, it went to voicemail. I debated leaving a message but hung up, deciding I’d rather talk to him in person, or at least have a real conversation over the phone. Not through texts or a series of messages. But then, calling back immediately to leave a message asking to meet him somewhere would make me look like an impatient douchebag. If he was at dinner or doing something where he couldn’t answer immediately, it would only interrupt him again. Making up my mind to eat and try again later, I dialed my favorite Chinese restaurant and placed a takeout order.

  It was an excruciating hour, during which I’d imagined every possible scenario for the conversation. I deserved credit for one thing: I had a very vivid imagination.

  Once my belly was full, I sat with the phone in my lap and stared like it might bite me. But there was no point in waiting. Craig deserved an answer. Taking a deep breath, I dialed again, but this time, it went straight to voicemail. His phone was off. I was both relieved and disappointed, trying to refrain from questioning if he was avoiding me or if it was just bad timing.

  He called you, remember? He’s not avoiding, exactly.

  The beep sounded and I left a message about getting together if he wanted, and we could talk more about Sabrina. It wasn’t my idea of fun, but I’d do what Craig needed. Given his phone was off, I gave up on speaking to him that night and got up to busy myself with something. I knew from experience I could easily fall into a downward spiral of anxiety if I let myself guess his motivations based on how much time passed between my leaving the message and him returning it.

  Not a mind reader, I reminded myself and went to shower.

  I was deep into the latest book by my favorite author on my phone’s ebook app, the screen dimmed in the dark room to ease my eyes, when the vibration of a text buzzed through my hand. I called up my messages, vision blurry from too much time with pixels.

  Craig: Can you just answer my question in a text?

  Oh. The pain the text caused was sharper than I expected, but I decided to be grateful he had made contact at all.

  Me: Sure. No, I never wanted to sleep with her. I’m a Kinsey six. The doctor in me loves all human bodies, but personally, it’s a man I want to be with.

  I debated saying, “It’s you I want,” but decided on a gentler approach.

  Enough time went by I assumed that was it, and I considered going to sleep. The ache in my eyes made it clear reading more wasn’t a good idea. I got up and shuffled to the bathroom in just my underwear, splashed water on my face and brushed my teeth. To my surprise, when I returned to my room, I had a string of new messages.

  Craig: How do I know that’s true?

  Craig: I’m sorry. I don’t know how you’d prove this exactly.

  A gap of minutes separated the next one.

  Craig: But I don’t know if I can trust that you didn’t at least want her, even if I believe you didn’t have sex with her. Intellectually, I get what you did. Just….

  There was a sad face emoticon with a tear dripping down its yellow cheek, then one last message.

  Craig: Do you still see her?

  I could almost feel the timidity behind the last question, and my gut twisted at what I’d done to put him on such guard.

  Me: No, I avoid her wherever possible. And you asked why I was friends with her when you clearly disapproved. Can I call you to explain?

  I lay on my back, my phone on my chest and my fingers drumming on my stomach while I waited for his permission. Headlights painted the ceiling and swooped over the corner before disappearing, and I let myself imagine who might be out there and what they were doing. Were they driving to see a lover? Were they going home after a long work shift? Were they coming home from a bar, a new companion in their passenger seat?

  I need to get laid, I thought. The phone buzzed, cutting off my fantasies.

  Craig: I don’t think that’s such a good idea right now.

  I closed my eyes and swallowed my disappointment.

  Me: Is it just that you’re busy right this second or you don’t want that much contact with me?

  Debating the send key for a long moment, I knew the way I’d phrased the question would bug me no matter how he answered. If he was busy at the moment, what was he doing? Was he alone? If he answered that he didn’t want that much contact, it would hurt, but I had to know. I hit the button. He answered immediately.

  Craig: I need the space. Sorry.

  I breathed out. It wasn’t a final rejection. He didn’t say he was too busy for me or had company, and since he gave people he hung out with his undivided attention, he wouldn’t be texting me. It was one of the reasons I fell for him, despite his scrutiny being almost uncomfortable. He saw through so many of my walls and wanted me anyway. Or had.

  Me: Don’t be sorry. I want it to be real this time, honest and open. No hiding. So I’m going to answer your question in a really long-ass text, ok?

  And I began typing with my thumbs, holding the phone over my face and trying not to squint so I could keep going.

  Me: Sabrina was fun and made the long hours at work easier to get through. She was a lot like Holly, but in my work world. Then when she found out about you and still wanted to be friends, I was relieved. She not only didn’t judge me for being gay, like my dad had taught me to fear, she seemed to actually like it. I admit I was flattered she thought you and I were hot together. It should have been inappropriate from a colleague, and creepy for someone I honestly didn’t know all that well, but when you’re an intern, you get thrown into crisis situations with the other interns, and it’s hard not to feel close to them.

  I sent tha
t, pondering the next part, then resumed typing.

  Me: You know, other than random hookups before meeting you, I hung out with exactly zero other gay people. I didn’t know there was such a thing as gay collectors. I didn’t know anything about the “gay best friend” seekers, and I didn’t understand even after you explained. So I thought you were overreacting. I was wrong.

  The next bit was a tough admission, but I’d meant it when I said I wanted truth between us.

  Me: I was also blinded because she stroked my ego. After years of being told I was a disgusting, worthless human being if I showed anything less than perfect heterosexual masculinity, the shine of being ogled, even in a porny way, is hard to turn your back on. I never wanted her for more than friendship. Maybe I just liked the pedestal she put me on. But to her, the friendship was more about what I owed her for some work-related stuff, and I wouldn’t pay her back to her liking. Even if the rest hadn’t happened, my friendship with her was over when I got home from the hospital.

  In the midst of all that, Craig had remained quiet. I waited a long time for a reply and began to resign myself to hearing nothing more that night. I went from nervous to fatigued and raw, vacillating between impatient with him to understanding and back again. His reactions to my truths would be what they were. I couldn’t control them, as Dr. Rodriguez had so adeptly reminded me. All I could do was wait for him. And I would, for as long as was healthy for me.