by K. P. Haigh
I don't know how to have this conversation, but I know I need to have it.
I open the door up the whole way and wave him in. I watch the lines of his back as he walks over to the couch and sits down. I can't get over how he looks about two sizes too big for this place. I know I'm not that small, but I feel like I can stretch out my arms, twirl around, and still have room to breathe in here. Baron? He just doesn't fit.
We can't contort ourselves to fit in each other's lives. I hate admitting that, even though I've known it since the moment I figured out who he is.
"Monty?" he prods gently.
I walk over to him, grab my beer off the coffee table, and sit down on the floor. I don't trust myself to sit next to him—my logic falls to pieces the moment I get close enough to touch him.
"Rochelle told me today that you want kids."
His eyes pinch together. "Yeah?"
"So, I don't want kids." The truth feels like tiny blades running all the way up my vocal chords.
Baron leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. "Okay."
Okay? I feel like I need to repeat myself. Did he miss what I just said? "Baron," I plead. "We want different things."
He nods, and the simple gesture is infuriating. Doesn't he see how big of a deal this is?
"Seriously. I don't think I want a family. Doesn't that bother you?" I nervously pick at the rounded metal tab on my can of beer. I'm not ready for the answers to my questions…the real answers.
"I haven't really thought about it." His eyes are locked on me. He's watching me like I'm a lion held back by a rickety metal cage. "This is kind of coming out of left field."
I shoot up to standing, unable to sit still for another second. I start to pace, beer in hand. My tab picking is starting to sound like a percussion line for my stress. "Well, you should think about it. It's a big deal."
Baron closes his eyes and sighs. "I know it's a big deal."
"Do you? I mean, what if we keep going like this? And ten years from now, I still don't want kids, what then?"
"I don't know." It's barely a whisper, but it stokes the fire that's raging inside of me. It's burning me alive, and I want to let it out, even though I know it'll burn him too.
"Well, I know what happens." I stop and stare at him. "You'll resent me, hate me even, and it will crush us both."
His eyes are heavy; I think I might be crushing him already. "What do you want me to say?"
I stop playing with the tab. I stop moving. What do I really want? "I want you to tell me I'm wrong."
"I can't do that." It's such a simple answer, but it burns straight through to the bone.
I drop to my knees. "Then what are we going to do?"
Baron walks over to me and kneels down, wrapping his arms around me and resting his chin lightly on the top of my head. It's meant to be comforting, but I feel like I'm suffocating. I can barely take a full breath. I hiccup unnaturally in and out until my tears finally break loose.
"It's okay, baby. We'll figure it out." He runs his hand over my hair in a gentle rhythm, and I let him.
I don't know if we'll figure it out, or if figuring it out will be the end of us.
This isn't a happy path forward. I'm in his arms right now, but the world will come for us eventually. When it does, there might be too much in between us for us to keep holding on.
I wake up, startled by my unfamiliar surroundings. It takes me a full ten seconds to realize I'm in my own bed. In my own apartment. By myself.
I roll over, grab my phone off my bedside table, and start to scroll through the alerts that have piled up while I slept—not that I actually did much sleeping. I rolled around for more than half the night.
And then I see it.
Inbox
Collins Aid United Recruiting
Dear Ms. Bell, We have an open contract we would like…
It's only a snippet. I can't swipe right fast enough. I fumble through my passcode. 0826. No. Crap. 0816. It's my own stupid birthday. Which is this weekend. I mean, come on.
I bolt upright and pace while I read the full email. They want to hire me for a contract at the end of this month as a trial run.
A trial run. In the field.
My heart is beating out of my chest, so I know it's busy pumping blood to all of my extremities, but everything is tingly and half numb.
My dream job called. They want me.
My subconscious tempers my excitement. It's only a temporary assignment, a three-week interview of sorts. It could go horribly wrong, and I could be both out of a job and back to square one.
Or I could work my way into a full-time gig at Collins Aid United.
Even my pre-coffee brain is tentatively optimistic for the latter option. I know I have the skills for this, and I know I'm not some crazy psycho who's going to break under jet lag and a lack of running water.
Hell, growing up backpacking with my dad—who is just a wee bit obsessed with being able to survive in the wild, because, SCIENCE—was enough training to prepare me for less than first-world living conditions.
And right now, I feel like I need to disconnect. My camera is still packed away. I haven't felt like myself, and even though I take pictures of everything else but me, it always feels like I'm baring my soul when I hear the shutter release.
Composition, speed, angle—they're rapid-fire decisions I make to try to capture things as I see them. What's more personal than that? I'm trying to show the world how I see it.
Frankly, I'm afraid of what I would see if I put a camera to my face. I'm living in a city I resent, submersed in a world I don't enjoy.
I love Baron, but out here, he's Bear. It's just not the same.
I knew the outside world would come knocking eventually; I just didn't know it would be this soon.
And now I have to decide what I need to hold on to, and what I need to let go.
So far, my birthday has been a buzzkill. Aside from calls from my parents and Andie and the barrage of long-lost ‘friends’ writing Happy Birthday with the same ten million exclamation marks on my Facebook profile, today has been oddly silent.
Happy birthday to me.
Baron has had practice all day, and I haven't heard a word from Georgie…not that I really want to. Well, I wouldn't be opposed to a singing telegram telling me how sorry she is and that she has no idea what alien took over her body and made her agree with Rochelle.
But still. Judge me and my non-maternal instincts behind closed doors all you want, but don't agree with the mega-bitch to my face.
It's not that there isn't a part of me that agrees with her—there definitely is—but I don't want to stare at it in a mirror. That's like saying, Here's a 10x mirror to check that massive pimple you have on the end of your nose.
Nothing good comes from getting that up close and personal with your blemishes.
At least it's a proverbial pimple. I lean over the counter toward the real mirror in my bathroom and double-check my lipstick. Baron is taking me out to dinner tonight at Canlis, and I only had to spend two seconds looking at the menu to know this was a do-it-up-right sort of night. I spent half the day watching YouTube tutorials on hair curling and smoky eyes and contouring, though I gave up on the last bit after my first try turned out like a streaky nightmare.
As I look in the mirror at the final product, I'm pretty damn pleased. I've always told myself the story that I couldn't do my own hair and makeup, but given the right instruction, some new products, and plenty of time for try, rinse, and repeat…I changed the narrative.
It's not bad. I'm not going to win any makeup artist of the year awards, but I think I look like a fancy-dinner-date version of myself.
I walk out of the bathroom and grab my clutch just as there's a knock at the door. I open it up and Baron's jaw drops.
Mission accomplished.
We still haven't figured anything out. We haven't even acknowledged our conversation from the other day, but that isn't stopping me from being the most e
nticing version of myself possible.
And I haven't told anyone about my job offer. Not a single soul.
Real life is swirling around like a tornado on the edge of the horizon. I don't know whether I'm going to race out to meet it or run inside to shelter, so for the moment I'll just stand here watching the sky darken and listen as the earth becomes eerily still before the storm hit.
Two hours later, I'm slightly disappointed that fancy establishments like this don't list sweatpants as an option on their suggested dress code, because I think I ate enough to have a full-on food baby worthy of a stretchy waistband.
This skintight dress isn't doing me any favors right now.
The server brings out a birthday chocolate torte. It sounded simple, but the full latticework crisp sticking out next to a simple gold candle is anything but that. It's decadent. I'd take a cupcake with half its weight in frosting, but I'm not going to complain. These calories are not going to be wasted on my taste buds.
Baron sings a very off-tune but utterly endearing round of “Happy Birthday.” I want to close my eyes and wish for something, but I don't know what I want. I guess that's a wish in itself.
Clarity. I squeeze my eyes shut and blow. Clarity.
When I open them, Baron has a gorgeous box sitting in the center of the table. It's wrapped in simple gold paper, but the silver and white bow on it is extraordinary. You could give me a Pinterest-worthy tutorial, a 3D rendering, and all the tools in the world, and I would never be able to recreate this.
I start to reach for my phone. I should take it out and capture this before I tear it apart—in a gentle and refined fashion of course, because, you know, fancy restaurant—but I don't.
"What is it?" I bite my lip, excited to see what's hidden underneath these layers.
Baron can't contain his smile. "Open it and find out."
Don't have to tell me twice. I grab the box, which feels surprisingly light for its size. I pull at the ribbon, and it slips soundlessly off the box. I dip my fingers into the folded edges of the paper and pull it open with a satisfying rip. I lift the lid off the box, and then I see it.
I feel as if I just chugged a glass of milk followed by a tablespoon of lemon juice. It curdles in my stomach, and part of me wants to hurl just so I can get rid of this feeling, but I know better. This isn't something you can boot and rally from.
He bought me the most beautiful vintage camera I've ever seen—a Rollei TLR. I should be launching myself over the table to thank him, but instead I want to curl up and cry.
"Do you like it?" His smile falters for a second.
I know I should say yes, but I can't wade through the bullshit field fast enough to find the reassurance he's looking for. He bought me something incredibly meaningful, but he still doesn't get it.
Me not taking photos isn't about missing the motivation or the right equipment. It's about missing me.
And that isn't something he can bring back.
His head dips low, and I am both disappointed in myself for not sucking it up and lying to him and oddly pleased that I have made him feel a quarter of what I feel right now.
Is that how relationships work? When you break, you can't help but cut them with your jagged edges? Because I didn't sign up for that. I signed up for the move-across-the-country-because-you're-crazy-about-each-other part. This part? This pain? It feels like rocks in my pockets pulling me down, and I'm dragging him down with me.
"I just thought—" Baron starts to explain.
I don't want to hear it. I don't want to go there. "It's beautiful, Baron, but it's not about the camera."
"So tell me what it's about then." His voice crackles with frustration.
I find myself matching it. "You don't get it. You're not around to get it. I hate it here. This isn't me. The football. The people. The job. None of it fits."
"Are you saying I don't fit?" The way he looks at me, his eyes are creased with pain, and I can't stop it.
I don't know what to say. I can't say yes, but I can't say no either. "I'm not really hungry anymore. Can we just get the check and…” I don't have enough energy to carry the thought through. Where are we going to go? If I climb into my bed on the first floor, I'm putting so much distance between us, I don't know if we'll be able to cross it. If I climb into his bed, I know I'll never forgive myself.
Baron wants me to be someone I'm not, and I can't pretend to not see that.
Not anymore.
He flags down the waiter, who smiles politely and offers to box up my cake. I didn't even take a single bite. The charred candle still sits in the center like a barren signal.
Clarity. I got what I asked for…whether it was what I really wanted or not.
I wake up the next morning in my own bed. My eyes are puffy from tears and last night's makeup. I know I would feel better if I walked my butt straight to the shower right now, but I don't have any desire to make my outside feel any better than my inside.
I grab my phone off my bedside table, pressing the home button and seeing a message from Andie.
Sooo…how it'd go last night?
Is birthday sex as good as the other 364 days of the year?
I choke back a laugh that sounds frighteningly similar to a sob—I would know; I have a very recently updated library of sounds to reference.
I twirl my phone between my palms, trying to decide what to say. He bought me one of the most thoughtful gifts anyone has ever given me, and I can't even look at it. It's a symbol of everything that's wrong here. How do I tell her that over text message?
I settle on a call. Andie answers on the second ring, and my heart starts to race. There's so much to say, and I'm not sure I want to hear myself say it all out loud yet. It becomes real when the words hit the air. They can tumble around in my brain with unrealized potential, but when I say them out loud, everything changes.
"Ohhh, perfect. I'm on the treadmill for my once-a-month, hey-I-worked-out session." I can hear the smile in her voice, and I close my eyes, trying to imagine her face. I wish I could be there in person. I miss my best friend.
Here it goes. "Um, you might want to step off for this."
"Why?"
"I don't want to be responsible for you flying across the room at high speed," I joke darkly. "Friends don't let friends treadmill irresponsibly."
"Well, if it's going to be good, I'll count the five minutes on the timer and call it done." I can hear the beeps of the machine, and the background music of the school fitness center dies down.
"I wouldn't go so far as to say it'll be good, but it'll be something."
I can hear a door open and shut on the other end of the call. "Okay, I'm hiding out in a racquetball court." Andie's voice echoes softly. "What's going on?"
I sigh. I'm not ready to let it all out yet, but I know I just have to suck it up and start.
It takes twenty minutes of nonstop power talking to tell her everything. My undecided ovaries. The job offer. The vintage it-shall-not-be-named. My stupid fucking clarity.
I would be disappointed in myself for only taking twenty minutes to explain it all, but I've learned to be efficient with Andie. Future doctors of America don't even have time to sign their names properly, let alone listen to longwinded ramblings that take forever to get to the point.
And I know what the point is.
"It sounds like you know what you want," Andie offers diplomatically.
I wish she would give me an out, an opinion on the right way to handle this whole situation, but who says I would listen? I didn't major in science like my parents wanted me to. I didn't avoid the football game when I was a sophomore in high school. I didn't stay in Michigan when I knew that the majority of rational human beings would tell me moving across the country for a boy was a bad idea.
I'm kind of stubborn, and I'm kind of proud of that. "I'm going to take the job."
"Good." I can hear Andie's nod of approval, even if I can't see it. "And what about Baron?"
I let out a long
sigh. "I just feel like Bear Richards and Baron Richards are two different people." The thought comes from a dramatic place in my head where nothing will ever be fun again, but the minute I say it out loud, I hear the truth in it.
The person I met in Ann Arbor is a different person than the one I'm living forty floors below here in Seattle. I liked the carefree, easy-to-make-him-laugh version. This one is tired and stressed and disconnected. I can't blame him, but it doesn't mean I like it, and I'm also not a fan of being anywhere near the spotlight. My place is behind the camera, not in front of it.
I scrunch my shoulders up to my ears and pinch my face in as tight as it will go.
And then I let it go. "I'm going to move my stuff home and say goodbye."
I can barely think of what goodbye really means. I already feel like I broke the mirror. Each shattered piece is held in place by the sheer force of each tiny fragment pushing against the others.
"It's gonna be okay." Andie's tone is softer than I've ever heard it. She sees me holding these pieces together, and I know we're both hoping I can keep on holding them together until I get home.
"I know." I say it, even though I don't entirely believe it. I have to put my trust in Andie's words and then let them carry me for a while.
I'm going home.
By the time I reach my hand up to knock on Baron's door, it's been six hours. Six long hours of researching how to rent a small moving truck, hiring people to help me load, and packing up my stuff. Considering that I never even finished unpacking, it was a frighteningly easy task.
I have a moving truck booked for the day after tomorrow. I know I’m taking a risk by not giving two weeks’ notice at my job, but I have a mountain of prep work for this contract with Collins Aid United. It doesn’t help that staying here feels like more time stuck in freezing water under a sheet of ice. I have to find my way to the surface, no matter the cost.
I pause to feel Baron’s door beneath my knuckles. I've been giving myself pep talks all day. This is what I need to do. It's the right thing to leave.