Page 57 of This Time Around

I should be a lot of things, but right now, all I am is sad.

Sad April and I are at odds.

Sad that the soft opening of L&L fell apart.

Sad that the man I love is not here in our bed with me, but miles away at his parents’ house.

Most of all, I’m sad I prefer not to be with him right now.

There are a million different ways I could describe my feelings as I lay here and stare at the ceiling, but tonight, there is no better word than sad.

I’m used to not getting the things I want, and most times growing up, not even getting the things I needed. I spent many nights alone growing up, little to no food in the house, no detergent to clean my clothes because mom was too busy getting busy with any man who would pay her attention. That’s why I spent so much time with April and her family. So, this feeling of disappointment rolling around inside me that things are not the way I want, is all too familiar.

Maggie has called me several times. She also sent a few texts, but I just can’t bring myself to respond. She is the best maternal figure I have had in my life, yet, in a lot of ways, I’m a product of my upbringing, despite her positive influence in my most crucial years.

I forget to eat when I’m in a funk, and retreat to my turtle shell when I’m overwhelmed, overworked, or sad. I try to self-soothe because it’s my best defense against the pressures, disappointments, and realities of the cruel world outside, lurking in the shadows of seemingly mundane moments.

Monotony is the bane of my existence. I function best at a busy, nonstop pace. When things are quiet, simple, and calm, my brain takes over.

I roll over and look at the clock, it’s 2:52 am. I started getting ready for bed at 10:16. Got in the shower, dried my hair, put on my nightly skin care regimen, and finally settled in bed to watch tv at 11:34. I have been laying here pretending to watch tv ever since. It’s been a little over a week, but I can’t find a rhythm, or balance. I have lived on my own for most of my life, or at least been alone at night, but Luke’s absence in our bed, his bed, is gaping, the vortex of this cold void pulling me under. I sink further into the sad abyss each night, but I also need the space.

Luke: Goodnight, B. Sweet dreams.

I stare down at Luke’s text. It comes like clockwork every night, somewhere between 9:00 and 10:00. It’s the one thing I both look forward to and dread each night. I miss him like crazy, and I know we need to talk. The texts make me feel so loved despite the distance, but the dread of what to say, how to respond, is consuming. I miss him, and I want him to know it, but the things that have happened are not ok, and I need him to understand that too. But are they worth potentially losing each other over?

No.

I don’t know how to move forward, but I don’t know how to exist like this either.

I love him with all my heart, and I know he loves me too, but what if April is right? What if she’s been right all along? What if we aren’t ready, and we rushed into things and are truly not prepared for something like this? Sometimes the path ahead is clearer when you are on the outskirts. Maybe she saw the warning signs while the dense underbrush of love, of lust, obstructed our view.

I lay here feeling like I’m a tilt-a-whirl, unable to make out the direction I am heading. Luke and I have been avoiding our feelings in the private solace of our own minds for years. We are soulmates and lovers, not a product of lust and impulse. We’re not.

Shit, shit, shit, we’re not right?

I hate the fucking mundane stillness of the night. It allows my inner demons to surface out of the shadows where they are lurking and overtake my brain.

I look back at the clock: 3:27. Deciding I sleep is not in the cards, I slide on my slippers, grab a blanket, and head to the kitchen to make some coffee.

When the coffee finishes brewing, I turn on a lamp to cast a warm glow over the room, grab a book off the shelf and read.

I reread the same line repeatedly, because I can’t focus on the words sprawled across the page.

Not being able to talk myself out of it, I pick up the phone and dial Luke’s number. Maybe if I leave him a message, get the words out instead of leaving them trapped in my head, unknown to even myself, I can get some goddamn sleep.

The phone rings once. “B, what’s wrong? I’m on my way.” I hear him fumbling around, scrambling in what I can imagine is a dark room.

“No, I don’t want to see you. I just-” Taking a moment to find the words, I pause, “I just needed to hear your voice. I needed to get my words out.” Nothing I am saying makes sense. I place one hand over my face and shake my head in frustration.

“Ok.” He has a breathy tone, and I can hear him pulling out a chair to sit down. He remains silent on the other end. He just waits.

So do I.

We just sit in silence for what feels like an eternity while we both wait for the words to surface. After a beat, I look at the screen and see we have been, in fact, sitting in this silence for 9 minutes and 34 seconds.

“I’m sad.” My heart shatters at the admission. “I’m sad that I’m sad and I don’t want you here. Sad, I still need space even when I’m sad. But you are also who I need.” I laugh with a little cry, broken by the void between us.

“I’m sorry, B.” He doesn’t push, he doesn’t defend himself or try to make it right. He knows I need this space, and this-whatever this is. This is what I love about him.