“No, I’m saying you can eat my nuts, jackass.”
I smirk at Park and give a little shrug. “High in protein.”
He lifts a brow, letting his eyes fall closed. “But not very filling.”
“You sound so gay right now,” I laugh.
“You must be rubbing off on me,” he quips, his lips lifting into something that could be considered a smile. “Don’t tell my wife. She might take that the wrong way.”
“Your wife adores me,” I remind him. “Oh, and speaking of wives…” I glance at Chase. “How’s your bride?”
He grins. “At rubbing me off? She’s good. Very, very, good.”
“No,” I deadpan. “Just…no, no, no.”
He chuckles, unabashed. “She’s in her happy place—making sure all the last minute details are set for the honeymoon.”
“When do you leave?”
“This afternoon. Hawaii, baby.”
“Lucky bastard,” Park mutters.
“Today?” I verify. “And she let you out? How’d you pull that off?”
Chase’s smile fades. He rubs his palms over his knees and presses his lips together. “Hope told us about your roommate. Thought you might need some company.”
I nod tightly. I have the best fucking friends in the world. They don’t even know how much Ian means to me—he’s so much more than my roommate—and yet they took time out of their lives to check on me.
I nod again, unable to find words.
“They have macadamia nuts in Hawaii,” Park says.
~*~
After Park and Chase leave, I grab my keys, ready to head out when someone knocks at my door. Again.
My eyes flick to the clock, noting the time. My elderly next-door neighbor fills her days watching cooking shows. Once or twice a week, Val will have a bake fest, and then she brings Ian and me all sorts of goodies. Ian loves her oatmeal raisin cookies. I hope she made some so I can take them up to the hospital for him.
I pull the door open, expecting my small seventy-year-old neighbor, but instead am met with my small twenty-five-year-old best friend.
She doesn’t say anything—she doesn’t need to. I can read everything she’s thinking from the expression on her face. Her arms open, inviting me in for a hug. I can’t remember the last time we’ve had to reverse roles this way, her comforting me. But I accept immediately.
I wrap my arms around her tiny frame, burying my face into her hair. The wall I’ve built up since leaving the hospital splinters, leaving cracks and holes in the structure. I don’t know what it is about a hug, but there is no better damage to a person’s armor.
I cry. I cry hard. I cry long.
Hope backs me out of the doorway and into the apartment, kicking the door closed without ever letting go of me. Her hands rub soothing circles into my back as I soak her shirt with my pain.
Finally, when I have no more tears to cry, I pull away, rubbing the moisture from my face.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks. There’s no judgment in her voice. Just a curiosity, and maybe a little hurt.
I shake my head stiffly. “He didn’t want me to tell anyone.”
“Eleven months, though, Guy—” She closes her mouth abruptly, cutting herself off. “It doesn’t matter. It’s the least important thing right now. How is he? What did the doctors say?”
“I haven’t been back up there since his mom got there, but last I heard he was stable and doing well. I was actually on my way out when you got here.”
“I’ll go with you,” she says quietly, tucking a lock of dark hair behind her ear. “I don’t want you to be alone. Oh, by the way, did Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum come by?”
“Yeah. They were a good distraction.”
She smiles. “Good.”
“I thought you and Mason were going back to Chicago today?”
“We were, but now we’re not. You’ve always been there for me when I needed you. It’s long overdue that I repay the favor.” She pokes me in the stomach with her index finger. “Besides,” she adds, “I want to hear more about your relationship with Ian. It’s strange to think of him as your boyfriend when I’ve never known him to be anything more than your friend and roommate. I’m usually so much better at picking up on these things.”
Twelve
Ian
Guy and I are trying our hands at cooking. “Trying” being the key word. We’re both terrible cooks. Absolutely horrible. We burnt the lasagna. I caught the cheeseburgers on fire. And Guy charred the grilled cheese he decided to make after we doused the burger flames. The smoke detectors are screaming in anguish. It would be sad if it weren’t so funny.
“What do you want on the pizza?” Guy yells over his shoulder as he waves a towel in the air, trying to waft the smoke away from the fire alarm.
“Everything,” I say. “I’m starving.”
He chuckles, his eyes full of mirth. “Maybe we should take cooking classes.”
“Maybe?” I scoff. “I think it’s a must.”
“It’s probably a safety issue at this point,” he adds, smirking at me. “I bet this is why Val bakes for us. She undoubtedly thinks we’d starve without her cookies.”
“What’s scary is that we probably would.”
He shakes his head, grinning. “Nah, as long as I can still hit the speed dial on my phone for takeout, we’ll be all right.” He winks as he pulls our ruined lasagna off of the counter, taking it to the sink.
I shake my head sadly. “It’s a shame. It smelled good before it got charred. My mom makes awesome pasta dishes. Next time I go home, I’ll ask her to make me one to bring home so you can try it.”
He busies himself, scraping all of our failed attempts at dinner into the food disposal, his gaze intently set on his task. “Do you think I’ll ever get to meet her? Your mom? As your friend or your roommate even?”
He has no idea how much I want to introduce them.
I wrap my arms around him from behind, pressing a kiss into his neck. He smells so good. Like standing on your porch on a summer’s night and inhaling the fresh, earthy scent of nature. I breathe deeply, holding him in my lungs.
“You will. I promise.”
“What’s she like?” he murmurs. “Tell me about her.”
“Mom is smart. She loves to read. And I inherited my writing gene from her. She’s a brilliant cook, though Val puts Mom’s oatmeal cookies to shame.”
Guy turns in my arms, his hands gripping my sides. “Oh, I am so telling her you said that. It will go like this: Hi Mrs. Miccoli. It’s nice to meet the woman whose vagina squeezed Ian out. Thanks for not using any birth control. Oh, by the way, Ian said another woman’s cookies are better than yours. Can you make me a lasagna?”
I nod thoughtfully. “You should ask for the lasagna first. That way she’ll be thinking about whether or not she has all the ingredients. It might distract from the rest of it.”
He grins widely. “Duly noted. But seriously, she sounds great.”
“She is,” I agree.
“She would have to be—she made you.” He touches his lips to mine. This is my favorite kind of kiss. The kind where nothing is expected. When we just hold onto each other, sharing each other’s breath.
These moments make me feel cherished. Loved. Complete.
If I could, I’d save them, every single one of them. I’d freeze them, and shrink-wrap them, and store them away for the times I lose myself.
If only it were possible. I would never have another bad day again.
“I love you,” Guy whispers. “I know you have a hard time hearing it and an even harder time saying it, but I wanted you to know that’s how I feel.”
I don’t know how to reply, but he doesn’t give me the opportunity anyway. His mouth covers mine, kissing me deeply. His hands move upward, skimming my shirt up and over my head.
I’m no longer hungry. At least not for food.
Thirteen
Guy
When Hope and I get to Ian’s roo
m, his parents go to grab some much-needed coffee.
I pull the chair up to his bed, just as I did last night. Hope settles in the corner, pretending like she isn’t watching me.
Ian’s color is better today. And his hand is warmer, I notice, as I curl my fingers with his. I brush the hair away from his face because I need to see him.
“I’ve been thinking about Christmas,” I say to him, unconcerned Hope’s in the room. “I don’t know why, but I just keep replaying the whole month of December in my head.
“It was a good month. You were so happy. We spent the first weekend decorating. Garland and lights around the windows. A wreath made of bells on the door—every time we opened or closed it, the bells would ring. I miss that sound.
“You bought those candles, you know, the ones that were striped like candy canes. And you were so mad when they didn’t smell. So I brought you home a pack of candy canes the next day after work. It was just a dollar pack of candy, but you acted like it was the best gift in the world.” I huff out a breathy laugh. “You smelled like peppermint for days because you were constantly eating them.
“Then the following weekend, you pulled out a ream of white computer paper and scissors, and we made snowflakes while we watched Christmas cartoons and drank hot chocolate.
“I felt like a little kid, but in all the best ways.
“And when the movie was over, we hung the paper snowflakes from the ceiling with fishing line. The end result was almost magical.
“We got our tree later that week. A real one because you love the smell. We bundled up and went to four different places before we found the perfect tree. And it was perfect, wasn’t it?” I laugh again, this time with tears in my eyes.
“We tried to string popcorn, but I kept crumbling mine and you kept nicking yourself with the needle. We ended up tearing the garland off the windows and using it instead. And then we ate the popcorn.”
I lose it here. Because it was my favorite Christmas. It was my favorite Christmas because he made it perfect. And now he’s not here to share the memory.
What if he isn’t here to make more memories with?
What if the memories I have are all I’ll ever get?
The tears drop unendingly and I don’t try to stop them. And I don’t bother to wipe them away. I just let them come.
It isn’t fair.
The good times far outweigh the bad. He can’t give up.
He can’t.
“On New Year’s Eve, we made resolutions. You made mine for me and I made yours for you. We wrote them down and exchanged them at midnight. I said you needed to get out more and no more moping in bed. I remember the look on your face when you read it. You weren’t mad or sad. You were disappointed. In me.
“And then I read your resolutions for me and I understood why.
“You’re perfect the way you are. That’s what you wrote.”
I put my hand over my mouth, trying to quiet the sound of my sobs.
“You’re perfect the way you are. I should have said that to you, Ian. I should have told you that every day.
“You’re perfect. You’re perfect to me. You’re perfect for me.
“I love you. I love you so much. Please wake up so I can tell you.
“I need you to know.”
Hope’s arms circle around my waist, startling me. I grip the shoulder of her shirt, wrenching her tightly to me, and I cling to her.
“I should have told him,” I whisper. “I should have told him.”
Her body trembles violently and I realize she’s crying too. For me. For Ian.
“It’ll be okay,” she utters.
I want to believe her. I really do. But I don’t see how anything will ever be okay again. I’ve never felt so desolate. Never in my life.
“I need him,” I husk. “He makes me so happy. I love him. I need him.” I feel her head bob against my chest in a nod, but she doesn’t reply. There’s not much that can be said.
And then I feel pressure on my hand—the one holding Ian’s. My eyes dart first to our hands, observing the way his purposely curves around mine, and then to his face. I’m met with his soft blue eyes and I’m speechless. So grateful and relieved and scared and happy all at once.
“Guy?” he rasps. “Why are you crying?”
Fourteen
Ian
Guy doesn’t need to tell me. I see the bandage on my wrist and it all comes back in slow chunks.
The pain.
The wedding.
The pain.
The argument.
The Pain.
The texts.
The PAIN.
The razor.
THE PAIN.
The blood.
It figures I can’t even do that right.
“Get a nurse,” he finally says to Hope. She moves around to the opposite side of the bed, pushing the call button. Guy grips my hand tighter, his features morphing back and forth between smiling and crying.
“I was so scared I’d never hear your voice again.”
His voice is full of misery. Because of me. Because of what I did.
“I’m sorry,” I croak. And I am. I never meant to hurt him. That was never my intent. There was just too much hurt. Unbearable hurt.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat. I’m at a loss for words. Tired. Guilty. Sad. Ashamed.
“It’s okay,” he soothes. “It’s okay.”
“I’m sorry.”
The nurse comes in and everything gets fuzzy and confusing. Guy and Hope are shuffled out. The nurse asks me questions and I think I answer them.
She tells me someone will be in to evaluate me.
She tells me I’m under a twenty-four hour watch.
She tells me I’m lucky.
She tells me everyone was worried about me.
She tells me my parents will be in soon.
She tells me I can’t go home yet.
I’m humiliated.
Everyone knows what I did. And everyone will know for the rest of my life because I now where the evidence on my wrists, like emblems of my weakness.
I don’t know why I did it. It seems like a dream now. Like it wasn’t me.
I feel very alone.
Fifteen
Guy
My hands are on my head, my fingers locked into my hair. I pace, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, in front of Ian’s door.
He’s awake.
The worry is still there, clinging to my shoulders, but no matter what happens from here on out, today is a good day.
He’s awake.
And then I say it aloud to make it real, make it concrete.
“He’s awake.” I laugh with relief. With happiness. With more relief.
I look at Hope, leaning against the wall, watching me. She smiles. “He’s awake,” she echoes.
“I want to be in there with him.”
She presses her lips together, forming a thin line. “He’s going to need an evaluation. He won’t be allowed visitors until they assess him.”
“How long?” I utter. I come to a halt, my body rigid in anticipation of her answer. I can tell from her expression she doesn’t want to tell me. I close my eyes and repeat the question. “How long?”
“It depends on the hospital’s policy and what the doctor decides. Typically, anywhere between twenty-four hours to a week. They have a mental health ward here in the hospital, so that might make a difference. But once that’s over, they’ll probably set him up with outpatient care and let him go home.”
This is what Hope has spent years in school for. Learning how to help people like Ian. People like herself. People with emotional and mental problems.
“When he comes home, what do I do? How do I take care of him? What if he tries to do it again?”
She takes my hand, tugging gently. “Let’s go somewhere and talk. We shouldn’t be doing this in front of his door.”
I nod and follow her to the small waiting room. She takes a seat, gesturing for me to sit wi
th her, but I have too much energy to sit. I shake my head, choosing to stand instead.
“I think first, you need to find out where Ian’s going to go when he leaves.”
“What do you mean? He’ll go home. With me.”
She bites down on her lip, her eyes flicking over my face as if she’s trying to decide how to word her next sentence. “Shit dusted in sugar is still shit,” I say. “Just say what’s on your mind.”
“He may want to go home with his parents. Sometimes after a suicide attempt, the person needs a change of environment.”
He hasn’t lived with his parents in over five years. I can’t see him wanting to do it now. But maybe he needs to get away from me.
Now I sit.
“Sometimes they need consistency,” Hope continues. “He very well may want to go home with you, but I want you to be prepared for either outcome. And there’s also the chance that they might decide Ian needs more treatment than can be provided by outpatient care. They might decide to commit him. It’s unlikely, but possible.”
I drop my head into my hands. This is too much. I never thought this far ahead. I just wanted him to wake up so I could take him home. So I could be better with him. Take care of him.
“It’s my fault,” I husk. “We had a fight. He didn’t want to come to Chase and Annie’s wedding. And I…I told him I hated living a lie and that I wasn’t going to do it anymore.” I pinch my eyes closed, unable to look at her. “I told him he better hope I didn’t find a better man at the wedding because I would replace him.”
The guilt takes hold of my chest, squeezing and twisting.
“I didn’t mean it. I was just mad. And hurt. And I wanted him with me. I shouldn’t have said it.”
“Guy,” Hope says, her voice firm, angered. I don’t want to see the look on her face. I keep my head down and my eyes closed. I deserve whatever she’s about to say.
“This isn’t your fault.”
My breath hitches.
“Generally speaking, people who attempt to kill themselves are sick. I can’t say for sure, but Ian probably has a chemical imbalance in his brain, like a sickness. And I’m guessing he’s been sick for a very long time. He hid it well. But think about the toll that probably took on his already unstable mind. And on top of dealing with his illness by himself and keeping it from everyone, he was also hiding the fact that he’s gay. That’s a lot of stress for one person.”