Unforgivable

“That’s just not how it works.”

  Silence. A silence so loud it kills me.

  Evie sits up straight and I can tell it’s taking all her strength to look at me. “My one priority right now is to stay sober,” she says with a rehearsed strength in her voice. “I have to let go of everything that might get in the way of my doing that.”

  “So you’re letting go of me?”

  “I have to take care of myself now,” she says without feeling, as if it’s a line, pumped into her by some ventriloquist. “I can’t see you anymore.”

  “Do you still love me?” I demand.

  “Marcus, don’t.”

  “I have a right to ask that. I have a right to know.”

  “And I have a right to not answer.”

  My shoulders tense, the muscles in my arms go rigid. Somewhere deep down, I know I still love the girl in front of me. But all I can feel right now is disgust, fury. “I used to think you were the bravest person I ever met.”

  She looks away.

  “But maybe I was wrong.” I want to hurt her. I want to tear her apart. “Maybe you’re a coward like everyone else.”

  “Stop it.”

  “Only a coward could throw someone away like this.”

  “Marcus, stop.”

  “If you love someone, you stick around. No matter what.” I know I’m raising my voice, I know people are looking, but I don’t care.

  “Please go,” she whispers.

  “No.” I pound my fist on the table. Her cup of tea spills and drenches my lap, not hers.

  “Just go!” Evie yells. “Leave me alone!” Everyone in the café looks in our direction. A few bodies lean toward us, ready to protect the sweet-looking girl from the thug across from her. Of course everyone would assume it’s me who hurt her.

  “Fine,” I say. “I’m going.” I stand up. “You’re really good at this, aren’t you?”

  “Good at what?” she mutters, unable to meet my eye.

  “Breaking people’s hearts.”

  Then I walk out the door.

  I need to rage. I need to slam into people. I need to go someplace so loud it will drown everything else out.

  So I drive to the one place I know I can count on for this kind of diversion: 924 Gilman, the all-ages punk club in Berkeley where bands like Green Day and AFI got their start, before they sold out and made millions.

  The handwritten sign in front of the club says tonight is a metal-core showcase, featuring bands I’ve never heard of. The people milling around outside are the usual mix ranging from Urban Outfitters pseudohipsters to Dumpster-diving gutter punks who look halfway to homeless. As usual, I am the only nonwhite person here, as I am at most shows I go to. By now, I am used to being the token black guy, despite living in an area full of black people. But the scenes don’t mix much, and I’m even more of an outsider with the black kids than I am here.

  I walk through a cloud of cigarette smoke to buy my ticket and notice a girl with long bright-green hair and a lip ring checking me out. An old spark ignites and the warmth feels better than anything I’ve felt in a long time.

  “Hey,” I say. “Do you have an extra smoke?” Her eyes are lined with dark purple. The rings in her ears are thick plugs of wood. She’s cute, but I can’t help but compare her to Evie, how Evie’s beauty was so natural, how she didn’t have to try so hard to be cool.

  “For you, my dear,” the girl says. “Anything.” She puts a new cigarette in her mouth along with the one she’s already smoking, lights it, and places it between my lips.

  “Got anything stronger?” I say, and she grins. She takes my hand and I follow her.

  We smoke a bowl behind a boarded-up warehouse a couple blocks away from the club. Gilman has a strict no drugs and alcohol policy, but they must know at least half of the people at the shows are wasted. The girl’s name is Amber and she’s from San Leandro. I lie and tell her I just graduated from Oakland Tech.

  We don’t talk much as we pass the pipe back and forth. The more I look at her, the more I can tell this isn’t really her style. Her large-gauge earrings are fakes—I can see the part going through her ear is actually a normal-sized piercing. Her shirt is newly ripped. Her scalp is still green from the recent dye job.

  A wave of sadness hits me so hard it makes me sick to my stomach. I don’t want to do this. Not this bullshit. Not here. Not with her, not with anyone who’s not Evie. But then she reaches over and pulls me close, puts her mouth close to my ear, says, “Want to go see the show?” and I can’t think of how to tell her no.

  The club is dark and the music is loud and pounding. The vocalist screams into the mic and he could be talking gibberish for all I know. It doesn’t matter what he’s saying, just how it sounds, how it feels, how the rage and anger pulses through the crowd and catches like wildfire. People are pushing and thrashing in front of the stage, running into each other, knocking each other over, taking out their aggression on strangers and friends. Are they really that angry, all these stomping white kids with tattoos and bulging neck veins? What are they so angry about? Does it even matter?

  I want to run into the middle of it. I want to get bruised and beaten by these people I don’t know. Amber hangs back while I throw myself into the pit. I close my eyes and join the jabbing elbows and shoulders, the hands pushing, the bodies slamming. But none of it hurts, not really, not in the way that counts.

  The pit is a frenzy of men, half of them shirtless, running around in circles until they crash into another’s orbit, hot skin on skin, sweat mixing. We touch but never make eye contact. It looks like rage. It looks like anger. But maybe that’s not all it is. Maybe it’s the only way some people can figure out how to touch, how to throw themselves into another person without really getting hurt.

  After a few songs, I am panting and drenched with sweat, not all of it mine. All the songs sound the same—same beat, same three chords, same unintelligible screaming—but I don’t care. I stand on the edge to catch my breath. Blood races through me like electricity. I need to do something with this adrenaline. I’m not done, not spent.

  A hand grabs mine and pulls me into the shadows against the wall. Lips and a tongue that taste like smoke and cinnamon.

  Amber pulls me to her, presses her body against mine. “Do you have a car?” she says.

  I nod.

  “Take me there,” she says, even more breathless than me.

  We are silent as we fumble around in the car to put our clothes back on. I kept my shirt on so she wouldn’t see the fresh cuts on my shoulder, and I can feel the sting of wounds reopened. The stain of blood on my shirt shimmers in the darkness, evidence of my cracking open. I am so tired—posthigh, postmosh, postsex—and all I want to do is curl into my bed and sleep. But there’s a girl next to me pulling a shirt over her head. There’s a sick, empty feeling in my stomach telling me I made a huge mistake. We just did one of the most intimate things two people can do, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt so lonely.

  Amber puts on a fresh coat of bright red lipstick, then pulls out her phone and starts texting. We are inches apart, but it’s like I’m not even there.

  “So,” I say.

  “Hold on,” she says, holding up a finger to silence me. Her phone buzzes with a new text, she types something back, then puts the phone in her purse. She looks at me and smiles the kind of smile you’d give someone ringing up your groceries.

  “That was fun,” she says.

  “Can I call you some time?” I think that’s what I’m supposed to say.

  She laughs. “You’re really cute, Marcus. But I don’t want a boyfriend or anything. I’m leaving for Vassar in like two months and I’m traveling most of the summer.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m gonna go now, okay?” she says, opening the door. She leans over and gives me a peck on the cheek. “So cute.” She climbs out of the car and closes the door, leaving me in the backseat, sticky with the sweat of so many strangers.

  When I get home, I take a
shower and wash the memory of this night off me. But I also have the munchies, so I stop in the kitchen to grab some food before I head upstairs. I hear footsteps on the stairs, and I throw my sweatshirt over my head just in time so Dad won’t see the bloodstains on my shirt.

  He’s humming as he enters the kitchen, in pajama pants with no shirt on. The tuft of tight curls on his chest has started to gray, and his belly is rounder than I remember it.

  He startles when he sees me. “Oh, Marcus,” he says, and I can tell he’s embarrassed. “Hi.”

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “I’m getting a snack,” he says.

  “Okay.”

  “I guess I should tell you that Monica is sleeping over.”

  Gross. My dad just got laid.

  “You don’t have to tell me that. Seriously.”

  “No, I do. This is your home, too. I want to be open and honest with you.”

  “There’s such a thing as being too open and honest.”

  He chuckles as he grabs a bottle of water and some food out of the fridge. I pretend not to watch him as he sets it out nicely on a tray, fussing over the placement of each thing. He seems more human in this moment than I remember him being in a long time, so not like my father.

  “All you need is a little vase and a flower,” I say. “Then you could get a job delivering room service.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind if this whole judge thing doesn’t work out.”

  “It’s important to have something to fall back on.”

  “Ha.”

  I wonder what my dad would think about my one-night stand. I wonder how he feels about the ones he used to have before he got serious with Monica. I wonder how he feels now that they’re supposedly going to be over.

  No, not going to go there.

  “Well, good night,” Dad says, taking his tray of water and snacks.

  He takes a few steps toward the door, then I surprise myself by saying, “Dad, wait.” He turns around. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.” He sets the tray down on the counter.

  “What’s it like having Mom back here? What’s it like for you?”

  He’s as surprised as I am by the question, and it takes him a few seconds to answer. “Well, I’m glad you two are starting to talk again.”

  “But what’s it like for you? Aren’t you pissed?”

  “To be honest, we get along a lot better now than we ever did married.”

  “But aren’t you mad at her? I mean, she took all that money, for one thing.”

  He sighs. “She was going to get half of it in the divorce anyway.”

  “How can you forgive her so easy? Don’t you hate her?”

  He thinks for a moment, like he’s seriously considering the question. “I hate what she did,” he finally says. “I hate that she left you. But she did what she thought she had to do. She didn’t think she had any other choice.”

  “People always have a choice,” I say.

  “Maybe. But a lot of times, they don’t know it.”

  “That’s their fault.”

  “It’s more complicated than that, Marcus. People are complicated. Your mom was miserable, and I know I had a lot to do with that.” He looks me in the eyes, searching for understanding.

  “When you love someone,” he continues, “you’re supposed to bring out the best in each other. I brought out the worst in your mom.”

  “Did she bring out the worst in you?”

  He thinks for a moment. “To be honest, I don’t think I really gave her a chance to bring out much of anything in me. You may not have noticed, but I haven’t been the most emotionally available man in the world.” If I respond, if I nod, that means I accept this veiled attempt at an apology. But I’m not ready for this to be how we talk to each other. I’m not ready to accept this version of my dad who says things the way they are instead of ignoring them.

  “Your mom and I weren’t right for each other,” he says. “We both know that, and we’ve made peace with it. She’s doing really well now, Marcus. And she really loves you.”

  I shrug.

  “Sometimes people’s actions don’t always match their intentions,” he says. “Sometimes people do things backward, and it takes doing the wrong thing to bring them to a place where they can do the right thing. She’s trying to do the right thing. I really hope you decide to give her another chance.”

  I can’t help but laugh at how ridiculous this night has turned out. “Do you have a fever?” I say. “You’re not yourself. Do you think Monica maybe slipped something in your drink?”

  “Maybe.” Dad smiles. “I hope it doesn’t wear off anytime soon.”

  “Yeah, me too,” I say, then immediately regret it. This is what hurts—this softness, this exposure—not the bruises from slamming into people in the pit.

  Or is it this I want more of? Is this the kind of real connection I’ve been craving? If it is, then why is it so painful?

  We stand in awkward silence, neither of us knowing how to acknowledge the excruciatingly tender moment.

  “Well, good night,” Dad says, picking up the tray, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Good night.” And a part of me stretches thin as he walks away. A part of me wants him to turn around and come back.

  you.

  I’M TRYING TO GET OVER YOU, BUT IT’S NOT WORKING. Everywhere I turn, I see you. My breath catches in my throat and I almost say your name, but then the figure turns around and it’s a stranger.

  But how different are they, really? How well did I know you compared to these random women on the street? I have no clue how to decipher the truth from your fictions. Is something less true when spoken between lies? Do words lose their meaning when doused in alcohol or tangled in some other drug?

  Your eyes, those were not lies. Your skin. Your touch. They way your fingertips whispered on the back of my neck. The way you fell into me and let me carry you. Those rare moments when your body softened and you released your burdens.

  But maybe it had nothing to do with me. How often were we actually sober together? Does our love even count? Maybe your feelings were only chemical concoctions. Maybe you never loved me at all; maybe you fell in love with your own chemistry.

  Who did I fall in love with? A ghost? My own projections onto the shell of you? Who was I talking to all those times I thought I was pouring into you, when I told you secrets I never told anyone? What does it mean that I finally felt safe? What does it mean that you said you did, too?

  Evie, I don’t know if I miss you or my fantasy of you. I remember what you look like, how you felt in my arms; I remember the physical weight of you, the tangible things, the things that could not be faked. But there is something else, a kind of smoke, the weightless stuff that fills you up—that is what I’m not sure about. There’s a taste of it on my tongue, a residue of memory, but I don’t know if it’s you or myself I am tasting.

  It’s not even a question of whether or not we were good for each other. It’s a question of whether we existed at all.

  here.

  I’M WALKING IN FRONT, TAKING LONG STEPS UP THE STEEP trail. I can tell I’m going a little too fast, that Mom is struggling to keep up, but I don’t care. I’m still not ready to admit to myself that I agreed to go hiking with the woman I vowed to never forgive or let back into my life.

  But loneliness does weird things to people. She called at exactly the right time. My guard was down. I wanted to say yes to something. Anything.

  The trail cuts through the yellow-brown grass of the scorched East Bay hills under a periodic canopy of oak, madrona, and eucalyptus, carved into the side of the hill by a deep ravine. It is so silent out here, so still. A light breeze rustles the leaves, but it is not so much movement as it is a variation of stillness.

  “So what are we supposed to talk about?” I say to break the silence.

  “I don’t know,” Mom says from behind me, a little out of breath. “What do you want to talk about??
??

  I walk even faster. I am taking more than a slight pleasure in her struggle to keep up with me. “Am I supposed to fill you in on every little thing that’s happened since you left? Because I’m not going to do that.”

  “Okay.”

  “I don’t want to talk about the past.”

  “So don’t.”

  “Fine.”

  We make it to the top of an overlook, and I stop for a moment to take in the view of rolling hills that opens up to the east, grazing cows dotting the landscape. “Isn’t this beautiful?” Mom says, panting slightly, but I walk again before she has a chance to catch her breath.

  “Marcus,” she says. I keep walking. “Marcus, wait.”

  I stop because I’m tired, too. We’re in a patch of shade. There’s a perfect bench on the side of the trail, but I won’t sit down and admit defeat.

  “This isn’t a race, you know,” Mom says.

  “I’m not racing,” I say. “I’m trying to get some exercise.”

  She sits down on the bench and I fight the urge to join her. “You think if you walk fast enough, you won’t have to talk to me?” she says.

  I say nothing. I wipe the sweat off my brow, but some drips into my eyes. It stings, blinding me for a moment.

  “What are you afraid of?”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  She pats the space next to her on the bench. “Have a seat. Rest awhile.”

  “I’m fine standing.”

  “Tell me something, Marcus.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like anything. What are you obsessed with these days?”

  What a strange choice of words.

  “Name the first thing that comes to you,” she says.

  “Evie.” The forbidden word comes out of my mouth before I have a chance to stop it, as if it has a mind of its own, as if it wanted to be said.

  “Tell me about this Evie.”

  If I speak out here, without the walls and streets to hear me, maybe it won’t count. Maybe these hills are a place we can throw our words to the wind and they’ll blow away without a trace.

  “She was my girlfriend,” I say, sitting on the bench next to my mother. I feel an immediate relief, a weight being lifted, and I don’t know if it’s from the sitting or the speaking. Mom’s eyes are on me, but I look down at the ground, kicking a stick with my boot. “We were in love. She was everything.”