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I know they’re right. Every single one of them. This ring on my finger and the way my apartment is fucking frozen in time are the only physical representations of what’s left. “I don’t want to throw it away like trash.”
“You don’t have to, and I’d never ever suggest that. Why don’t you give it to me? I’ll put it in my safe for, well, safekeeping. It will be here if you need the visual. I think you’ll find after a while, you might even be able to let it go.”
I flip my hand over and stare into the palm. My left thumb glides over it one last time. Over and back. Reaching in with my right index finger and thumb, I wind the ring back and forth, wiggling it over my knuckle until it frees. It’s within millimeters of leaving the home it’s had for over nine years.
My father’s hand comes into view just under mine. He’s holding it open, palm up. I let the gold and diamond ring drop, allowing it to fall into his hand. He gently closes it overthe unbroken circle that became the circle of something very broken. Me.
“I’m proud of you.”
The groove at the base of my finger is still visible. I slide my thumb over the skin that’s just returned. “I feel naked without it.”
“I think that’s normal. I might have a solution to ease it. Come in the house.”
“Nah, Dad. I should go.”
“Elijah. It wasn’t a suggestion. Stay here tonight. Your mother would relegate me to the couch if she knew I let you leave this late, especially after she finds out you’d been in the city with Wes. She loves him, but she’s no fool regarding his… tendencies.”
“You mean she knows he’s a player and likes alcohol.”
My father chuckles. “Yes, something like that. Grab your things. Bring the ball inside too.”
“I’ll be right behind you.” I watch as he disappears into the shadows, where the motion lights don’t catch, then I hear the door latch. After I rise off the ball, I give it another bounce or two before taking it in my hands. My phone and keys slide back in my pocket as I cloak my now bare hand with the jacket from my hood.
I don’t want to watch my father lock the ring away. It would feel like the close of a casket. I’m well aware of how morbid that sounds in my head. I’ve had a lot of time to reread all of my philosophy books from undergrad to attempt to make logical sense of all this, because I can’t look at the rest. I’ve spent hours seeking the origins of love, which led me to one of my current topics. Heartbreak.
I spent a year in the depths. I longed for and hated love in the same breath. I read about five variations of love. Kierkegaard looked at agape, or unconditional love, quite closely. This wasthe love I subscribed to. This was the type of love that had always been my model. My parents and their parents before them. It was what I wanted, what I needed, maybe still do. It’s unfortunately elusive and leads to very high highs but even lower lows.
Next in line is Jean-Paul Sartre. He wrote extensively on the subject. He delved into the need for both that “essential love” but paired with other love affairs. Tori seemed to have subscribed heavily to this theory, clearly. I couldn’t spend too much time here or I’d never have left.
Nietzsche was bitter. His work entered my research about the time I was hitting my anger phase. Perfect timing! He called women “dangerous, creeping, subterranean little beast[s] of prey.” I can’t tell you how many times I slammed the covers of that book closed. I don’t agree with his assessment of the fairer sex, but I did buy into the fact he felt one must be able to stand on their own two feet or they are incapable of love.
Long about this time is when I plugged in more at the office and subscribed to a lack of female company, unless it was family. The next read was a true favorite of mine, Aristotle. He was quite intrigued with the idea of love being based in friendship. I thought I had that with Tori. I supported her in every way I had available.
But it must be a two-way street. You should be each other’s best friend. However, we’re now also back to self-love. He said you’re unable to love another without being a good self-lover first. If you can do well for yourself, you can do well for each other.
Lastly in my reading journey was the opinion of Judith Butler. She feels there should be a commitment, but one that is flexible and open to the ever-evolving human. For a long time, I blamed myself for not seeing that Tori’s needs changed. She wasn’t satisfied with just me. She needed more. Fine. Great. Justfucking tell me. You can’t tell me the plan has changed withouttellingme the plan has changed. Fucking communicate!
All these looks at love kept coming back to the common denominator of me, myself, and I. So, I had to acknowledge the true heartbreak I was, and am, in in order to break free. I go back to Germany and Nietzsche. One of his enduring principles is that our suffering is what makes the pain so great, but the senselessness of it is what hurts the most.
Wes and Nietzsche would have been bar buddies. They have both offered the same sense and guidance. Victoria didn’t leave because of me. She blamed me because she couldn’t look at what she’d done. She changed and didn’t tell me. She made the choice to step outside our marriage. She’s still never owned her part, herhugepart in our destruction.
She likely never will. It’s not who she is anymore. In the same breaths I’m laying blame at Tori’s feet, I need to take my own share. That’s the other half of Nietzsche’s introspection. I must look at my own issues and deal with them to hopefully be open to the next chapter in my life.
Dad turned the page for me. I just need to start writing.
Chapter Three
Elijah
The inside of my parents’ home is mostly dark, as it should be at two thirty in the morning. There’s the glow of the kitchen countertop lamp my mom always leaves on “just in case” for Hayley or me if we need it. I love that physical representation of “I’ll leave the light on for you”. It’s love in the unconditional lane. I’m the luckiest son who ever existed.
The only other glow is coming from under the door of my father’s office. The golden stream of light is creating a path for me. I hang my jacket over the stool at the breakfast bar as I walk past. Pushing father’s door open farther, he’s in his chair behind the desk.
That’s the most comforting thing. I can’t even count the number of times I’ve pushed that door open, and there he sat. Any time advice is needed, or consoling is the order of the day, there he’d be ready and waiting. I’ve always known there isn’t anything I couldn’t tell him. Our dynamic has changed with my age. We’ve gone from that place of parent/child to one of true friendship and mutual respect.
He’s got a tumbler of amber sitting, breathing for me in front of my chair. His matching glass is in his hand. “I thought this might help you sleep. I know it does me.”
“Thanks, Dad. I still feel bad.”
