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Sweat drips from my elbows onto the soft rubber stair tread. My shorts are covered in fine marble particles. I realize as I open the third floor door that I’m not wearing a shirt.
Dark.
He may be gone. I walk farther. Past some desks, a sitting area, a fountain, several paintings.
His door is slightly open. I can see its light from thirty or so yards because of how the area is laid out; his door is punched into the center of a wall.
I walk faster. Suddenly I want to see his face. Because I still believe that he will be the same man. My man. If I see him, this will all go back to normal.
I see her first. She’s small from behind—narrow shoulders and an even narrower waist. I see her pale arm raised. It takes me a long second—a second staring at the image stamped into my retina—to realize she’s melded to his side. Her arm is raised because it’s wrapped around his neck.
I hear her sigh. He moans, and something in my chest cracks. I feel it so much, I raise my hand to touch that place.
They’re kissing.
That’s when they stop to breathe, and he looks right at me.Part III23VanceI understand now—why they run. Fairy tale princesses. Men through high-rise windows. Overwhelmed sensory kids, abused teenagers, people who go poof without a bag or wallet. Everyone who’s ever seen a horror, heard horrible news. People run when they can’t bear it. When the energy inside you is so great, there’s no way not to be demolished by the force of it. You have to move.
I run to the parking deck and point the Prius east toward Oakland. I get through the traffic glut and fly up I-80. Past exits for Berkeley, University Village, Richmond Annex, Park View, Park Plaza, East Richmond, Hasford Heights and Hilltop Green and Hercules.
By Cordelia, no one’s on the road. The Prius’s clock says it’s 2:40 AM. I feel okay until I realize the lines on the road won’t stay straight. I pull off on a shoulder and find some water in the trunk beside a first aid kit. I drink three bottles and almost throw up.
No shirt. I’m insane. I sit there on the roadside shivering…trying to get my diaphragm to breathe like normal. I don’t have my phone, I realize. I don’t have my phone…and I’m a phone guy. I don’t want to run away without a phone.
I turn around and drive back toward the city, feeling steadier.
You knew it would end.
That’s not true, though. I’m a liar—to myself. I made sure I never knew because if I had known, I would have had to stop. No one looks their own destruction in the face and says bring it on.
It’s quiet in the city, 4:30 AM.
It will take me probably a week to finish up the mural. He leaves for Japan in eleven days. I need to take a leave of absence until he’s gone. Go back home. It’s like a gut-punch when I re-remember…Luke has been there. He’s been in my apartment.
Is this how it starts for him? My breaths all feel…not enough. It’s so hard to get a good one. I push my lungs out, suck air in. I’m still breathing like that when I get to the townhouse.
Southern Comfort. That’s what I need. I see my hands as I unlock the garage-to-stairwell door and realize they’re blistered—badly. I can barely move the right one. Tears sting my eyes. I’m a wreck, and I hate it. I let the damn tears fall as I climb the six stairs to the foyer. Then I drag in a deep breath and lift my head.
He’s kneeling on the floor in front of me. Our eyes catch and hold. He looks sad. Somber, maybe. What he doesn’t look is the same. The way I thought that if we saw each other, he would be the same him—that was wrong.
“I’m sorry, Vance.” It’s barely a rasp. I step closer, and I see his eyes are red. His mouth is tight.
“Sorry for what?”
He rubs his hair. “I don’t know.” He blows a breath out. “I just…” He shakes his head, his eyes on mine. “It was such a shock to me. I always thought that if it came down to it…that they would go affirming. It’s the Bay.”
I shake my head. I can’t believe that this is what he’s saying to me.
“That is what you’re sorry for?”
“No. I mean—”
“Luke, I saw you kissing someone. Did you see me there?”
“No…I did.” He gets to his feet, moving toward me at first and then standing away. “She came by, and—”
“Who is she?”
“Her name is Megan.”
My chest feels like there’s a vice around it. “Is that who you broke up with?”
“That doesn’t matter. I didn’t—”
“Didn’t what, Luke? Did you fuck her?”
