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“I want to. Really, I do. But how, A? I just don’t see how it’s possible.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’re a different person every day. And I just can’t love every single person you are equally. I know it’s you underneath. I know it’s just the package. But I can’t, A. I’ve tried. And I can’t. I want to—I want to be the person who can do that—but I can’t. And it’s not just that. I’ve just broken up with Justin—I need time to process that, to put that away. And there are just so many things you and I can’t do. We’ll never hang out with my friends. I can’t even talk about you to my friends, and that’s driving me crazy. You’ll never meet my parents. I will never be able to go to sleep with you at night and then wake up with you the next morning. Never. And I’ve been trying to argue myself into thinking these things don’t matter, A. Really, I have. But I’ve lost the argument. And I can’t keep having it, when I know what the real answer is.”
This is the part where I should be able to say I’ll change. This is the part where I should be able to assure her that things can be different, show her it’s possible. But the best I can do is to give her my deepest fantasy, the one I’ve been too self-conscious to share.
“It’s not impossible,” I tell her. “Do you think I haven’t been having the same arguments with myself, the same thoughts? I’ve been trying to imagine how we can have a future together. So what about this? I think one way for me to not travel so far would be if we lived in a city. I mean, there would be more bodies the right age nearby, and while I don’t know how I get passed from one body to the next, I do feel certain that the distance I travel is related to how many possibilities there are. So if we were in New York City, I’d probably never leave. There are so many people to choose from. So we could see each other all the time. Be with each other. I know it’s crazy. I know you can’t just leave home on a moment’s notice. But eventually we could do that. Eventually, that could be our life. I will never be able to wake up next to you, but I can be with you all the time. It won’t be a normal life—I know that. But it will be a life. A life together.”
I’ve pictured us there, having an apartment to ourselves. Me coming home each day, kicking off my shoes, us making dinner together, then crawling into bed, with me tiptoeing out when midnight approaches. Growing up together. Knowing more of the world through knowing her.
But she’s shaking her head. There are tears becoming possible in her eyes. And that’s all it takes for my fantasy to pop. That’s all it takes for my fantasy to become another fool’s dream.
“That will never happen,” she says gently. “I wish I could believe it, but I can’t.”
“But, Rhiannon—”
“I want you to know, if you were a guy I met—if you were the same guy every day, if the inside was the outside—there’s a good chance I could love you forever. This isn’t about the heart of you—I hope you know that. But the rest is too difficult. There might be girls out there who could deal with it. I hope there are. But I’m not one of them. I just can’t do it.”
Now my tears are coming. “So … what? This is it? We stop?”
“I want us to be in each other’s lives. But your life can’t keep derailing mine. I need to be with my friends, A. I need to go to school and go to prom and do all the things I’m supposed to do. I am grateful—truly grateful—not to be with Justin anymore. But I can’t let go of the other things.”
I’m surprised by my own bitterness. “You can’t do that for me the way I can do that for you?”
“I can’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
We are outside, but the walls are closing in. We are on solid ground, but the bottom has just dropped out.
“Rhiannon …,” I say. But the words stop there. I can’t think of anything else to say. I’ve run out of my own argument.
She leans over and kisses me on the cheek.
“I should go,” she says. “Not forever. But for now. Let’s talk again in a few days. If you really think about it, you’ll come to the same conclusion. And then it won’t be as bad. Then we’ll be able to work through it together, and figure out what comes next. I want there to be something next. It just can’t be …”
“Love?”
“A relationship. Dating. What you want.”
She stands up. I am left stranded on the bench.
“We’ll talk,” she assures me.
“We’ll talk,” I echo. It sounds empty.
She doesn’t want to leave it like this. She will stay until I give some indication of being alright, of surviving this moment.
“Rhiannon, I love you,” I say.
“And I love you.”
That isn’t the question, she’s saying.
But it’s not the answer, either.
I wanted love to conquer all. But love can’t conquer anything. It can’t do anything on its own.
It relies on us to do the conquering on its behalf.
