From:Storer.Ellsbeth
To:Rawlins.T.M.
Subject:(no subject)
Let me know how your talk with Max goes. However he reacts, I think he’s lucky to have someone like you in his life.
And, unrelated, when I said “I love you,” it was in that post-orgasm haze when my brain is still coming online, and words aren’t actually attached to their actual linguistic meaning. I’m sure you had already forgotten it but I just wanted to be on the record, just in case. And if it doesn’t violate wherever we are in our non-relationship agreement, one of these days I’d like to cook you dinner. Fair warning, it might be on a hot plate, but I WILL try to do better than cereal.
x
Ellsbeth
From:Rawlins.T.M.
To:Storer.Ellsbeth
Subject: Re:(no subject)
Ellsbeth,
Thank you for listening. For a long time, I thought that I could never say any of that aloud. That anyone who heard the story and knew what I had done would never speak to me again. Much less invite me over for dinner, which I gladly accept (hot plate or not, it’s the thought that counts).
Any post-orgasmic mutterings that you need to have stricken from the record, I understand. No one can be expected to think straight in the aftermath of such pleasure. But I am currently sitting in my office, in the bright light of day, with no such excuse, and guess what?
I love you.
Rawlins
Rawlins
Rawlins’s scalp tingled pleasantly as he left his office. The email to Ellsbeth had been sent hastily, and as he hoisted on his coat while walking down the hallway, he wondered if he ought to have given it more thought. Voices of sensible reason drifted in the distant background of his mind—he knewwhythey should not say such things, knew that it would make any sort of an ending harder. But at present, the fact of his love for Ellsbeth was such a simple reality that it seemed disingenuous to pretend otherwise.
The feeling had crept up for a long time, layers accumulating with every new aspect of her that he saw, eliciting respect, affection, admiration, and—most jarringly and ceaselessly—desire. Those threads had braided together into a rope long ago, and he only now had the good sense to call the whole thing by its proper name.
The turning point had not simply been her saying it first; really, it happened when he told her the truth and she didn’t run away. After living with so much shame for so long, his worst fears had become unchallenged facts—namely, that if anyone knew the whole story, he would be exposed, abandoned, destroyed in every sense. He had not even told the truth to his therapist during the brief time he’d had one. Worried that she would judge him, and even more afraid she would try to convince him to forgive himself when it felt like the guilt was all he had to hold onto.
But his assumptions had been challenged, and his fears, if notobliterated, at least mitigated. He had confessed his secret and Ellsbeth responded by embracing him, both literally and figuratively. If she could meet the truth with such warmth, perhaps Max eventually might do the same. The prospect of telling his son the truth of his parentage had long seemed impossible, and only grew more so with each passing year as the accumulation of time increased the weight of the betrayal. But perhaps his fears had been exaggerated by his guilt—and while he was nervous about Max’s reaction, he had, for the first time in a long while,hope.
His perspective colored his perception of the snow drifting down on the campus, giving it a festive feeling, a foretaste of the upcoming holiday break. The chilly air invigorated him as he pulled his coat tighter, stepping over the trickling river of snowmelt in the gutter to cross Stuyvesant at the edge of campus.
The Callistoga Café, where he and Max had agreed to meet, was situated just across the street from the university, which made it popular with students and faculty. Rawlins never went there to work; the atmosphere was too distracting and dense with familiar faces for him to focus. Inevitably, he would run into a student begging him for an extension, or another professor asking him to substitute for them on a committee. But he occasionally stopped in for a midday Americano if he needed a jolt of caffeine to make it through the afternoon, as had been the case over a decade earlier when he first saw Max. Rawlins hadn’t said anything to his son that day; the shock of seeing him in the flesh was too great. He had just stood watching the boy for a beat too long. Max had never looked up. It felt fitting to now meet up with his son at the same location where he had first laid eyes on him, though of course he neglected to mention that coincidence in his email invitation. Perhaps Rawlins would tell him someday.
In his desire to ensure he didn’t arrive late, Rawlins wound up fifteen minutes early. He got in line and ordered a tea, which he took to an open table in the corner. It wobbled badly, its legs uneven, revealing why it was the only seat available. But for Rawlins’s purposes it was perfect, providing a view of the door and enough separation to have a private conversation.
Rawlins kept checking his phone as the time crawled. Five minutes past, then ten, and he started to wonder if he was being stood up; Maxvery well might have forgotten, or decided at the last minute not to come. Rawlins opened his email to see if a message to that effect had arrived, and when he looked up—there he was.
It felt surreal, seeing Max out in the world once again. The boy had obviously not refreshed his wardrobe since before he was sent away; his dark jeans were tight at the ankle, long since out of style. But despite his sallow skin and long hair, he looked good, even intimidating; his skinny build had filled out during his time in prison, and the calf-length coat he wore took on an imposing silhouette with his new dimensions.
Rawlins stood and waved to get Max’s attention, and he came over with a loping gait, sliding between the other customers with a look of displeasure.
“Can I buy you a coffee or anything? They have good pastries, too.”
Max shook his head. “I’m fine.”
“Sandwiches, if you’re hungry for a real lunch,” Rawlins offered, surprised at his own nervousness. “I’ve had the tuna before, which was decent, and…” He trailed off, conscious that he was filling silence awkwardly, while Max had long since made up his mind not to get anything.
Rawlins sat back down, and Max slid in across from him. But with his back to the rest of the café, Max was twitchy and nervous, looking over his shoulder, his gaze following anyone who walked through his periphery. “Would you rather switch?” Rawlins stood up, vacating his seat, and Max wordlessly swapped with him. “Probably hard to get used to being out in public, isn’t it?”
