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In spite of everything, though, he loved Sam. But it was now a general kind of love, at best like a brother, at worst the love Jesus preached we should have for all fellow humans. It definitely wasn’t romantic—not anymore.
He hated to hurt Sam.
He hated himself for behaving like a coward.
But if he hadn’t walked out that hot summer day, he might never have left. All he could visualize for the future was days and nights of boredom, the same routines repeated endlessly, the mindless conversations with no or forgettable import, the steadily reduced desire for physical contact. He no longer even craved a hug or a kiss from Sam, let alone anything lustier or more sustained. In fact, the thought of touch repelled him. Even if he could see with his own eyes, Sam remained an attractive man, fit and handsome. But the spark had been snuffed out longer ago than Marc could recall. And, even though he couldn’t help his feelings or lack thereof, he was guilty and felt awful, but he couldn’t ignore the idea was a fact.
For a long period, he tried convincing himself that he should be grateful for what he had—a man who loved him, a nice home in a good neighborhood, a sweet little dog, and so much more. He knew men and women who dreamed of having a life like his, who would have taken what he already possessed in a heartbeat. After all, wasn’t a long-standing marriage and a comfortable home the basis of the American dream?
Why, oh why, isn’t this enough for me?
Why am I not satisfied?
Why do I feel as though I’m being slowly suffocated? Or worse, disappearing, bit by bit?
Questions like these—and the guilt that accompanied them—are what held him in place for so long.
There’d been no tipping point, not from what he could see, anyway. There was just that day not so long ago, with beef stew simmering and his beer bread cooling on the granite countertop, that something within him spoke very loudly. It told him it was time to get out. It was almost like an evacuation order—as though the idea of staying was impossible, out of the question, and he couldn’t afford to waste time.
He’d taken only a few things—what would fit in his backpack and a small roller bag that fit comfortably in a plane’s overhead compartment. He’d left behind so much—personal mementos like photos, books he’d loved, artwork he’d collected. Even his passport and birth certificate.
He figured he’d go back for them one day, once he had the courage and wherewithal to explain his feelings to Sam, explain them without causing him pain, a task he knew to be impossible.
But now, as he sat in the little motel room just a mile or two from the condo he’d shared with Sam, the Heart O’ Chicago motel, at the corner of Ridge and Peterson, he thought he needed to, at the very least, put Sam out of his misery regarding his whereabouts.
So, after a long look out the window at the charmless view of the parking lot and surrounding city streets, at the overcast dingy-white sky, he sat at the table in the room and opened a spiral-bound pad of paper he’d bought at Walgreens, picked up a pen, and began to write.
The words flowed easily until he stopped because of movement on the bed, someone turning over, clearing his throat.
Marc turned to peer at the dark-haired man, shirtless and hair tousled, on the bed. “I’m finally getting around to writing. I need to let him know I’m okay and—“ His voice trailed off. He shrugged. “And to tell the truth—that I can no longer stand to be with him. It’s awful.” There was a catch in his throat. “I wish I didn’t feel that way, but I can’t help what’s absolutely true—for me.”
“I know. I know. As Neil Sedaka once sang, ‘breaking up is hard to do’,” the man said and chuckled. He rolled away from Marc and pulled the sheet up to his ears.
Chapter 10
Now—Sam
Threeweekspassedwithno sign of Marc, with not a single word from him. If I wasn’t so heartbroken, I might say it felt like he’d never existed.
Late summer morphed into autumn. The leaves began their show of colors, still stunningly beautiful despite having seen this display dozens of times throughout my life. I’d returned to work, but as a different employee than the one I’d once been—I did my job quietly, ate lunch alone, came in early and stayed late. My boss was happy, but the coworkers I used to hang out with, at lunchtime, in the breakroom discussing the latest episode ofWednesdayon Netflix, or maybe grabbing a quick drink at the bar in the basement concourse of my building, were suddenly unsure of me. They knew I’d been through trauma—but not all the way through. Nothing was over, not really. I was pretty certain they understood why I’d become withdrawn, isolated, spurning their efforts to talk, to socialize.
I simply kept my head down and worked. My job performance had never been better.
I’d never been lonelier.
I’d never cared less.
Each day was a struggle—to make myself believe, to survive.
Yet every afternoon I walked home from the train filled with hope.
I’d imagine Marc waiting, a sheepish grin on his face, with some cockamamie story about where he’d been. There could be no reasonable explanation, I knew, but I’d be glad to have him back if only because I could stop dwelling on my greatest fear—that he was dead. I’d scrubbed away the bloody handprint on the door frame. The police had done all they were going to, which had never been much. The assumption was, and always would be, that Marc was yet another middle-aged man, bored with life and in middle-age crisis mode, who simply walked away from his life. It happened every day.
And who knows?
Maybe they’re right.
No body has turned up.
