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That night I dream of Phoebe.
Her head rests on my bare chest, my exhale becoming her inhale. I don’t know where we are, but I don’t think the destination is the point.
We’ve made it through another night, I remind her. When the moonlight grows weak, her eyes close, unable to hold onto the moment any longer.
I lean over to her ear and whisper, ask me to stay.Hoping she might, and I would. I brush back her hair, and I tell myself I want this, even though it hurts. I want to be by her side. Without fear, there is no question. We are only as strong enough as we believe.
The way you sang like a love bird in heat. Had me throwing gold coins into a wishing well with no bottom.
When I saw you next, I sensed it changed, your tone. I realized you might have been only lonely needing momentary love. Instead of what we were flirtatiously building.
Sometimes when I am lonely, I will reach out, tell you I miss you, tell you that you were the one that got away. And for those times, I will believe you were. I truly love you the most when I think no one else can. When no one else will. It’s cruel, I know, and you are a crutch I lean on because I know you are sturdy as a mountain. I know you are this vessel that can never destroy. An unsinkable ship, awaiting its iceberg; the downfall was always me, Phoebe. I loved you so much that I knew if I ever stopped, you would too. I loved you too much to tell you I was the one who was going to ruin not for others but for yourself. I was the one you never gave upon.
So I drag us along, months of silence, only to rehash the current dilemma we are in. The betrayal of being together, and the breaking of our hearts to survive. To do so.
Phoebe’s words don’t make sense to me. But they come out, like a confession to herself, not to the man lying next to her.
My mind travels someplace else when I think of you
Like a postcard stamped centuries ago.
I don’t understand why you stopped sending them
I was a nobody before I met you; I’ll be a nobody long after you’ve left my side.
I can see the appeal, being able to vanish and not have another person worry if my soul is still in my body. Prism. To start fresh repeatedly, I can recreate myself in a million ways. I can change names, and no one would know. But I have no reason to because every place I go to is another destination. I arrive namelessly and have a stranger’s face attached to my body.
Is this what being in love feels like? Confirmation of being alone? You are minutes away, and my days continue without you; I go to the grocery store and hold my own hand; the movie theater is one pleased kind of service when I arrive.
You go out drinking, and I can’t take the taste of liquor any more than you can handle the sober side of being single, instead of recovering from the pain of heartbreak.
Chapter 11
Phoebe
37.2309° N, 108.4618° W Mesa Verde National Park
Weevolve.
The uneven feeling almost comes second to the familiar one of affection. It makes me notice the balance is off. My family’s interactions are a wave to passing strangers. Why are we not close? Why don’t we matter to each other more? Why is there a connection so desperate to last that we form our bond over blood?
Will there ever be years of feeling fulfilled, or will our status always be claimed by living in the moments because all we remember are moments that don’t last longer than the days?
After Scotland, I decided I needed extra help with Enzo gone; I also decided I needed to have a residence to come back to. I pick Colorado because it seems to be in the country’s center. Next, I put out a call for an assistant; I get tons, but I close my eyes and randomly pick one for an interview.
She is from Salt Lake City, Utah. But moved here recently, which is fine, she can live anywhere. She just needs to be good.
Rachelle, who goes by Elle. She is tall, and instead of shaking my hand, she hugs me. Her hair is dyed red, but the roots are black. The auburn color looks good on her, classic even. Is a peppy vision of optimism.
“Have you seen anyone die before?” I don’t know how to interview anyone. I assume asking the wrong questions will lead me to the right person.
“Not in real life.”
“If you were betting, would you choose number fourteen or thirty, fifty-seven, twenty-two?”
“Twenty-two.”
I nod like it matters.
