Saturday, July 1
(Gus)
I have that nagging voice in my head still, pleading with me to call Keller again. It's persistent, but has really amped up in both enthusiasm and bossiness this week. And this morning it's managed to bully every other thought out of my head.
It's early morning, so I grab my cigarettes, lighter, and phone, and head out to the deck. After I smoke a cigarette, I bring up his number on my cell. I was going to text, but my fingers are shaking so damn bad that I can't type, so I opt for a call instead. I'm dreading hearing his voice, because it's going to open up the Bright Side wound. Keller was her boyfriend. He sat there holding one of her hands, me holding the other, when she died. When cancer stole her from us. He's a good guy, but I can't separate him from Bright Side in my mind. I can't think about him independently. The damn guy loved her fiercely. Which is why I need to call him. He's the only person who can relate to my grief, my pain. On the other end, the phone rings. And rings. No answer. I almost hang up, but then I realize that my stomach is in knots and I don't want to go through this again later, so when I hear the prompt to leave a voicemail, I start talking. "Keller. Dude, it's Gus. Long time no talk." I pause and nausea roils inside. "Yeah ... so ... I was just calling to see how you and Miss Stella are doing? Give me a call sometime, so I know ... that everything's okay in Minnesota. You know ... that you guys are okay. Okay. Later."
I press the red circle on the touchscreen to end the call. I want to throw my phone over the deck railing, as far as I can, but I squeeze it in my palm instead, and then slam it face down on the wooden tabletop.
And then I light another cigarette. That phone call was a bad idea. My heart can't handle it.
When I finish up my smoke, I decide that breakfast is in order.
Impatient is in the kitchen. She's dressed in running shorts and a loose, long-sleeved T-shirt. Her face is flushed and I can see beads of sweat on her forehead. She's drinking a glass of water. I find myself wondering how scarred her arms are because I've never seen her in anything other than long-sleeves. And it's fucking hot outside.
"Hey," I say. It's our standard greeting, if we decide not to substitute it for a non-verbal nod. It works. It's what we do. It's how we tolerate each other, I guess.
"Hey," she answers, equally disinterested.
I pull the carton of eggs out of the fridge, along with butter and milk. "How many miles?" I ask.
"Huh?" She turns toward me, looking surprised.
I point at her running shoes. "How many miles did you run this morning?"
She looks down at her feet like she needs a visual aid to process the question. "Oh. Eight."
I'm surprised. "You ran eight fucking miles this morning?" I've been running a little lately, but a couple of miles is a monumental task for me. And that's if I walk half of it.
"I'm registered for a marathon in a couple of weeks."
I begin to crack five eggs into a bowl, then pour in some milk. "Ever ran a marathon before?"
She shakes her head. "Nope. First time."
As I put the skillet on the stove I ask, "Want some eggs?"
She starts to shake her head. I wouldn't expect her to say yes, since she never accepts anything I offer her, but then she stops. "Do you have enough for both of us?"
I open the carton back up to show her the four remaining eggs.
"Sure. I guess. I haven't eaten anything since last night."
I cook our eggs. She continues to drink her water. We're eating in silence when my cell rings from inside my pocket. I slip it out and the first thing I notice, because I can't fucking help it, is the shattered screen. Must have happened when I slammed it down on the table. "Shit," I mutter. Then I notice the name of the person calling, and I freeze up. "Shit," I mutter again.
Impatient looks at me quizzically.
I want her to ask me if I'm okay. Just fucking ask me, because I need to tell someone I'm not. I'm not okay, not even close. I hit "ignore" and set the phone down on the table. Keller's name remains on my screen for a few more seconds before the call goes to voicemail and he disappears.
Ask me who it was! I want to yell at her. Ask me why my heart can't take that conversation right now. Ask me why I can't get over her. Ask me why my best friend had to die. Or no, better yet, tell me why my best friend had to die. Tell me. Please. Explain it to me. I want to know. I need to know why I'm supposed to go through the rest of my life without being able to talk to her. Hug her. Hear her laugh. Watch the sunset with her. Watch her play her violin. Kiss her forehead. Tell her I love her. Hear her say it back. Why? Why?!
Dragging my hands down my face, I try to rub away the hysteria that's building inside me. I push the chair back from the table and leave my plate of eggs half-eaten.
I go outside and I smoke a cigarette.
It doesn't help, but I do it anyway.