Maybe the best thing I could have done that day was get some distance and time away from Cal. Like a powerful narcotic, he warped my reality. He told me that insane lines of thought were aspects of his faith and that pathological behaviors were fine, helpful, no big deal. And when he said those things so calmly and looked at me with his handsome, composed face, out of his life of wealth and privilege, I almost believed him.
But I was afraid to leave him alone. And I loved him. Too late, I had witnessed the disturbing history around him and been invited into his twisted psyche. Maybe, if he had told me about Jamie and his wife early on, or if I had seen the self-inflicted gouges on his thighs, I would have walked away out of a sense of self-preservation. Maybe.
But probably not.
Love is a cage two people build around themselves. Cal and Jamie had locked themselves in that cage and it had cost them everything. Now I was trapped with Cal, trailing his Audi to Red Feather, unable and unwilling to escape.
The first serious snow had fallen on his property. There had been other, smaller snowfalls, which gathered like foam and blew away or melted in hours, but this one was heavy, deep, and silencing. It seemed fitting.
My Jeep slid and skidded up the hill and Cal, ahead of me, slowed until we reached his house. We walked inside together, as if things were normal.
“I’m going to shovel the walk,” he said.
Under different circumstances, I would have joked about my first catastrophic appearance on his walkway. I hovered while he retrieved a shovel from the garage. I felt useless and slightly ridiculous, but also stubbornly determined.
“I’ll help.”
“You’re not dressed for it. It won’t take me a moment.”
I might have argued that he wasn’t dressed for the twenty-degree morning, either, but his front closet was packed with thermal jackets, boots, gloves, hats, and scarves. He shrugged on a black North Face jacket before going out.
I stood on the stoop, snow soaking into my Vans, and watched him. It took him a moment to notice me.
“Michael.”
“I’m fine.” I controlled my chattering teeth. “It feels nice out here.”
“Go inside.”
“Seriously, I want to be out here.”
Hair straggled across his face in the icy wind. He shoved it back and glared at me.
“Go inside, put on boots and a real jacket.”
With that offer, I relented, dashing inside to exchange my puffy coat for a thick Patagonia jacket and my canvas sneakers for heavy, fur-lined boots. I also snagged another shovel from the garage. He smirked at me when I reappeared. It was a fond smirk, not a cruel one, and it chipped at my anger and fear.
“What?” I mumbled.
“You’re all ready to build a snowman.”
“Ha, ha.”
“No?” He approached. “Going to make a snow angel?”
I tried to ignore him, driving my shovel into the snow, but he caught my collar and brought my face close to his. His breath was warm and sweet on my face. “Make a snow angel, Michael,” he whispered, brushing his lips over mine. “It would be so fitting.”
It took all my willpower to push him away.
“I’m really not in the mood, man.”
He chuckled and resumed shoveling. “Suit yourself.”
We made quick work of the walkway and deck. The dry cold and my hangover parched my throat. We guzzled water in the kitchen. Next, he headed for the loft.
“What now?” I followed anxiously.
“Gonna work out. I drank too much last night. Gotta get it out of my system.”
He said nothing, though he smiled thinly, when I pursued him upstairs. I loitered by the closet as he changed into a pair of sweats. Then we went down to the basement, me floating after him like a bee, where he kept his bench and weights, a rowing machine, and a treadmill. He turned on music. I didn’t recognize the song. It was sad, mostly in the minor key, but with a driving, hypnotic rhythm.
“You’re welcome to run or whatever,” he said, strapping on lifting gloves and lying back on the bench, “though I think there’s a ... wardrobe hurdle, again.”
Fleetingly, I pictured myself hitting the treadmill in boxers. I wanted to laugh, but I didn’t let myself. Things were not okay. He needed to know that.
“I’m good, thanks.” I opened my laptop on the carpet and sat against the wall, and I tried my best to ignore him as he did reps with loaded bars. Getting turned on wouldn’t help anything today. I glanced at his arms and shoulders, the veins standing out, sweat shining on his skin. I opened a webpage titled How to Support Someone Who Self-Harms.
He was breathing hard. The noise was impossible to block out.
He had breathed that way during sex, like it was killing him.
And maybe it was killing him.
The webpage waxed on about patience and compassion. I navigated back and clicked another hit. Somehow, the second page was worse. It told me not to judge him and not to tell him to stop. It said I shouldn’t ask to see his injuries. Bullshit.
After twenty or so minutes, Cal moved to the pull-up bar. I let myself take one look at his back.
Yet another site suggested alternatives to self-harm: Snapping a rubber band against one’s wrist, squeezing ice, drawing with a red pen instead of cutting, writing down feelings and tearing up the paper. I gritted my teeth. Were these people for real?
I could have laughed or cried. Try creative outlets like singing, dancing, or writing poetry to express the emotions that make you want to self-harm. Oh, yes, why hadn’t I thought of that? Cal could do interpretive dance instead of slicing up his legs.
“You doing okay?”
I jumped and shut my laptop. He stood in front of me, sweat-soaked and carved with lean muscle. I looked away.
“Fine, do your thing.”
“I’m nearly done.” He crouched and rubbed my ankle. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, really.” My voice caught. I tucked my foot away from his fingers.
He grinned like the devil and moved off to do sets of sit-ups and pushups.
When he finally finished and headed upstairs to shower, I stuck to his heels.
“How is this going to work?” he said, standing in the bathroom.
By way of an answer, I sat on top of the toilet and opened my laptop.
What I had really wanted the Internet to tell me was that I, as a sane and well-adjusted human, had the right—the obligation, even—to drag Cal to the nearest psychiatrist, who would confirm that he was sick and needed help.
“You could join me.” He combed a hand through my hair.
“Where do you keep the knife?” I studied my knees. I knew damn well that the knife was in the bottom drawer on the right, since I had searched his bathroom once.
He took it out and handed it to me. “Happy?”
“Oh, yeah.” I shook my head, closing my hand around the sturdy little weapon. “I’m really happy, Cal.”
“Don’t make it like this.” He stroked the side of my neck. “Undress me. Shower with me.” His voice dropped. “I’ll put it in your mouth.”
I had to shut my eyes. How could he invite me like that, when he found our intimacy so repulsive that he might end up hurting himself to resist it?
“You’re an asshole,” I said. “Don’t be in there too long.”