wednesday, november 8
Sean is on the couch waiting for me when I come home after midnight. Other than my hike with Elliot, I had a crap day. Knowing what I had to do but avoiding it anyway, I went into work around three in the afternoon – a terrible decision. I ended up delivering two terminal prognoses and halting chemo on a third because the little girl couldn’t tolerate another dose (even though her cancer could). I’m in a mental place where I know I’m doing Good but it just doesn’t feel like it, and seeing Sean on the couch intensifies the self-flagellation.
“Hey, babe.” He pats the cushion next to where he sits.
I shuffle over, falling down beside him. Not really onto him, or in any sort of snuggly position. For one, I’m in scrubs and want to shower. And two, it just feels weird to lean into him. There’s this invisible force field there, repelling me.
As if reading my mind, Sean says, “We probably need to talk.”
“Yeah, probably do.”
He takes my left hand in both of his, massaging my palm with his thumbs. The touch is distracting because it’s wonderful and reminds me of all the other wonderfully distracting things Sean can do with the rest of his body.
“I’m pretty sure you’re not happy,” he says.
I turn and look at him. It takes a few seconds for his face to come into focus because he’s so close, and I’m so tired, but when it does I can see how much this is actually wearing on him. Just because he didn’t talk about it didn’t mean he wasn’t thinking about it.
Sean and I are exactly alike.
“Are you?” I ask.
Shrugging with one shoulder, he admits, “Not really.”
“Can I ask you something?”
His smile is genuine. “Of course, babe.”
His answer won’t change how I feel, but I have to know. “Do you love me?”
The smile straightens, and he searches my expression for a few breaths. “What?”
“Do you love me?” I ask again. “Seriously.”
I can tell he is taking it seriously. And I can tell that he’s not so much surprised that I asked as he is surprised at his own instinctive answer.
“It’s okay,” I say quietly. “Just answer.”
“I think I need the word between like and love, which means…”
“‘I hold her in great esteem,’” I say with a smile.
Never, in the history of time, has a breakup been so gentle. There’s barely a ripple in the water. So maybe we were barely together enough to even break.
“Do you love me?” he asks, brows pulled together.
“I’m not sure.”
“Which means no,” he says, smiling.
“I love you… as a friend,” I say. “I love Phoebs. I love how easy this is, and how little it requires of me right now.”
He’s nodding. He gets it.
“But trying to imagine this” – I gesture between us – “for the rest of my life?” I say, kissing his forehead. “It’s sort of depressing. It feels like we’re both headed down the path of least resistance.”
“Mace?”
“Hmm?”
“Isn’t the path of least resistance for you the one with Elliot?” he asks.
I go still, thinking of the best answer here. In some ways, yeah, of course, falling into Elliot’s bed would be the easiest route, and Sean knows it. There’s no reason not to be honest there.
But there’s a part of me that believes Elliot and I were always only meant to be best friends. I was so scared of taking that next step with him when we were teens, and as soon as we did, it fell apart.
“We have history,” I say carefully. “Not bad history, for the most part. But he fucked up. And I fucked up. And we haven’t really discussed that.”
“Why not?”
God. The most simple, obvious question.
“Because…” I start. “Because, I don’t know… that time in my life was really hard, and I made some bad decisions that I don’t really know how to explain. Apparently I’m also mostly dead inside and not really great with expressing the emotions.”
He sits up, looking at me earnestly. “You know what? If Ashley came home, and was totally clean, and said that to me – ‘Sean, I made some bad decisions. I don’t know how to explain them’ – I think that would be enough.”
“Really?” I ask.
He nods. “I miss her.”
I wrap my arms around him, holding him against my chest. I don’t think Sean has ever cried about Ashley leaving, or about the very real possibility that she’ll never come back. Or the even more horrible likelihood that the doorbell will ring someday and it will be her asking for money.
Or, even worse, that there will be a policeman there, telling Sean that she’s gone for good.
“Stay my friend?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he whispers, pressing his face into my neck. “Yeah, I need that, too.”
I move out a few days later. It really just entails me packing up the two suitcases I brought here a few months ago and moving about six blocks away. For less than seven hundred a month, I’m renting the spare bedroom at Nancy Eaton’s place – she’s a physician on the unit, and her daughter just left for college back east. It’s a temporary situation; not because Nancy hasn’t offered the room indefinitely, but because it feels that way. I own a house in Berkeley and could easily sell it and buy a place in the city, but even the thought feels like a betrayal. I could rent out the house and afford to rent my own place in the city, but that would require me going through all of my parents’ things, and I’m not ready for that, either.
“You’re a mess,” Elliot says on the other end of the line, after I’ve skimmed through the details of what to do with the Berkeley house.
He has no idea: I haven’t even told him I ended things with Sean. If Elliot knew that Sean and I broke up, he would come to the city immediately and stare me down until I relented, stretching to kiss him. Sean is the only barrier. He’s the buffer, giving me time to think. I don’t want Elliot to swoon me into falling in love with him again, or to press me to make a decision. I need time.
I hear something crash in the background and he mumbles a frustrated “Shit.”
“What was that?” I ask.
“I just knocked over a pot in the sink. I should do dishes.”
“You should.”
“How’s Sean?” he asks.
The subject change is so abrupt, it catches me off guard. “Good,” I say, adding without thought, “I think.”
I feel the way Elliot goes still on the other end. “You think?”
“Yeah,” I deflect. “I’ve been busy.”
“Are you being evasive with me?”
“No,” I say, wincing as I search for the best half-truth. I look around my new bedroom, like the right answer will materialize on the wall somewhere. “I just haven’t seen him much the past few days.”
“What are you guys doing for Thanksgiving?” he asks. “This will be your first one together, right?”
Fuck.
“I think I work.”
“You think?” he asks again, and it sounds like he’s eating. “Aren’t residents’ schedules mapped out years in advance?”
“Yeah,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. I hate lying to him. “I was going to trade so I didn’t have to work Christmas, but I haven’t gotten organized about it. I’ll probably be off.”
Elliot pauses – probably because he knows I’m lying and he’s trying to figure out why. “Okay, so, you have plans or not?”
“Sean and Phoebe are going to his parents’ place.” I hesitate, holding my breath. “I’m not.”
I expect him to poke at this, to make some sort of What does that mean? investigation, but he doesn’t.
He just clears his throat, and says, “Okay, so you’re coming here. I’d better do these dishes before then.”