THIS MORNING, FOR THE FIRST time since his funeral, I visit my father’s grave. It’s hard to believe he’s been gone for five months.
Five months.
It hasn’t even been that long, and yet nothing—absolutely nothing—is the same as what it was when he was alive.
I sit on my knees in front of the headstone, his name etched in the marble on one side as the other awaits for my mother’s descent. A part of me wonders if he’d even want her laid to rest next to him knowing that she’s already in bed with another man.
What if she finds someone new?
Will the other half of his marker remain empty—forever incomplete?
“She didn’t deserve you,” I whisper into the breeze.
I tug my wool coat tightly around me, holding the lapels with one hand as I reach out and lay my other upon the stone and pretend it’s him I’m touching. “I miss you so much, Dad. It isn’t fair. None of this is.”
Another gust of air sweeps by, rustling dead leaves in its wake.
I’m burdened by a thousand pounds of confliction and anger and sorrow, and I surprise myself when the words, “Please, don’t be disappointed,” fall from my lips without thought. “He’s the only one who understands me right now.”
I pray for his words to speak to me through the wind, to tell me it’s okay, to assure me that what I’m doing with David isn’t as bad as what society deems it to be. I pray for him to tell me that everything will be fine. No such confirmation comes though, and I know I’ll have to go through this relying on faith alone.
With all the uncertainty that surrounds me, the one thing I do know is that my father wouldn’t approve. The irony is that had my father not died that day, I never would have found David or needed him in my life.
Everything shifted the moment he died. I didn’t want to believe it, a part of me still doesn’t. Some nights I dream that it was all a mistake and that he’s really alive. Somehow, in some unexplainable circumstance, he’s found.
But then I wake up, and I’m reminded that life doesn’t work in miracles the way fables would have you believe. The world is much too unforgiving, and I can’t go on making decisions based off the hypothetical wants of someone who doesn’t bear any weight in this world anymore.
No element is the same, so who’s to even say whether my choices are right or wrong. Because in the end, it’s just me. I’m responsible for myself, no more a dependent of anyone who nurtures me with an unconditional loving heart. I’m left to walk through life on my own, to make decisions on my own, and to find a new path now that my old one no longer guides me.
I stay a while longer, reflecting on past memories that swell my emotions before the chill in the air becomes too much.
I arrive home with nothing to do as I wait for the hours to pass.
David is returning this evening. He’s been in Florida for the past five days. An old Army buddy of his got married, and since a bunch of his combat friends were there as well, they decided to make a long weekend out of the trip.
Not having him around to distract me has ignited an anxiousness inside of me that hasn’t been treating me well. Although we’ve been texting incessantly and talking on the phone every chance we can, it isn’t the same as having him here. I don’t say anything about it though, because the last thing I want is for him to see me as some needy kid—but truth is, when it comes to him, I am needy.
David: Just got home.
Me: On my way.
I grab my keys and the garage door opener to his house, which he gave me last week before he went out of town, and then I head out to my car. The grief lifts, and my anticipation grows the closer I get. I turn down his street, and when I’m tucked out of sight in his garage, I rush inside.
“David?” I call out when I don’t see him at first.
“In my room.”
The air is filled with the aroma of his shower, and when I walk into his bedroom, my breath catches. He’s unpacking, wearing nothing but a pair of running pants, and his chest, darker than before he left, is bare with drops of water dripping from his still wet hair. It isn’t the first time I’ve seen him without his shirt, but to see him like this, in the privacy of his room, does something unexplainable to me.
He takes his suitcase from the bed and drops it on the floor before grabbing me in his arms. The dampness from his skin seeps through the thin fabric of my shirt, and when he spins me around to lay me on the bed, a tiny squeal sneaks out of me.
“Tell me you missed me,” he says as he braces himself above me.
“I missed you.”
He smiles, and it’s perfect, and the moment I return it, he steals it. His kisses are deep, robbing me of the breath in my lungs. I slip my hands around the knotted muscles in his shoulders and hang on as I lift my head slightly, needing my own sense of control to kiss him back.
His body slides roughly against mine, and when we are forced to come up for air, our lips part. I run my fingers through his over-grown hair and fist it softly in my hands as he stares down at me.
“How was your trip?” I ask after a long moment of quietness.
“Good. Spent most of my time at the beach.”
“Must be nice. I’ve never been.”
“Where? To a beach?”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
“So where do you vacation?”
He backs off me and stands.
“My family is more into the mountains. We did go to Disney World once, but we never made it to the shore.”
He steps over to his luggage to finish unpacking. “I actually lived down in Key West for several months while I was in combat training. I was deployed to the desert soon after. I love sand, but I’ve gotta have the water too.”
I stand and offer to help him. The smile on his face is a bit wistful, but then his eyes flick back to me, and when they cast down, his lips lose all their mirth. “You’re bleeding.”
“What?” I look down to see that a little blood has seeped through my shirt and instantly go numb. He must have opened a scab while he was on top of me. Quickly covering it with my hand, I mutter, “I must’ve brushed up against something or . . .”
My words drift, not knowing what to say as he eyes me suspiciously. He reaches out for my wrist, and I take a step away from him, terrified he’s about to find out my secret.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Just, leave it alone.”
“Leave what alone?” he questions in a serious tone.
Taking another step away from him, I hold on to the hem of my shirt with my other hand as my heart races in fear. My whole face heats, and I flinch away when he comes toward me.
“Lift up your shirt.”
“David, don’t,” I warn, my voice shaking as I do.
“I want to know what has you freaking out right now.”
He reaches his hand out again, and I swat it away, snapping, “Don’t touch me,” but his next attempt comes much too fast. Grabbing ahold of the fabric, he yanks it up, ripping it out of my hand.
“Jesus,” he mutters, and I fight against him, shoving my top back down.
My heart sinks into the pit of my stomach when I see the confusion and horror on his face. Tears spring from my eyes, and I ball my hands, throwing them against his chest, yelling, “You’re such a jerk!”
I push against him and run toward the garage, but he’s quicker than I am, grabbing me by the arm and pulling back.
“Let go of me!”
“Calm down,” he demands, but I don’t. All I want to do is get the hell out of here.
“Let go!” I struggle against his hold, but he refuses to budge.
“You’re not leaving. Not until you tell me what those cuts are all about.”
I want to die. Squeezing my eyes shut, I make one last attempt and swing my body to free myself from his hands, but he doesn’t relent. He bands his arms around me, pinning my back against his chest.
With a few more weakened efforts, I choke out a loud whimper, “Don’t make me do this,” as I go limp in his hold.
He lowers us to the floor when my knees give out, and he hunches his body over mine as I wail, tears falling down my cheeks. “Please, just let me go.”
“I’m not letting you go, Cam. You’re not running away either. I need you to talk to me.” He pulls me even closer to him, his chin coming to my shoulder before breathing in my ear, “God, baby, don’t cry like this.”
But how can I not? The second I tell him the truth, he’ll realize the freak I am and want nothing more to do with me.
“I’m sorry.”
“What could you possibly be sorry for?” he responds.
I lock my hands around his forearms, which are wrapped across my chest, and take in a deep breath to calm myself. When I’m able to quiet down, he asks, “Did you do that to yourself?”
Cringing in humiliation, I’m unable to speak when I pathetically nod my head yes.
He sighs, and I can hear the disappointment in it.
“Why?”
I shrug my shoulders.
“Don’t do that. Don’t hide from me because you’re scared.”
He loosens his grip, releasing the tension in his muscles as he tries to turn my shoulders to face him. But I can’t. I’m too ashamed to look him in the eyes.
“There is nothing you can’t tell me. You know that, right? If you’re afraid of judgment, don’t be. That’s not who I am.”
“How could you not judge me?”
He cups my chin and lifts my head up. And when I finally get the courage to look at him, he says with undeniable certainty, “Because I care about you. More than I probably should.”
With his words, a few more tears fall helplessly down my cheeks. He holds me in his arms, and when I rest my head over his heart, he pushes, “Tell me why?”
My face is hot against his skin but I curl into him regardless. And after taking in a deep breath, I reveal, “Because it feels good.”
“You’ve got to help me understand, babe.”
“Because . . .” I push my head harder against his chest, completely mortified. “Because when I cut, it’s the only time I can escape all my sadness. It’s easier to deal with physical pain.”
“Have you always done this?”
“No.”
“And that blood . . . did that happen today?”
Emotions well up again when I think about how lonely I felt earlier. “I’m sorry.”
“What happened? When we spoke on the phone you seemed fine.”
“I was missing my dad,” I tell him. “I went to his grave because I wanted to be close to him again.” I choke up, and my body trembles as I weep, “It’s not fair. I never even got the chance to say goodbye. One minute we were driving and the next I was waking up in the hospital.”
“You’re right; it isn’t fair,” he says softly, threading his fingers through my hair. “I hate that this happened to you, and that you’re in so much pain. You can’t hurt yourself like this though.”
“What does it matter?”
He pulls back and looks at me dead on. “You don’t think what you’re doing matters?” Biting down in frustration, his jaw flexes before continuing, “It matters to me, Cam.”
“Why?”
“Because you matter to me. Because somehow, ever since that night in the hospital, I haven’t been able to get you out of my head.”
“So you just feel sorry for me?”
“No. That’s not it at all. There’s something far deeper inside you that’s been pulling at me for months now.”
“But I’m so screwed up.”
“We’re all screwed up, Cam. And yeah, life yanked the rug out from under you far too soon. Eventually, you’re going to have to pick yourself back up, and you have to stop doing this,” he says, pressing his hand flat over my stomach. “You feel like cutting, you call me.”
I nod my head, knowing all too well it isn’t that simple. Because the fact is, as sick as it sounds, I don’t want to stop.