Page 39 of Beneath the Indigo Sky

I fall into bed without undressing, hiding under the covers in a way I haven’t in months, not since Namid first came into my life. How did I not see this? My grief has been so deep and so overwhelming that I haven’t even noticed myself falling in love with him. He’s my friend, and I’ve been so sure that he’s straight. Everyone here is straight; that’s why I’ve picked up tourists in the past when I’ve needed to fuck. I’ve had a few momentary crushes on men from town, sure, but I tell myself they’re straight and that I’m being ridiculous, and after a few weeks, those feelings fade, and things go back to normal.

I did that with Namid months ago. I thought that once I’d convinced myself he was my straight friend, the feelings that started to appear the day I showed him my studio had disappeared, just like they always do. I truly didn’t realize that I’d simply shoved them into a locked box in a deep closet and that the moment I saw him with another man, the lock would fly open and my world would collapse into a flaming pile of lust and need and despair.

There are six missed calls and eighteen text messages when I wake up.

Namid: Hey.

I’m sorry.

I’m so sorry.

Can we please talk?

Please.

I am so sorry that you saw that.

Jayce?

Please don’t do this.

I don’t want to lose your friendship.

I know I should have told you that I’m gay, but I didn’t want you to hate me.

Please, can you just talk to me about this?

Jayce…

Please don’t do this…

I’ll keep it to myself like I have been. I promise I won’t tell you anything. You can pretend you don’t know. You can pretend this never happened; you never saw that. It’s been years anyway. It’s not like I do that a lot and you’re going to stumble onto it again. You can keep thinking that I’m straight. Really. I’m ok with that. I like our friendship; I promise I’d never hit on you or anything…I promise.

Jayce?

…it’s ok.

I’m sorry. I can leave the shop key in the mail drop so you won’t have to see me again.

I understand.

They started at 12:46 a.m., a few minutes after I left the bar. The last arrived at 8:32, twenty-three minutes ago.

I am an asshole.

I was so worried that what…that I realized I’ve fallen in love…and with someone I might actually have the tiniest chance at a shot with because he’s miraculously gay too, that I ignored him all night and let him sit alone, panicking and thinking that I’m some homophobic douchebag who has dropped my best friend without a word because I found out he’s attracted to men. There are no words that accurately describe this level of asshole-ness.

Six curse-filled minutes later, I finally find my keys under the coffee table and tear out of my driveway fast enough to leave divots in the gravel. I didn’t know it was possible to get to his house in thirteen minutes. When I was driving there daily to help with Ken, it took twenty-one.

He doesn’t answer his door…or his phone. I bang louder, pounding the wood with my fist and calling his name.

He’s in the same clothes he was wearing last night when he finally answers. The pants the stranger had opened, the T-shirt that clung to his collarbones as he strained and tensed at the man’s touch.

He says nothing as he opens the door. His eyes are red, his hair is disheveled, and his arms are curled around his body like he’s hoping to hide or disappear. I can’t seem to find any words, so I just stand, staring at him as he curls further into himself, his gaze on my chest. I step toward him, and he flinches back.

This is what heartbreak feels like.

“Look, I don’t know why you’re here. I told you, okay? I’m really, really sorry, and I’ll leave you alone. We didn’t see each other during the first decade I’ve lived here; it won’t be hard for us to avoid each other for the next fifty years.” His voice is deep and harsh and filled with gravel. I’ve never heard him sound like this. I know his throat is sore. I know crying all night will do that. God knows I know that, but this time, it’s not my voice that sounds that way, it’s his. It’s his beautiful, smooth, silken voice that has been shredded, and it’s my fault.

---