Page 136 of Backslide
What is the statute of limitations on mistakes? On being flawed?
We were just children.
That’s what she said. But either that’s true and she should forgive me, or it’s a lie and she should acknowledge that we were—and are—so much more.
Cara posts two photos on Instagram, one after the other.
How it started, how it’s going.
The first picture is of the group of us as teenagers in the Meadow. And I know right away, it’s the day when Nell and I first went to the Met. Nell was almost always the photographer in our crew, but, this time, someone else clearly took the photo. Because there she is. It’s grainy and it’s from far away, but, when I zoom in, I see how she is just barely sneaking a glance up at me with a small smile, though we’re not touching. How I am mugging for the camera, my boys at my sides, so fucking clueless about what I had and what I’d lose.
The second picture is from the un-wedding party, after we went to fetch the wine but before the terrible shit went down. This one is new. I have less baggy pants. And the image offers much more clarity. In this one, she is stealing a glance at me too, but at least then I had the sense to glance back.
I look at the photo eight hundred times a day. It twists the knife every single time.
But I don’t text her. I don’t call her. I don’t send an email, a DM, or a carrier pigeon.
I can’t yell at her. Or make my strong arguments. Or even plead with her to consult a doctor about her stupid shoulder—make sure she doesn’t need surgery.
Because I am respecting her space. And I’m trying to move on.
Which is why I call Ben, daily, and yell at him instead.
“I know,” he says, as I rant.
“I know,” he says again.
But we are getting nowhere. And, at this point today, I’m not even sure he’s listening. Because, though I am on my way to Dodgers Stadium to work with the team, this is the third time I’ve called him this week on my commute to rail about the same thing.
He has replaced all my podcasts. All my music. All my other calls. Although really it’s not him, it’s me.
I groan. For the umpteenth time.
“Dude, I’ve never heard you like this,” he says, as he has earlier this week. “You sound…bad.”
I stop at a red light. Glance over at the overly injected blonde in the Audi beside me, who shoots me a wink. I run a hand over my eyes. “I feel bad.”
“That’s… bad.”
Well, we agree on one thing.
Everything is bad.
“I need to let it go,” I say, resolute. “I need to drop it.”
“Yeah, I mean, maybe you do just need to let it go.” He is sick of trying to convince me otherwise. And I don’t blame him. I’m sick of myself.
I hear murmuring in the background. A distinctly female voice at a stage whisper.
“What?” Ben whispers, then he returns to his full voice. “No, sorry, actually—I don’t think you should let it go.”
I shake my head. “Tell Cara I say hi.”
“No, Cara’s not… it’s just me. Okay, yeah, Cara is next to me, and she doesn’t think you should let it go.”
“But Nell asked me not to call,” I say, as traffic starts to move ever so slowly. Like everything in my life, it is stop-and-start. It’s like moving through molasses. Yet I have no control. No way to pick up speed.
I don’t see an alternate route.
