Page 16 of Heartstruck at Dawn
And the answer to his last question was no. I wouldn’t have risked mywhatever I had going on with Williamby going on the blind dates. And that was possibly Caleb’s most painfully accurate observation of the night.
We both knew it, but we wouldn’t speak of it because it’s as if he’d stumbled upon my diary and ended up reading a page or two of William’s perpetual chapter. And I caught him, and I don’t want to know what he knows, and he doesn’t want to tell me either.
That’s what it felt like.
Caleb knew me too well, and I kept forgetting.
My curiosity had launched us on a delicately menacing process that set our friendship at risk—again, just as he said. He’d already said it all, and I was just picking up the pieces from the floor of my mind, lagging, trying to reformulate the truth into a more digestible resolution.
A part of me, though, believed that the risk might be worth the hassle. That something incredible could result from this. And my stubbornness refused to let go because it’s hard being on the other side, thinking something must be wrong with you.
Something.
I needed more—an answer that would put me at ease.
My hand searched for his, just to make sure he wouldn’t slip away because Ineededhim. I always did. But I knew that wasn’t something to throw lightly in someone’s face. Not again, at least. Once had been enough. Or was it twice already?
“I know I want to at least try,” I finally chose as a reply. He looked at me, stunned. He probably thought I would remain in a state of silent continuum until it got late enough that he would have to take me back home, thus signaling the end of the conversation.
And then we would each go to bed, him being right and me being wrong … as usual. And we would wake up the next day dissolving back into whatever was left of our friendship.
I refused to believe we couldn’t try without making a mess!
But he didn’t.
“I don’t want to try. I’m sorry, Red. I really don’t. Not anymore. We’re gonna burn our relationship to a crisp if we keep going at it like this.”
A numbingly warm sensation jetted back and forth from my stomach to my chest, meandering with pure and unadulterated rejection.
“All this time. All theseyears. The way you looked at me—the things you said and did, and how I reacted to them. You were aware of it all,” I said to him, wondering if he’d forgotten what his life had been like before this moment—if his memories had evaporated into nothing. “I know you have feelings for me, Caleb. Why would you push me away like this? Why won’t you at least try? It feels like you’re giving up.”
I kept fighting, but I couldn’t see that it was the rejection I was fighting off. It took me a while to understand that.
“It’s definitely easier to give in and just … wreak havoc,” he muttered. “I would probably get fired for this in a heartbeat, and you know it. And I won’t lie to you and say that I’m not tempted not to give a shit. But I love my job.”
His job. A job.Hi,I’m the job.
“So, you’d rather keep your job than try?”
“Youare my job. And I’m telling you Ilovemy job. Don’t you fucking get it?”
“I really don’t.” This is what denial looks like and how it communicates. I don’t know how manyyousare inside one’s mind. But sometimes oneyougets it, but another doesn’t, and conflict erupts.
So,youlisten, andyouknow, andyouunderstand, andyoufreaking agree to all of it. But there’s a strayyoumaking a fuss out of things, and it needs time and convincing. A single word or phrase that will make sense of things. To allow for release and integration.
Caleb was kind enough to give me that.
“Look, it used to be just you and me before, right? In Paris. And now—now everything’s changed. You’ve changed. I guess I have too, I—Ican’tlose you”—he grabbed both of my hands and stared into my eyes—“and this is theonly wayI get to keep you. Please don’t make me say shit you already know.”
Shit you already know.
We were getting there.
But the horrible anxiety inside my chest was demanding, and it whispered that he was packing his bags to leave. To leave me. And I couldn’t handle it.
But that’s what he meant. HeknewI needed him, and if we went down this path, the possibilities of things going to shit were higher because my father wasn’t going to make it easy on us. He knew that too. We both did, even if he avoided the subject altogether—a terrifying subject.
When he told me about that job in Tel Aviv, my mind went into survival mode, and I thought that trying to makeuswork would be the only way to get him to stay.
