Mikey and the Chickadee

Chapter 18 - Part 3

I knew it, too. And now, in a way, it felt like I had always known. But it had hit so suddenly, and with such force that I felt acutely the sensation of staggering uncontrollably backward, even as I sat motionless.

He held still, seemed to calm himself a little and then said, "I just thought...I mean, given what we have...I thought it might sway your decision."

"Mikey, what exactly do we have? We've known each other for hardly more than a month. You're a really fun guy to hang around. It seems like we make really good friends. In another life we could be...something...I don't know. What else is there to say about it?"

He lifted his arms and clasped his hands on top of his head. "There's nothing else to say, I guess."

Unlike him, for whatever reason, I did not feel the urge to cry as I continued speaking. "This whole thing is fucking insane. I mean, think about it—we don't even know each other. Not really. It was impossible for us to have gotten to know each other well enough in that span of time. You know, for me to know if I..." I took a breath and lowered myself back down to sit on the bed. No longer could I see him over the wall. "And even if it had been enough time, you yourself said that you're not ready to call me your boyfriend."

"I'm not," I heard him say. "I'm just...not."

"Of course you're not. And I don't think I'm ready for that, either. Fuck, neither of us should be. This is exactly what I'm trying to say. We don't have a history at all. I think we tried to make it seem like we did, but we don't—I mean, my god, you don't even call me by my own name."

I heard him approach, feet pounding across the wood floor. He came to stand—to tower—over me at the foot of the bed. "Wyatt. Your name is Wyatt. Hello, Wyatt. Please don't move away, Wyatt. See? I know your fucking name."

I buried my face in my hands. "Stop it," I said. "I hate it. It doesn't sound right at all."

He sat down on the end of the bed, his back to me once again. "I can't win, then."

"No, you can't. Neither of us can." I stopped and thought for a moment. "You know how I know that moving is the right thing to do? Because if I'd never met you, I would be going for sure. Yeah, it would have upset me and all that, but in the end, I still would have gone. That's how I know now that if I stay, it would only be because of you. Which is a bad idea. Remember what you told me? That you don't expect me to put my life on hold for you?"

"I wasn't talking about this," he said. A bitterness had crept into his voice. "You've made up your mind already. Don't use my own words against me just to leverage your side of things."

He sounded angry, and I quaked with the knowledge that I had made him feel that way. "Sorry," I said, just above a whisper. I held my body firm against this new, stronger swell of anguish.

He began slowly. "Chickadee, I just don't think you're being true to yourself right now. You told me you're not headed down the right path with your job. You said it so clearly, and I can't let that go."

That was it; he knew exactly where I remained weak, and now he spun the wheel freely, steering everything in that direction. A part of me was so willing to listen to this talk that I gathered myself up, instead interpreting it as a signal to hold my ground. "Please look at me right now," I said. "I don't want to talk to the back of your head."

"Come work for my company," he blurted out. He twisted around to look me in the eyes. "There's a place for you there. There always has been."

We were both very quiet. Mikey was speaking out of desperation now; he knew it just as the words came out. There was a reason this had never come up before. Somehow, without ever saying a word on the subject, we had sustained an understanding that mixing business arrangements into our relationship was never, would never be right.

His mouth was shut tight for a few seconds. Perhaps in defiance, he turned away again. "Okay, fine," he mumbled. "I know I can't keep making it like it's all about you. The truth is that I can't do this without you. I think you know that. I still spend so much time feeling scared. You know I still have some things that I'm very scared of. You're the only person who knows everything, and who I've given everything to. I'm so terrified to think about what it will be like when you're not around anymore. I just can't face it all on my own."

I turned to him. "But you can do it alone—in fact you need experience processing it on your own. You'll never believe you're capable of it until I'm gone. Then you'll see. Right now you think you need me. You don't see yourself as strong enough. You've come to understand so much about yourself... your attraction...but you're convinced that it's been me doing all the work for you. Well, I haven't done anything. All I've ever been is a guy you find attractive enough to make yourself reconsider things. Fuck. If I ever needed another reason to go—"

"God, I can't stand that you're putting it that way. This is exactly what I suspected about you. You constantly undervalue yourself. Just listen to what you're saying. You honestly believe that's all you are in this. Look, I'm explaining to you that yes, I know my problems are a part of this—and yes, I do feel like I need you. But I'm not about to apologize for that. I don't even think it's wrong for me to feel that way." He paused. "It's not just that, though. It's, like, simpler than that. I'm so unbelievably happy when I'm around you. I really, really don't want it to stop. I know you've made up your mind. I know I should believe that in the end, only you know what's best for you. But I just can't respect it. I don't want to. I don't think you're right. That's selfish, I know. I'm very selfish. There. Now you're finally getting to know me."

Since I had met him, with a sureness that had come to feel unbreakable, I counted on Mikey's support in my final decision, no matter what it would turn out to be. He withdrew himself from this assurance so cleanly now, so easily—as if it had been nothing at all to him, like it had never carried any real weight. He was right; it was completely selfish. This wasn't him—it couldn't be. Yet he did not back away from it.

I began to feel very strange, like something inside me would rupture if I continued to stay still, so I bolted to my feet and began, naked, to gather my clothes off the floor beside the bed.

He looked over his shoulder. "What are you doing?"

"I'm packing," I said. "I'm going home to shower. I'll be late for work—fuck it. We shouldn't be around each other anymore. It will make things much harder. If you have any respect for me and what I need right now, you'll commute by car, today and tomorrow."

He sat hunched over. He didn't let me see his face. "Okay," he said. Any anger or bitterness was gone from his voice. "I just didn't ever think it would end up like this," he said. "I am so sad." He cried, curling further into himself as I dressed.

I knew that if I didn't hurry, he would see me cry, too, which certainly would not make anything easier. I thought I heard him say something more and couldn't help myself from asking him to repeat it.

"Nothing," he said. "It's just so cold in here."

I looked more closely at his body and saw that he was shivering. His shoulders shook as he continued to cry quietly into his hands.

"Just leave," he said.

I lifted my bag from the floor and left him, quickly putting on my shoes by the front door. The deadbolt released with a heavy clack. In the next moment the door shut behind me and I was alone out in the hall.

I walked briskly in the cold morning air over to Stratham, arriving at the stop for the 40B just as it came roaring down from the north, headlamps still blazing in the twilight. I had never ridden the southbound route so early in the day; it arrived empty and I sat at the very back, against the window, setting my bag down on the seat beside me.

Whatever imminent event I had been expecting, this morning had exploded into something worse than I could ever have foreseen. My left hand clutched my stomach. Reality was in the building: My body, the seat cushion below me, the windows of the bus—everything around me lay awash in a burning, clarifying chemical bath of reality. Gradually, still shaking, I peered back toward the place from which I had come, no longer able to imagine how else it could have played out.