California, Brother

7.

Eric was happy. It was getting to me. Not his happiness per se, but the realization that our time was brief, and there would be moments like this in the future wherein my figure on the couch would be cut out and replaced by other people; other women even. Veronica, 37, three miles away. Jocelyn, 34, registered nurse, loves hot yoga and hiking. Normally, his happiness would've been enough. There was just something about this moment specifically that was casting my thoughts back to what he'd said when he'd left L.A. He'd been in search of exactly this: happy and healthy, and here he was, closer than ever to his final form.

Was I even needed?

I'd always wondered what this space looked like. Even during moments when I'd been my most adamant about erasing him; thoughts about what his life looked like when he was this happy, this vibrant, would flicker across my mind. They'd existed before Portland, back in West Hills, watching him on the couch with his leg intertwined with a budding girlfriend's. I couldn't help but wonder what they talked about. What did it feel like to not be afraid of his undivided attention? To realize, over and over again, he wanted you in return? I set mechanisms in place to minimize the inevitable rejection—avoidance, mostly. Mechanisms that were now taking hold again.

It was one thing, in theory, to want his happiness, and another thing entirely when that happiness was crystallizing on its own—independent from you. Sylvie had made him happy. In the beginning, at least. He'd been radiant the first time I'd met them as a couple at my parents'. Knowing I shouldn't have, a part of me still wondered what it would've been like to produce that kind of happiness in him.

Some things are just not meant to last.

'I have to go.' I reached over to the tray on the coffee table and ashed what little remained of my joint. 'I have to get some work done. I'm a terrible bore, I know,' I said, seeing his disbelieving look. All things considered, everything had been perfect until that point. We'd been talking and joking. The weed, Tracy Chapman on the tv, stroking Ivy's soft coat, it had all put me in a half-sedated state. And yet, there was still that growing chasm of dark matter oozing out of my chest.

'Dude, I thought you were done with working?'

'I kind of promised someone I'd take care of something for them,' I lied. I rose, flashing his unsettled expression a quick smile. Don't look back. I had to. I couldn't not drink him in where he sat on the sheepskin armchair. The harmonica was still in his lap. He'd played me the beginning of Winnipeg from his second album simply because I'd asked him to. How could anyone expect me not to turn around when it was Eric we were talking about? All forlorn, hair damp over his ears, dressed in a pair of teal-colored pants and a wife-beater. I smiled one last time, banishing the voice that was screaming at me to go back, to just endure it a little more; to not hurt him.

Not hurt him? That's fucking rich.

I retreated to my room. Alone. Safe. Lonely. What did it matter if I was protected from making a complete fool out of myself? I contemplated working on the snake game, which I'd come to consider "work" having lied about it so many times, but taking a seat on the bed settled it for me. I fished out my AirPods from my pocket and reclined, kicking my feet up over the duvet. My phone was soon in my hand, lighting up Amanda's bio—13 miles away, 31 years old. I froze, then swiped left. Krystal, 33 years old. Red-head. Huge rack. Dog lover. Was this Eric's pick? These women were gorgeous. Surely, changing my profile from gay to straight was altering the algorithm selection somewhat? Either that or these people were all catfishes, because what the actual fuck? But then again, logically speaking, there was just something about women, wasn't there? I swiped left. Then did that about a dozen more times until my chest was brimming with utter dejection. What was he even into? Dyed blondes with heavily Americanized British accents? Musicians? He'd been into you once. Had he? I closed my eyes to push away the memories. And when that didn't work, I grabbed the pillow from under my head and screamed. My arms fell to my sides. I lay there, breathing in my recycled breath against the cotton. The dark matter in my chest was expanding, threatening to fill me head-to-toe with malignant longing, shame, and indecisiveness.