Page 36 of Tell Me Lies: Manlove Edition

By daylight, my not-boyfriend’s house is far cozier than I’d have guessed based on my experience in the basement. He decorates mostly with neutrals and really likes living plants— loads of ivies, spider plants, and other vines. A quick peak out the bay window shows a meticulously mowed lawn completely fenced by American flags, the top of the roofs across the street, and in the distance the ocean. Great view. There’s a bike path curling along the cliff. I get lost in the mad fantasy about settling into a house like this with a man. Maybe this house and this very man.

Don’t get your hopes up, Champ. People don’t tie up their future husbands in the guest room.

“I wouldn’t make a habit of running thirty minutes earlier in hopes of catching me again.” Laur hands me an orange juice.

Does he remember I don’t own a coffeemaker? Seems like a small observation from a fella who speaks at least three languages.

“My buddies have been texting me all night. Bunch of worrying bitches.”

I’m still debating the importance of the orange juice in my hand. “It’s not likely. My shrink isn’t very flexible.”

“Shrink?” He snorts and pours his coffee into a thermos. “The fuck do you need therapy for? Being too pretty?”

Does he think I’m some anxious middle-class kid wearing mental illness as a badge of honor?

Take a minute, Jeremy. He doesn’t know.

My stomach is gnawing itself open, I haven’t slept, and I’m coming off mood stabilizers for the first time in two years. I do not take a minute.

“Four suicide attempts, recurring episodes of mania, depression, and other antisocial and risk-taking behavior related to bipolar disorder. I wasn’t diagnosed until I had to be talked down off a bridge.”

Laur puts the coffeepot down and turns his whole body to see me. “East Bay Bridge?”

Weird answer.

But accurate. I nod.

“Yeah.” He returns to his thermos. “That one’s a problem for us, too. How d’you like the safety mesh?”

I remember the shining metal net, a strange hammock built to preserve my life. Seeing it between me and the water had been enough. I called Paul, even though he’d broken up with me three months prior. I’d started walking back as soon as he answered and he’d convinced me to check myself into a clinic before I was even off the bridge.

Yeah, remember how fast you went from wanting to die to wanting help.

“I saw it,” I answer Laur.

Back off, Jeremy. You can still have a nice morning. You like this guy.

I do not back off. “You one of those Republicans who fought against it because it ruins the skyline?”

“Why the fuck do you think I’m a Republican?” That pisses him right off.

I’m exhausted by his anger. “I don’t know. There’s a lot of flags.”

“I’m a damn patriot.” He screws on the thermos cap. “But you’re damn right I fought against them. A little fucking net isn’t going to do shit to stop someone who is determined.”

Because I didn’t want to die enough?

“Someone—like a trained solider two months off his tour of duty—has the physical chops to climb down the mesh and execute his jump from there. We wanted a fucking fence.”

He doesn’t mean me. I know veterans are an at-risk group, just like LGBTQ+ youth, but I never considered the difference. Being trained to kill, conditioned to push through your limits, mixed with the pressure of being “all you can be”…

My people mix sleeping pills and booze and slash their wrists. What do his people do?

To the silence I offer, “I’m told any barrier is usually enough.”

“Must be why guns work better than bridges, huh?” Laur smirks like it’s a joke.

The idea makes me lightheaded. Like hovering above a dark pool of water and not being sure I can make myself swim. “Do you have guns here, Laur?”

---