Page 17 of The Cabin
“Would you? If the right person came along…would you?”
“Try?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, I would. I really would. I’d fuck it up, probably, but I’d go for it. I guess deep down, I know Lisa would want me to. I guess part of me wants her permission, and I don’t know how to reconcile that.”
I nod. “What would you do differently?” I’m pushing it. I know I am, but I’m in the grip of an idea, and it’s making sense of my desperation, that fierce furious desperation I feel all the time now.
“Be home more. Talk more. Tell her how I feel more openly. She was always after me to open up, but I couldn’t figure out what the fuck she meant. And I think I get it now. I think I could do that better, now. I’d do things for her. So she’d know.” A gruff clearing of his throat. “I’d treasure each moment, because we ain’t guaranteed a single goddamn one of them.”
Fuck, that hits me like a javelin. It punches into my chest so hard my breath whooshes out like he physically punched me with his giant cinderblock fist. Might as well have. Hits me so hard I get nauseous.
He notices. “Dude, Adrian, you okay?”
I nod. “Yeah,” I rasp, hoarse. “Swallowed wrong.”
“Bullshit.”
I glance at him. “I’m sorry?”
He eyes me. Eyes somewhere between brown and gray, deep, serious. “That was rank bullshit. You didn’t swallow wrong.” He clenches his fist, taps a knuckle on the bar. “Adrian, why’re you asking me this shit?”
“Curious.”
He nods. “You’re lying.”
I laugh, but it’s bitter, morbid. “Yeah.”
He lets out a long breath. “All right. Keep your lie. You got your reasons, I guess.” He tugs a card out of his hip pocket, hands it to the bartender. “On me.”
“Nathan, let me—”
“On me.”
“Okay,” I say. “Thank you.”
He shakes his head. “No, thank you. I needed this, man. More than you know. Getting home today, to that home, alone, it just…it hit me and I couldn’t be alone. And you were the first person I thought of.”
“Honored to be, buddy. Honored.”
The bartender hands him the black plastic tray with the receipt; he tips generously, totals, scrawls a sloppy signature. He stands. Claps me on the shoulder, gently, but it rocks me forward with a jolt. “You want to unburden yourself of whatever it is you’re carrying, Adrian? You let me know.”
I want to, in that moment. So damn bad. “Some burdens can’t be put down, my friend. But thank you. I know you mean it.”
“Yeah, I guess I get that.” He stumbles a bit.
“You’re not driving are you?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. I knew I couldn’t go home tonight. So I got a hotel a couple blocks away. Bottle of Blanton’s waiting for me. I’ll deal with going home tomorrow.” He juts his chin at me. “You’re not driving either, I take it. You had as much as me, and you weigh probably a good buck less.”
“I got an Uber here. When we sit down to drink, we don’t mess around.”
I stand up, and we man-hug, and then he ambles away—his tread is heavy, as if that weight he talked about, feeling heavy, inside, was nearly too much to stand up under.
I watch him go, and I knew then, down to my bones and in my balls and in my blood, what I had to do. It hurt. I wanted to deny it. To put it off. To fight, to hope; I would fight, I would hope, until the bitter end, I would. I’d hope this would all be for nothing. Wasted effort, wasted time. Wasted pain. Wasted sacrifice. But I knew I had to.
For my conscience.
For Nadia.Whispers & WineBeing married to a writer is hard. Don’t let anyone ever say different. They’re aloof, when they’re writing. It’s not you, it’s them. They don’t mean to be, it’s just the job. That notebook opens, that computer turns on, keys start clacking, pen starts scribbling—that person is gone. It’s the story, then, and it takes them.
He usually writes with his office door open, some classical music on in the background, cello or guitar or piano.
A month after his trip up to the East Coast, and he’s got his office door closed, locked. Silence, but for the tick-tick-tock-tick-tickety-tickety-tock-tock-tock of the keyboard. Fast and loud, meaning he’s really moving. Adrian is gone and all that exists in that room is a conduit, fingers and a story.
I’m worried.
He comes out after eight hours in there, looking wan. Shaky. Thin. In the words of Bilbo Baggins, he looks like butter scraped over too much bread.
I’ve made a pot of stew, left it to simmer for him. I’m reading, my day off. He comes out, props himself against the range with one hand, lifts the lid of the pot. Sniffs.
“It’s been ready to eat for hours, babe,” I say, rising. “Let me get you some.”
