Page 56 of Come Back To Me

“You love your art more than you love me.”

A barrage. I rose higher and higher. If he didn’t look at me the right way after a show, I’d be hurt. If he looked at me too much, I’d feel smothered. Be with your fans. Don’t be with your fans. You don’t love me enough. You love me too much. I rose.

I knew that the problem was me, and yet I couldn’t control my feelings. David drove me mad, or my love for him did. And then I saw the photo of Petra and David at Ferdinand’s house, sitting so close together it looked like their knees were touching. David came to the bar later, the guilt written all over his face. He tried to explain, but he couldn’t climb the walls I’d erected. He hadn’t even known they were being built. That’s not quite fair, I know that now. It took two more weeks. During which time I drove myself mad. It was a mistake, falling in love with him, staying when I knew I needed to leave and go home.

There was a note written in my own hand. All I could find was a pen with red ink. It was in the kitchen drawer and the end of it was chewed on. I didn’t want my letter to him to look angry or aggressive, I wasn’t either of those things. But, there was only a red pen. So I wrote it as gently as I could if only to quell the red ink.

I’m not who you think I am, I told him.I can’t be who you need me to be. I have to go. Forgive me.

It was weak to leave a note. He deserved words, a fight, closure. But, I was afraid he’d convince me to stay. And even if I stayed for a time, it was inevitable that I’d eventually leave. I was too insecure to allow David to love me. I didn’t trust him, despite what I said. What I was feeling would never go away. Words can only temporarily soothe a discord in psychology. I did not expect him to give up his music for me, just as much as I did not expect me to give up my insecurities for him. So, I resolved to take my leave and leave him be. And as I walked away, I said it over and over—

Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, forgive me.

The restaurant where I’m meeting David isn’t what I pictured. Why had I imagined something quaint and romantic? A brick building with a rose trellis, wooden floors, and plush plum colored seating. That’s how reunions are supposed to go down, isn’t it? The way they did in the movies. But, this isn’t really a reunion. I’m trying to romanticize it to help myself along, a crutch of sorts. It’s a warmer day than I expected too, and I can feel a line of sweat roll down my back as I walk toward the front doors. When I step inside, the first thing I notice is the minimalistic design. I shiver. The stark whites, modern light fixtures, and boxy tables and chairs. There is nothing warm here, and it occurs to me that David chose this place specifically as my interrogation room. An elegant, middle-aged woman greets me, a menu in her hand. Her long gazelle-like body is draped in a black kimono.

“Welcome,” she says.

“Hello. I’m meeting—”

“David,” she finishes for me.

“Yes. How did you—?”

“This way,” she says.

She turns before I can reply and I understand that I’m expected to follow. My stomach is knotted as we walk through the mostly empty dining room. I can’t see past her shoulders, though I suspect David is there, watching her as she approaches. Is he equally as nervous? Angry? At any moment I’m going to see him and I’ll be able to read it on his face. I could always read everything on his face. My heart is beating so wildly it hurts.

When she steps aside to show me the table, David isn’t there. I stare at the empty seats and feel sharp disappointment.

“He called ahead,” the hostess says. “He will be here shortly.”

She leaves me there with my oversized menu, and I feel childlike in my aloneness. I cross my legs, uncross them. Straighten my hair, wonder if there’s lipstick on my teeth or if my mascara is clumped over my eyelashes—stupid, shallow thoughts. I chose to wear something casual: a pair of dark jeans and a slouchy T-shirt under my leather jacket. What’s the point of not being yourself and giving people the wrong impression? I come as I am. I sip at my water until I spill some of it on myself, then I’m dabbing my white shirt frantically with my napkin, cursing my clumsiness.

When he steps inside the restaurant, the atmosphere changes. I can feel him before I see him. I set my napkin down and sit up, alert. And then he’s there, moving like water toward me. Everything goes quiet in my head. I have the urge to weep, and then I’m standing to embrace him. I have to reach up on my tiptoes to get my arms around his neck. We don’t let go right away. Anger, resentment, the dire need for answers—is put on hold for…one…two…three…four…five…six…seven…eight—seconds. I can feel his warmth and smell the fabric of his shirt—and through that, the spice of his skin. His body is curled around me, his hands heavy on my back as he holds me to himself. I am so lonely in that moment—so aware of the fact that I have never healed or moved on. When he steps back and we’re no longer touching I feel inordinately sad.

“Hello,” David says softy.

I study his eyes to know what he’s feeling, but he’s guarded. Who has walls now?

“Hi.”

He motions for me to sit down. I do, never taking my eyes off him. He’s different. I suppose that happens after people are apart for a length of time. They become more themselves while you cling to who they used to be.

His hair is shorter, shaggy—more styled; the smile lines around his eyes are more pronounced. He’s wearing a lot of money: starched light blue shirt with a popped collar, slim jeans that emphasize the length of his legs, and a camel colored jacket. He also hasn’t looked at me once since he sat down, which you could see as quite odd, or quite telling.

“I’m going to need to order wine for this. A bottle. So you choose either red or white.”

“Red,” I say, softly.

My fingers find the straw wrapper from my water and I hold it between my fist for support.

“Okay.”

He sets about studying the wine menu while I sit solemnly, my hands clasped in my lap. When our server comes to collect our order, David rattles it off without consulting me.Another way he’s changed,I think. I wouldn’t say less considerate than I would say more self-assured. When we’re alone again he finally looks at me. There are many notable things about David: his good looks, for instance, his deep voice, the John Wayne gait—but the most pronounced thing about him is the expression he’s unable to hide from his eyes. It hurts him to look at me, and suddenly I feel such shame. Shame at who I am, who I was with him. I feel dirty underneath his very clear, very honest eyes.

“How have you been?” he says. He doesn’t really want to know. He just needs warm-up questions.

“I’ve been well,” I say, cautiously. “You’ve made quite a name for yourself. It’s wonderful.”

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