Page 19 of Sins of the Flesh
“Yup.”Another monotone one word answer, it feels like someone has replaced my chatty vibrant friend with a robot.
“Do you need anything?”I try again, searching his downturned face for any clue to what he's thinking.For the briefest moment, he glances up from his plate.Our eyes meet, and something flickers in his gaze.He wants to say something.I can feel it, can see the words caught in his throat.Say it, I silently urge him.Whatever it is, just say it.We can fix this.Then he dips his head again.
“Nope.”
I nod slowly, swallowing the lump forming in my throat.What am I supposed to do with this?How do I reach someone who clearly doesn't want to be reached?
Cole takes a couple more bites, though he's barely eaten half of it, and stands up abruptly.Without a word, without even a backward glance, he walks out of the breakroom, leaving his plate on the table.I stare at the empty doorway, listening to his footsteps fade down the hall.The rejection stings more than it should.
We go on like this for another week and as the distance grows I am more and more desperate to fix it.I place a container of lemon blueberry muffins on the table.These muffins got us eating lunch together everyday.Maybe they can bridge the gap now.
At 11:30 I walk by the breakroom and the muffins are undisturbed.I'm positive Cole saw them.He always goes through the breakroom in the morning.
A small panic rises in my chest.Is he hurt somewhere around the Church?Walking into the Chapel I call his name, noticing the panic in my voice.I take a deep calming breath and try again but there's no answer.I check the bathroom, kitchen and fellowship hall no Cole.
He must be outside painting or something that is part of the repair plans.So I head outside and just as I am about to round the corner to find him I notice his truck is missing from the parking lot.
I heard him come in this morning and I'm sure he would have told me if he wasn't feeling well.Panic rises again to grip my chest.What if he had an emergency with his Mom?
My hands are shaking as I pull out my phone to text him.I start typing, delete it, start again.Too formal.Delete.Too concerned, bordering on intrusive.Delete again.
Finally, I settle on something simple:
Me:
Is everything ok?
My phone vibrates in my hand fifteen minutes later, startling me from the daze I've fallen into while staring at the empty parking space.
Cole:
Yup
Me:
Where did you go?
Cole:
Went home for lunch was I not supposed to?
The emotions going through me are too numerous to name.On the one hand, at least he didn't give me a one word answer and he asked me a question.On the other hand, why did he go home for lunch?
Me:
No, that's fine.Can I ask why?
Cole:
Eating with mom
Standing in the empty parking lot, I look up at the clear summer sky, stinging from another rejection.
Days pass, then weeks, and a new pattern emerges.Cole continues his work at the Church, professionally and efficiently.The repairs progress, the leak in the Chapel roof is fixed, the bathroom plumbing restored, the children's classroom outfitted with new shelves and storage exactly as we discussed.But Cole himself remains distant, formal, almost a stranger.
He arrives early each morning, greets me with a polite nod or a murmured, "Morning, sir," and then disappears into whatever project he's working on.At noon, without fail, his truck leaves the parking lot."Going home for lunch," he'll say if I happen to encounter him on his way out.He never offers more explanation, and I never ask, though the question burns in my throat.
In the afternoons, he returns, works until five, and leaves with another brief, impersonal goodbye.
