Page 67 of Poetry By Dead Men
The frown lines in his forehead relax as he takes out his headphones, moving to the coffee maker to grab a bag of espresso.
“Wanted to get it in before it got too hot out. Everything okay?” he asks, keeping his voice casual, but the remaining tension in his shoulders tells me he’s unsettled by my being awake. Worried something happened.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I just—” I hesitate, chewing on the side of my mouth. Saying it out loud feels like a monumental step. Like once the words escape my mouth, they’ll fly away into the universe and I’ll have no choice but to follow through. I twist my fingers together. “I’m working on my book again.”
Bobby turns, crossing his arms and leaning against the counter, his eyes bright. “Yeah?”
I nod, my cheeks warming.
His lips twist in a smile, his dimple appearing, but he doesn’t make a big deal out of it. I’m grateful when he turns back to the coffee maker, giving me space to process what my admission means.
My phone rings, and I flip it over, Harrison’s picture flashing on the screen, and the joy of the moment dims.
“Good morning,” I answer, closing the manuscript.
“Hey.” He sounds surprised. “I wanted to call before work, but I didn’t think I’d actually catch you. You’re up early.”
“I had an idea,” I say, digging for my bravery again. I’ve already said it out loud once. I can do it again. “Um, for a book. I’m working on a book,” I say, leaving out the part about the book being largely written alreadyandabout Bobby.
“A book?” Harrison laughs, but it’s not a good-natured sound. “Elizabeth. What’s with all this nonsense? You’re writing one article. That’s it.”
“Yeah, well…” I turn away from where Bobby stands steaming some milk, his knuckles white. “I’m going to do more freelance work after this article. I like writing.”
“But why?” Harrison sounds utterly perplexed. “You don’tneedto work. I make plenty of money. More than enough for both of us.”
“That’s not what it’s about. I’mgoodat writing,” I say, but a sliver of doubt slides down my throat.
“It’s a fine hobby,” he says, and the dismissiveness in his tone makes me bristle. “But don’t be ridiculous—”
Tears burn my eyes, and I hang up before he can insult me any more. I knew Harrison wouldn’t be excited about me wanting to pursue writing again, but I thought that maybe, with time, he’d come around.
But I’m beginning to realize the man who once wrote me love poems doesn’t see the value of words if they’re not being written to get him what he wants.
My phone rings again, but I ignore it, turning it on silent as Bobby hands me my coffee.
“Extra lavender?” he asks, shaking the container. His eyes are a mix of fury and sorrow, but he doesn’t ask what Harrison said to make me cry.
I rub my forehead and sigh. “Please,” I say, wishing Bobby hadn’t been here to witness another crack spreading in the foundation of my relationship.
THEN
August 2018
Lord forgive me for my sins
I never meant to lie
Oh I may have lost my love
But God I never let that love die
—An excerpt from "Prayer of the Lost," written and performed by Robert Beckett
Even though the door is firmly shut, I know the moment Bobby arrives at my dorm. Maybe it’s the electricity in the air, or maybe it’s the sound of footsteps combined with hushed whispers and giggling in the hallway. I swing open the door before Bobby can even knock and pull him inside, saving him from the paparazzi, aka my hall-mates.
We're used to it by now, how the phones automatically come out and people start whispering as soon as they see Bobby in public. It’s rare we goouton dates anymore. Other than a few of our safe spots, Joe’s included, being in public just means photos and autographs and girls falling over Bobby while I sit there awkwardly, his fans completely ignoring me.
"You’re early!" I throw my arms around his neck. It’s my first week of classes for the fall semester, and Bobby kept his promise of scheduling his performances around move in day this year.
