Page 39 of He
He winced at the old nickname. I hadn’t called him that in ages.
“You go ahead,” Jackson said finally. “I’m staying with Kitt.”
I watched as she covered his hand with hers. Tears stung my eyes and the sour in my stomach made its way to my throat, burning all the way. I stumbled out of the kitchen, feeling the bruises start to rise and burn quite as if my brothers and grandfather had turned on me again, determined to beat my love for Jackson out of me.
Monday, December 7, 2015, Janus—When I staggered out of bed today, it was nearly noon. I never sleep that late—not even at the weekend. Today is a weekday. I called out sick at work.Fuck them, I thought,they’ll get over it. I’m never late; I never call in sick. And as founder emeritus, I have unexercised privileges. Besides, it was late, and my head throbbed. I was no doubt dehydrated, and probably hungover. Unable to sleep, I’d opened a couple of bottles of aged claret and drunk directly from the bottles; I couldn’t be bothered to pour the precious contentsinto the Riedel wineglasses I’d bought specifically for it. I’d been saving the wine—hoarding it really—for a special occasion. If the ending of life as I knew it isn’t a special occasion, I don’t know what is. I’d drunk greedily and now I was paying the price.
I needed coffee but had no idea how to make it. Coffee was Jackson’s domain. He always made it using a complicated recipe involving fresh ground beans, chicory, and eggshells. I made my way to the kitchen, hoping to find instant coffee in a cabinet. I was stopped by the smell of brewing coffee. On the stove, hot fresh coffee bubbled. On the counter beside the stove was a box of chocolate croissants, neatly tied with red and white twine, and my favorite mug. Beneath the mug was a note in Jackson’s neat hand. It was instructions for making coffee.
After drinking two cups of coffee, I went back to bed, unable to face this new reality in which Jackson was missing. When I awoke again, it was twilight and Jackson was in the room, gathering clothes from the closet and dressers. My fatigued brain thought for a moment he was back and putting away laundry, but no, he was stuffing clothes into contractor bags—why? For God’s sake, we haveluggage! I sat up.
“Use a suitcase,” I said.
“Why? I’m only going across the street.”
I slumped back down, exhausted. “Thanks for the coffee this morning,” I said. When he didn’t answer, I asked, “What happened?”
“I don’t know,” he said stubbornly.
“Another man—ayoungerman, I—I could understand,” I said, “Butthis…her?”
He shrugged in that way he has that infuriates me, indicating as it does not indifference but confusion. Ifhedidn’t understand, how could I? And Ineededto understand.
“Jackson…”
“I don’tknow.” He sat on the bed, then sprang up as if he’d been burned. “I don’t understand what happened any more than you do. All I know is from the time we were seventeen, I’ve loved you so completely there wasn’t room for anything or anyone else. It’s like you built a fortress around my heart—”
“What changed?”
“I don’t know.”
The walls of our love had started to crack, maybe from age, maybe from neglect, I thought. Then like rot, Kitt had crawled into those cracks and brought the whole structure down around my ears.
I sat up in bed. “I don’t know how to let you—us—go,” I said quietly, trying not to cry.
“You could stop the earth in its rotation if you wanted to, Oren. You can survive this. I know you can. I couldn’t live with myself if I thought otherwise.”
When I said nothing, he continued, “Listen, I have to go.”
And just like that, he was gone, leaving me to wonder when exactly he had first left me.
Wednesday, December 16, 2015, Janus—“Hang on,” I said to MJ. “My feet are cold. I need to get some socks.” I left the phone on the bed and went to my dresser. When I pulled open my socks drawer, I found the present I’d planned to give Jacksonfor Christmas. I pulled the watch—a handmade, limited-edition Pioneer Basel Tourbillon—from its case. Removing it from its case started its delicate flying tourbillion in motion; the second hand began its precise sweep of the watch’s rich blue face. Pulling the stem, I quickly set the time and wound the watch then slipped it onto my right wrist, despite the watch on my left wrist. I know I will wear it every day—otherwise, it will wind down. And that would feel like Jackson’s heart stopping. Or perhaps my own.
“I’m back,” I said picking up my phone.
“I just called to see how you were doing…”
“Jackson said I don’t live in the moment,” I blurted. “He says that I focus so much on tomorrow, on what’s next, on who we’d be, that I miss the todays, the now, who we are. That I never rest. Presumably, Kitt lives in the present and doesn’t think about what’s next.”
“She doesn’t think about consequences either,” MJ said darkly.
We fell silent for a few seconds, then MJ said, “He’s right, you know. Youdon’tlive in the moment. You never rest.”
So that was it? His unhappiness boiled down to that?
“Do you know why I don’t live in the moment? Why I never rest?” I asked. “It’s because so many of my moments growing up were crappy. The only way I could survive was to think about tomorrow—and how much better it would be. Then I met Jackson. I was so happy, so in love with him—I couldn’t wait to experience what was next, the next day with him, the next year with him. I couldn’t wait to find out who we’d be when we were old and gray and still together and in love. I wanted a lifetime with him. Can you understand that?”
“I can,” she said gently.
