Page 138 of Backslide
And I get it. Because I didn’t leave it open-ended. But it is still astounding to me how much this feels like the first time around. How I kept waiting for him to callagain. To try harder. And how he didn’t for literal decades and doesn’t now.
In that time, it became a new millennium. Towers fell. Smartphones were born. Smartphones got cameras. Smartphones ruined the world.
My father died.
And then Noah did reach out. But by then… I had nothing left to say.
No words.
“CB,” I say now. “There’s no there there anymore.”
“But there is though! Isn’t it at least worth a try?”
What is this scenario? Where we try long distance and it’s horrible like it always is—death by a thousand paper cuts in the form of missed calls, time differences, questionable photos posted on social media—and we break up all over again? Marinate in the pain all over again?
I wouldn’t do either of us the injustice.
But I do miss him. God, I miss him. Even though I barely had him.
“I think we kind of did try,” I say. “And it didn’t end well.”
“He didn’t hook up with Lydia, for what it’s worth,” Cara insists. “I know that for sure! She said Damien told her to go ask him to examine her—and then made sure you saw it. She may have been trying to get in Noah’s pants… Okay, she was. But she didn’t succeed and Damien, well, we all know he’s garbage. Even Ben is done with him.”
I know that too. About Lydia and Noah. Really, I knew that almost instantly. She was never his type and there was Damien at hisold shenanigans again. But that shot of adrenaline—of seeing Noah with her and that moment of not knowing—was enough to convince me that what we have is not enough for me to uproot myselfortrust him from thousands of miles and organic smoothies away.
Noah wants me. I can admit that. But he wants to merge me into his life. He wants me to be convenient. And what happens when I’m not?
“I know, CB,” I say. “But it’s just too hard.”
So, I am sad, but I am working on other things. On finding new ways to replicate some of the feelings I felt when I was with him—like everything was in Technicolor. Like I was on to the next chapter. Like I was awake again.
I’ve been taking meetings about freelance art director gigs, ones for TV and film, as I finish up at the magazine. It’s a big change and will involve a steep learning curve, but I think I’m up for it. I’ve been looking for new apartments—though I’m not sure exactly where I want to go. I’ve been digging up old contacts and going out for drinks.
For Manhattans, old-fashioneds, martinis—and advice.
And then I’ve been coming home and, yes, I have been allowing myself a few minutes to stare up at the ceiling and remember what it felt like to have his hands in my hair, his lips on my lips, his smile projecting a thousand-watt glow in my direction.
I’ve been staring at the photos Cara posted—I know partially for my benefit. I’ve been examining our faces for clues. To what, I’m not sure.
I’ve been coming home and,yes, letting myself cry until my pillow is damp, remembering how free I felt on that day in West Marin and wondering if I’ll ever feel that right again.
If I will die alone and the bodega cat will celebrate.
“Will you at least promise to tell me if you need me?” Cara says. “No more secrets?”
“I promise,” I say. And I do. Because I’m also working on learning to ask for support. On telling my friends when I’m feeling vulnerable or down. On accepting help.
I am working on letting in what might make me happy.
And so, today, as I root around in my purse for my keys after a fruitful meeting in SoHo, I’m planning to treat myself. I will order sushi—no oyster shooters. Too triggering. I will watch Hallmark movies. I will give myself an extra few minutes to think about Noah and wallow in aching for him. And then I will try out my new rose oil and jade gua sha facial tool and go to sleep early.
But, when I turn the key in the apartment lock, I open the door to something unexpected.
Wall-to-wall yellow. In the form of Cheerios boxes. Each featuring an image of a heart-shaped bowl.
Cereal bowls of love.
There must be hundreds of them. And when I tiptoe in, close the door behind me and look more closely, I see there are a few other types too.
