Page 127 of The Moon Also Rises
“I want to,” I say but I can’t stop the sigh that escapes me. “But when I told him yesterday I was leaving, he sort of made it clear that he wouldn’t wait for me, and part of me doesn’t want him to. Part of me wants him to go live his life and forget all about me.”
“Rami,” Mom says and it sounds like a soft warning.
“Why would you want that?” Roxie blurts out. “If you’re in love with him, like, really in love with him, then you shouldn’t want that.”
“Well, sometimes when you love someone, that’s what you do. You let them go,” I explain in a careful tone. “I think Mariah Carey or someone wrote a song about it actually.”
“Bullshit,” Roxie says then looks apologetically at our mother. “Sorry, Mama.”
Mom shrugs and finds my hand again, pulling it onto her lap. “Roxie’s right. Sometimes when you love someone you do let them go, because you have no choice.” Her eyes glaze over. “But other times when you love someone, and you do have a chance to get them, you have to do everything you can to get them back and keep them close. And trust me, when you have them close again, it’s worth it. So very, very worth it.”
Chapter Forty-Two
One Month Later
Jake
When Rami said he was leaving, he really meant it. He disappeared completely and it was almost like he was never here. There was nothing left in my office to remind me of him apart from an empty space at my table, and it hurt in the most twisted way that he didn’t even have a toothbrush in my bathroom for me to stare at while cleaning my teeth and fighting back the tears like I did most mornings and evenings.
The second week was when I started looking for him. Despite his overbearing absence, a pathetic and idiotic part of me kept looking for him. Down every corridor in our building, on the Tube to and from work, on the busy streets of London, my eyes kept betraying me by seeking out his silver eyes, dark skin, and relaxed gait. That was also when I began handing over my personal phone to Sharon the moment I arrived at work. It was as much to not have the reminder that Rami wasn’t texting me or calling me, as it was to not have the temptation of doing some spontaneous online shopping I couldn’t afford. Sharon never asked any questions, and she was dictator-like about hiding the phone from me although her smiles when she handed it over each evening were kind and warmly received.
By the third week I was almost too busy to stay lost in thoughts of Rami. In what was the biggest irony of ironies, Rami’s leaving meant that I was given the responsibility of Wayne and Alison’s wedding at Clapham Manor House, which is to be held this coming Saturday, tomorrow. I’m dreading donning the the same tux I’d worn when Rami and I had kissed in the moonlight for what felt like hours, but I’m trying to approach it like an exorcism. If I can expose myself to these bittersweet memories and survive them, maybe it will help it all move further behind me. Maybe it will help me forget Rami.
By the time this last week rolled around, the wedding had me working all hours of the day and many evenings, which I was grateful for because it also gave me an excuse to turn down offers of dinner or drinks with friends, something I wanted to avoid not only because of my reluctance to pretend everything was fine, but also because I didn’t want to spend any of the money I was still dutifully putting aside to pay off my debt.
At least Rami’s departure finally prompted me to tell Lionel and Luigi we were over. I had thought it would bring relief, but Lionel’s text response only brought more pain.
The possibility of Rami coming back for me is the hardest thought of all. It twists my insides and makes my head spin. I don’t want to want it. I want to forget how he had made me feel seen, valued,lovedin a way no other man ever had. I want to forget it all.
Except I also don’t want to forget. Because forgetting would mean losing something I thought I’d never have. Even if I never do have it again, even if reliving it hurts like hell, I don’t want to lose the memory. I don’t want to lose the feeling of being loved like that, even if it really is over.
Sometimes I try to sedate the sadness with anger. I try to focus on the way he hurt me. I recall how he’d kept things from me, things I still don’t know. I tell myself that it must be unthinkably bad. I tell myself that it meant I never really knew Rami at all, and that whatever we had together, whatever we’d been together, it was a lie.
But again, this doesn’t stick.
Rami may have told me lies, but what we had together, that didn’t feel like a lie. Not at all.
The moment I realised this came last Sunday evening. I had been sorting out my wardrobe collecting clothes and shoes to sell online to make a little extra cash to pay back my debts, and I’d had the radio on. When I’d heard the opening guitar riffs of Michael Jackson’sP.Y.TI’d dropped the Gucci loafers I’d had in my hands, scuffing them and drastically reducing their resale value. My first reaction was to reach for the radio and shut it off. But I didn’t.
Instead, I lay down on my bed and listened to every beat, every note, and I replayed how Rami had danced and sang for me. It was the strangest sensation to have tears pouring out of my eyes but a real, solid smile on my mouth, but that sort of perfectly summarises how I feel about Rami now. I reminisce with a smile on my face and a hole in my aching heart.
I still find myself thinking of Rami in ways I really shouldn’t, and it’s completely spontaneous and unstoppable. Like earlier this week when I made my first payment towards my debt, a respectable £1250, the first person I wanted to call was Rami. I even got his number up on my phone’s screen and hovered my thumb over the call button. But a beat later I swiped away.
Instead, I told Anita at our next appointment and while her acknowledgement had been lacklustre – a quick nod of the head and a curt ‘Congratulations’ before asking me how I felt about it – it had reaffirmed many of the things Rami had told me when I confessed to him over a month ago. That I was not my debt. That I could overcome the shame.
Today, with the wedding and venue all but ready to go tomorrow, and an otherwise quiet day ahead of me in the office, I have set myself the task of clearing out the last magazines that Rami organised for me. They’re a tenuous reminder of him and I’m coming to realise now how I’ve cancelled all my subscriptions in another money-saving step, it feels right to get rid of them.
Sharon is supposed to be helping but she’s currently sitting with her feet propped up on the tabletop reading a Lonely Planet magazine article about Lesbos and bemoaning how little is mentioned about Sappho and the lesbian travellers who put this Greek island on the map.
“You don’t understand. For decades, it was the only place we could travel safely and be ourselves.”
“Oh, you’re right, as a gay man who has lived and worked all over the world, I really don’t understand that at all.” My sarcasm comes easily.
“Oh, everything always comes back to you, doesn’t it?” Sharon says snidely over the top of the magazine.
I tut at her. “I’m trying to assure you that I do understand. I believe that’s called empathising.”
