Page 105 of The Leaving Kind
Cam stood and smoothed his hands down the front of his jeans. His suddenly sweaty hands. The boulder was lodged somewhere between his diaphragm and his lower intestines, causing pain and making breathing difficult.
His heart hurt.
But he’d been here before. So many times. Down and supposedly out. He knew the score.
“Fine, you win. I’m going to head home. But if you don’t text me tomorrow to let me know you’re alive, I’ll be back.” He couldn’t switch off the care overnight. He’d never been able to. “Same deal with the next day. And if I don’t like how you sound by Monday, I’m calling Tez.”
“You don’t have her number.”
“I can get it.” He knew people who knew people. How many ceramic artists could there be in Stroudsburg? If Nick didn’t know her, Oliver likely would. Or Aaron or his sisters. The gay community in this corner of the world wasn’t big.
Cam took a deep breath. “We can talk about us when you’re feeling better, but right now? I’m your friend. Whatever happens, I’m your friend. I don’t have so many of those that I can drop them like an old sweater, which I probably wouldn’t drop because old sweaters are the most comfortable fucking kind.”
Anger had started pushing through. Cam breathed. In. Out.
“Until then, be kind to yourself. Remember you have people who love you, whether you want to believe you’re capable of returning it or not.”
And with that, he left. He didn’t want to. Fuck, no. More than anything, he wanted to drag Victor through a shower and into bed where they could hold each other all night. But he had to let Victor pull himself together. At least, he thought he did.
Also, he had to be kind to himself. And all Cam wanted right now was a shower. To warm up. Figure out a way to dislodge the damn stone buried in his gut.
Then maybe steal Honey away from Jorge and let her lick his face until it didn’t hurt anymore.
The first text read: Are you there?
Victor had no idea how long ago it had arrived, but the absence of a follow up indicated perhaps not eons ago. As in ice ages hadn’t come and gone between when he’d thought his phone might have chimed, wondered who had turned the sound on and plugged it in, and found it in the kitchen.
Without taking the time to check the time and date, Victor tapped out a simple reply: Yes.
The second text arrived that evening—time and date clearly discernible because it was dark outside and Victor was still curled into the corner of his couch: What are you wearing?
The lack of wink emoji had saddened him. But acknowledging they’d formed enough of a relationship to have had an in-joke—Cam had texted him twice before with the same question, usually around eleven on a night when they hadn’t gotten together—only hurt more.
I am such a fool. Victor looked down at his bare torso and wrinkled his nose at the funk rising from his skin. A stinky fool.
His reply was short: You don’t want to know.
The temptation to shove the phone across the coffee table and pull his robe up over his shoulder prodded, but not insistently. Victor sat there, in the moment, and marveled at the quiet after the storm. It wasn’t over yet. He still had to climb out of the hole he’d dug for himself—a better metaphor likely to be found when he wasn’t recovering from however many days of moping on his couch—but he was starting to feel again. Mostly relief that he hadn’t drowned.
The third text concerned food. Victor didn’t answer that one. His cats were eating and that was all that mattered for the time being. He’d showered by that point. Spent the night in his bed and had awoken feeling if not refreshed then at least rested.
The worst part of spending so long pinned in one position, or the same position in various places across the living room, was how exhausting it always was not to move.
But now that his brain had started to come back online, the remorse kicked in.
Why had he pushed such a good man away?
“Because you’re ugly when you’re down.”
Except Cam had seen him that way twice now and he still apparently cared enough to text: Have you washed that godawful robe yet?
Dutifully, and because cleaning and tidying always felt good after a bout of depression, Victor tucked a laundry basket under one arm and went in search a full load.
Then he found his earbuds, pulled up his yoga app, and went to retrieve his mat from behind the table. It wasn’t there—because he’d left it on the floor ... when? A week ago?
Now he really didn’t want to check the date on his phone. Dear lord, had he missed a class with the kids? He had, hadn’t he? How long could he keep doing this? He glanced at the journal cupboard and thought, seriously, for the first time in a while, of calling his therapist.
Maybe it was time to try something new. Research medication. It couldn’t be all bad, could it? Because, while he was back in the land of the living, he felt as though he’d left an essential part of himself at the bottom of the ocean. Not his heart, but maybe a reason to keep it beating?