Passing through the living room, I hear the shower running. It must be Andie in the bathroom because through the crack in the door, I glimpse Rebecca, blonde hair drawn into a neat braid down her back. She’s cradling her cell phone against her ear, zipping her suitcase. In blue jeans and a white T-shirt, she’s dressed for the road. I’m a peeping Tom, staring in at her, listening to what she’s planning.
She glances at her watch. “I can be there by two. Set the meeting for three.” There’s a pause, and she gives her suitcase zipper a purposeful tug. “Trevor, look, I’m positive about this. I’m coming home.” With that, she snaps the phone shut and stands still as a statue. That’s when I make my move.
“You leaving?” I ask, aware that we may have approximately five minutes to do this alone before Andrea emerges from the shower.
Rebecca tucks her phone into her purse, heaving the large suitcase onto the floor. “Ed wants me to produce Julian’s movie.” She tosses her braid back confidently, exposing the scars on her face without hesitation. “It’s a really wonderful opportunity for me.”
I gesture around the room. “But we’ve got this place for two more days.”
“Michael, look—” she begins with a weary sigh, but then says nothing else, staring past me toward the hallway.
“You could wait,” I suggest. “Drive back with Andie and me still.”
“It can’t wait and we both know I’m finished here. That we’re finished, Michael.”
“No, that’s not true,” I disagree, stepping toward her. As I reach for her arm, she jerks it from my grasp, like she’s been scalded.
“Michael, please. You haven’t been honest with anyone else, but at least be honest with me.”
“I’ve never been dishonest with you,” I answer evenly. “You know exactly how I feel.” Green eyes search my face, my heart, and I ache to put eloquent words to my feelings, to make her understand that the waiter meant nothing to me. That the videotapes meant nothing to us.
“Yes, well…” She tips her chin upward in proud defiance. “I know a lot more than I did a few months ago.”
“You should know that I love you,” I answer forcefully, determined that she understand the truth.
Her demeanor becomes resigned. “What I know is that this isn’t working, Michael. I guess it never was.”
“Last night doesn’t mean we can’t make this work, Becca. Please,” I beg, desperate, stepping toward her, but she turns away in the face of my pitiful excuses.
“What about the fact that you’re still wearing his ring?” she asks in a soft voice. In shock, I stare down at my hand, though of course she’s right. I hadn’t thought about it, had meant to remove it before we made love. But somehow, I just didn’t.
While I wish I had an explanation, there’s nothing I can say. She turns to me, bright tears shining in her eyes, the careful fa?ade crumbling. “A cab is waiting outside,” she says, rolling her suitcase toward the door. “I’ve already told Andrea goodbye.”
She hesitates, turning back one last time, and I can’t believe the melancholy in her expression. “Michael, the thing I’ve finally realized is that I’m not who you’re looking for.” Her tears begin to flow in earnest. “And if you’re going to keep searching for him, you might as well look in the right place.”
I reach for her, and this time she doesn’t fight me. “Rebecca, God, I love you,” I insist, desperate to keep her from going.
I stroke her cheek tenderly, tracing the outline of her jaw. She doesn’t flinch, but drops her gaze to the floor. “Please tell me you’re okay,” I say, voice catching. “Because I love you, baby.”
“I love you too, Michael,” she whispers. “But it’s not enough.” She sucks in a gasping breath, resting her cheek against my shoulder with a shattered sigh. “I finally understand that I’m not enough. I won’t ever be enough to make you forget.”
***
I’m not even sure how long I’ve been here in Casey’s room, just lolling in the bed, unable to get up. Andrea thinks I’m sick. Food poisoning, that’s what I told her, and she’s been watching videos and reading books all day. Bored out of her mind, I can tell, but I’m stuck here, at the bottom of my ocean, struggling to find my way back to the air. Where’s Alex when I need him to help me sort out all this emotional shit?
I’m not good at being straight, I’m not good at being gay: I was only ever good at being with Alex Richardson. And for a little while—the most pristine perfect moment—I sure as hell was good at being with Rebecca O’Neill.