I find myself standing there, staring at it. Somewhere in the city of New York, Callan’s other belongings are neatly folded away into cupboards and drawers. His books are stacked in an orderly fashion on shelves. His records are filed alphabetically, just as they always were, next to his ancient record player. His shoes are probably in disarray underneath his bed, just like they always were, too. My heart suddenly feels weighty, too heavy to carry inside me any longer. There was a reality once upon a time when my toothbrush was meant to belong next to his. My shoes would have been in a jumble along with his under our bed. We talked about it. Daydreamed, really. In our heads, we created this exceptional far away life together and it was amazing. There would have been fights and disagreements, of course. There would have been plenty, but the sweet moments where we loved each other and made each other’s lives better, simply for the joy of making the other person happy—those were the moments we would have lived for.
As I stand there, still staring at his stupid toothbrush, remembering everything we said once, I realize that I feel robbed. That life was taken from me, and the life I live now is so far removed from my dreams that I don’t even recognize it as something I ever really wanted for myself. I walk into the bathroom, pick up Callan’s toothbrush, and I drop it into the toilet. It refuses to vanish like a good little toothbrush when I flush, so I just leave it there, not caring that he’ll find it at some point and know how petty I’ve been.
I steel myself before I open the door to Callan’s bedroom. Seeing him fully clothed and arguing with him at a dinner table is one thing, but seeing him half naked and sleeping, vulnerable…that is something else entirely. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to deal with the dichotomy of emotions such a vision will produce. As it turns out, rallying myself was a pointless task anyway. When I step into the room, holding my breath, trying not to breathe him in, I immediately see that his bed is made and he’s not even there. He’s not at home in his bed? It’s two-thirty in the morning, and it’s a weeknight. He hasn’t lived here for a very long time, as far as I can tell, so where the hell is he? Out drinking in some late night bar with a girl?
I hate that this is the first place my mind travels to. Callan is a highly sexual person. He always was, and there’s no doubt that he still is now. It’s remarkable that I haven’t even contemplated the fact that he might have a girlfriend back in New York until now. His marriage speech earlier was definitely a good indicator that he’s not involved in anything serious at the moment, but regardless, there could well be some cute little hipster girl with black-rimmed glasses waiting for him back in Tribeca, or Brooklyn Heights, or whatever up-and-coming neighborhood he’s transplanted himself into.
She’s probably a writer or something. She probably blogs.
My throat feels like I’ve swallowed ground up glass. I try to choke down the feeling as I enter Callan’s domain and pace the floorboards, allowing things to come back to me piece by piece: the Nevermind poster on the wall that I tacked up after Callan accidentally knocked a hole in the plasterboard; the cork wall full of movie stubs and concert tickets. God. So many we went to see together. Fight Club. Lord of the Rings. 10 Things I Hate About You. The Green Mile. We weren’t even old enough to see most of them at the time, but Shane used to work at the Village 8 Theater and would sneak us in after a little bribery.
I can’t believe he kept the same bed sheets. Faded and washed out now, they’re more gray than blue, but they’re still the same. I feel like I just dropped acid, and I am Alice, tumbling down a long lost rabbit hole that used to be so familiar to me but now seems strange and alien. By rights, I should be trying to climb my way back out of the damned hole, but I’m not. I’m freefalling, not even caring, losing myself in the smoke and mirrors of dusty memories that come rushing at me.
I sit myself down on the edge of Callan’s bed, overcome with all of the love and the pain that existed between us in this room once. Some of the most formative moments of my teen years happened right here. Others took place next door in my own bedroom. One took place in my father’s basement.
I’ve been fighting valiantly to persuade myself that being here in Port Royal is no more than an inconvenience to my life now, but the truth is that I’m so scared and traumatized by finding myself back here that I can barely breathe. I’m not even aware of what I’m doing as I lie back onto the mattress and kick my shoes off, curling myself up into the fetal position, hugging my knees to my chest.
I’m suddenly so exhausted. My bones feel heavy inside my body, pulling me down into the mattress, refusing to let me move. Lying down is the worst idea I’ve had in a long time, but I can’t seem to muster up the energy to care. Callan’s out flirting with a girl in a bar or he’s sitting on a bench talking to his black-rimmed glasses wearing, blogger girlfriend on his cellphone, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Nor is there anything I should want to do about it.
Fuck him. Fuck him for coming back here. Fuck him for hurting and loving me, and looking so damn perfect, and for making me feel things I don’t want to feel.
And fuck me for what I did, too.
******
CALLAN