The good angel on my shoulder tells me not to call her, to give her space and time, because she needs it and she asked for it, and if I invade her mental and emotional space, then I’m violating her consent in a way, and I don’t want to do that.
On the other hand, Devi Dare just broke up with me, and I’m practically hysterical with betrayed misery. I make it until about two in the morning before I call her, but the call goes straight to voicemail. Like her phone is turned off.
I call her three more times to make sure, and then I leave her a message. “Devi,” I say, clearing my throat because her name is the first word I’ve spoken in hours and my voice is hoarse from crying. “Please call me back. Please.”
After that, I finally roll out of my bed and search out my scotch collection. But after I pour myself a glass, I can barely force myself to take a drink. I don’t want to be drunk right now. I maybe don’t want to be drunk ever again, because it would mean numbing myself to reality, and I can’t cheat myself out of one second of feeling this pain. I don’t want to; if this suffering is all I have left of Devi, then I’ll hold onto it as tightly as I possibly can. I won’t disgrace the memory of the perfect thing we had by drinking myself into amnesia.
So I set down the drink and pull out my phone, not to call Devi again, although I want to, but to watch the video I took of her in my pool a few weeks ago. And I watch her swimming over and over again, her hair and her body and the water, and I fall asleep on my couch that way.
Alone. With my phone in my hand and my heart in my throat.
* * *
I wake up, not hung over, not exhausted, but dazed all the same. There’s that weird, floating moment between my eyes opening and me remembering, a moment where I feel like something bad has happened but I can’t remember what. When I finally recall Devi’s tears and her terrible, untrue (does she even realize how untrue?) words, I do love you, more than you love me, and that’s why I have to go, I’m destroyed all over again.
I call her several more times, I text her pages and pages of texts, because how could she think that she loves me more than I love her? But also how could she think about leaving porn? I text her long, stream-of-consciousness threads of thoughts, about how much I love her, how much I already miss her, all the things I would do to prove it to her, but she never answers me back.
I don’t have any scenes booked for today, thankfully, so I drive all the way down to El Segundo to see her. I shouldn’t be surprised when she’s not there, but I’m devastated all the same, and I wait on her porch step for her to come home. The autumn sun rises high and hot, and I get sweaty and uncomfortable but I don’t care. I want to suffer. I want to suffer for her.
She never comes home, though. It’s just me and my wretched thoughts until the sun sets over the ocean, and the sky fades into oranges and pinks.
And that’s when the ancient Volvo rattles into the driveway. A stocky older man with a black mustache and a full head of thick black hair gets out and then walks around the front to open the door for the woman inside. I recognize her immediately.
It’s Devi’s mother.
The couple comes up to the door and I stand, wiping my sweaty hands on my jeans and extending a hand to Mrs. Jones-Daryani to shake. She ignores it and pulls me straight into a hug, a tight one. For some reason that makes me want to cry again, but I manage to keep it together.
“Hi, Logan,” she says as she pulls away. “It’s so good to see you again. This is my husband, Davud Daryani.”
“Hi, Mrs. Jones-Daryani. Nice to meet you Mr. Daryani,” I greet them back. I look at the car hopefully, even though I already know it’s empty. “Is Devi coming or…?”
Sue gives me a pitying smile. “We came to get some clothes for her. She’s going to be staying with us for a while.”
I want to ask where they live, if I can come back with them, but even in my desperate state, I know that would be crossing a line. So I don’t. I just look at the ground and try not to cry in front of Devi’s parents.
“Davud,” Sue says softly, “why don’t you go inside and pack up some things for our boombalee? I want to talk with Logan for a minute.”
Davud nods, and before he walks in, he places a heavy hand on my shoulder. It should feel weird, the father of the girl who just dumped me touching me like this, but it doesn’t. Instead, I feel just a little bit stronger, just a little bit more clear-headed, as if he’s transmitted perspective and wisdom through my skin. And then he pats my shoulder and unlocks the apartment door, walking inside and leaving Sue and me on the porch.
And then it hits me, hits me hard.
This is real life. This is Devi’s parents gathering up her things and this is Devi not answering her phone, and this is me left broken-hearted for the second time this year, except this time it’s so much fucking worse.
Devi and I are really over.