The word is written next to a passage that has been underlined with thick black lines. It says that the unrequited lover is the one who waits. He waits and waits, and then waits some more. He is the one who drops vital moments of his life, lets them scatter away, lets himself scatter away piece by piece for those three words. I love you. He is desperate and lonely, both by choice and circumstance.
It’s the story of my life packed into a neat, tidy script.
Thomas and I, we share the same story. We might have gotten there differently, but now we share the same fate.
I look at the time: twelve past eleven. I get up, pile on winter clothes, and head out the door. I’m going to the place I went to last night. I’m going to trespass. Again.
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I’ve got a confession to make: after seeing Thomas with Hadley at the coffee shop, I watched him…in his house…through the window, at night.
I know it sounds bad. Borderline criminal. Psychotic. Stalkerish. If Thomas ever knew, he’d kill me. If Kara ever found out, she’d shit her pants. So, I’m never going to tell them. I’ll be taking this one to the grave.
Thomas’ address was easy to find. It was on the university portal, under employee directory. I sat on that address for hours until I couldn’t, until the night fell and I wrote that shitty poem with horrible word choices.
I’ve always felt like an outsider, a freak of nature to love someone who’d never love me back, to love my own stepbrother, who for all intents and purposes is considered to be my actual brother by everyone…by my mother.
And now I’ve found someone who’s going through the exact same thing. So, I broke my rule to never stalk again and went to Thomas’ house last night. I watched him through his living room window. He sat on a colorless couch, sprawling, his hair sticking up. He graded papers, pen tightly clutched in his hands, a t-shirt clinging to the valleys of his body, a permanent frown sitting on his forehead. He’d look up every now and then, stare out the window. Thank God for the oversized foliage surrounding his house that kept me hidden. Then he’d stab a grade on the sheet and throw it on the coffee table. Rinse and repeat.
I could feel the frustration taking him over until he tossed the papers aside and began pacing. He’d stop and look behind him—I don’t know at what—and then pace again. It went on for hours, a hypnotizing ritual until he passed out on the couch, sitting up, his head pointed to the ceiling.
Tonight it’s snowing. Thick flakes fall from the sky, burying the sidewalks under small hills of snow. I walk with slow, measured steps, feeling the bite of the cold. The tall campus buildings give way to arched-roof houses, squatting far apart from each other. I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be snooping. It’s crazy, not to mention illegal, but I keep walking.
Up ahead, I see a house, separate from the others. Thomas’ house. The overgrown foliage and un-mowed lawn peppered with heaps of snow make it look abandoned. It’s a house, not a home.
My stomach feels the usual tight pull when Thomas is around, but it’s a false alarm, because Thomas isn’t there. The lights in the living room are out. This is the time to turn back—maybe they aren’t home—but my psychotic heart pushes me forward.
I brave the savage and cold yard and walk around the house. A lone tree towers over the roof, its sharp, naked branches grazing the siding. My eyes home in on the last window. Its light is on, and white curtains flutter with movement.
Slowly, I forge ahead.
I run my terrified gaze around but see no sign of civilization. The houses are dark; the nearest one seems an ocean away from my position. I reach the window and squat down in hiding.
I hear murmured sounds and it takes me a moment to gather the courage to look up. The drapes are partially drawn, leaving a slice of an opening. I see Thomas clearly. He is standing, giving me his side profile. He is wearing black drawstring pajamas and is bare-chested.
Holy fuck. He’s almost naked.
He is not huge but tall and sleek, each muscle defined and curled. My eyes travel from his cheek down to the tendon of his neck merging into his strong shoulders. The veins on his toned arms flicker as he opens and closes his fist. His wedding band shines against his pants. He’s got an artist’s body: mysterious terrains, moody sheets of muscles that are tightened right now.
The murmurs are hard to place. Words run together. Their voices are low but the strain is unmistakable. I catch something about Nicky, about leaving him alone, about going somewhere for a few days. All of this is in Hadley’s high-pitched, feminine voice. I don’t know what Thomas says to that, but he’s agitated. He plows a hand through his hair, pulling on the contours of his ribs and stomach.
Looking at him like this, his body on display, made of hard muscles, he seems unbreakable. Oh, how stupid to think that.
He is breakable, more fragile than even his wife, Hadley. She can break him into pieces, mangle him, leave him ruined if she wants. No one can save him.
But we want to. We just want to kiss him. One kiss.
As if my one kiss will magically cure his wounded heart. As if he’ll even want to kiss someone like me. Besides, this isn’t what I’m supposed to be thinking about. I’m not here to perv over him. I’m here to…see him, without his usual bullshit. I’m here to see someone else like me.
A flash of yellow—a nightgown?—passes through until it disappears. The murmurs stop. The silence is thick and dark.
Thomas faces away from the window, giving me a glimpse of his back. It’s tight and strained. What were they talking about?
He shifts his stance and picks up an empty vase, his fingers fisting around its sleek neck. He raises his arm, getting ready to throw it in anger. I am already cringing at the impending crash, but at the last moment, he sets the vase down and walks out, following her.
Always following her.
It’s Saturday and I’m sitting at Crème and Beans. My table is slouched under the myriad of books I picked up from the bookstore last week.
I’ve got another confession to make. No, it’s not something horrendous or criminal like stalking or peeping through the window. Here it is: I bought some books on poetry after Thomas told me to give up on it. They are supposed to teach you how to be a poet, things like technique and form and syllables and types of verses. It’s all very intimidating and foreign-looking.
I’m so engrossed in the debate regarding the importance of blank space in a poem—it is as important as the words themselves, apparently—that I’m caught off guard at the strong waft of chocolate and something spicy.
My fingers heat up and I find Thomas peering down at me. He’s got a mug of coffee and a pastry bag in his hand, and the most devastating thing is the baby strapped to his chest, facing out. Nicky is kicking his legs and nibbling on his fist as he looks around the room. Thomas’ hand is splayed on his tummy in a protective gesture.
Dear God, this man is sexy.
Thomas is staring down at my book and I try to slide it toward me, inch by inch. But he puts his coffee and pastry aside, bends with Nicky still secure, and drags it back to the center of the table.