“Lay, I…”
“You never even said goodbye. Were you…that mad at me?” I hear the rush of air as he prepares to say something, but I don’t let him. “I mean, I know you were. Why wouldn’t you be after what I did? But I thought… I don’t know, I thought we could maybe fix it, or if not that, then maybe you’d give me a chance to apologize, but you never even answered my calls. You never came around. You know, Mom was devastated that first Christmas when you wouldn’t come home.”
I know I’m rambling, but I can’t stop the word vomit. It falls out of my lips, rolling down my tongue.
“She was completely depressed. She didn’t even throw a party, and she always throws parties at holidays. Henry was so worried about her. He was, like, you know your mom well—what’s happening to her? I told him I didn’t know, but I did know. She was missing you.” I sigh. “You know, I never feel bad for the things I put her through. She’s not the mother of the year, as you know better than anyone, but I felt bad then. I felt like I broke up our family. You never even shouted at me or told me you hated me. I mean, I don’t wanna hear that, but silence is way worse. I don’t…”
I press the heel of my palm to the center of my forehead. “I’m sorry, for lying, for taking advantage of you…for everything.”
“Lay, stop, okay? Please just stop,” he whispers in a guttural voice, and I know, I know he has tears in his eyes. They jab behind my closed eyelids as if in answer to his pain.
“You don’t have to say sorry. It…It wasn’t your fault.”
I’m hit with a tiny déjà vu. You’d be surprised to know how many things aren’t your fault at all. Thomas’ voice, even in my imagination, makes me shiver.
“Lay?”
“Yeah, I’m here.” I gather my thoughts. “Caleb, it…it was my fault. I knew you were drunk and that cigarette I gave you…that was pot. I knew you weren’t interested in me, but still I…forced you to—”
“God, is that what you think? Is that what you think happened? You forced me?” A sharp gust of air and I can almost hear him cracking his knuckles like he does when he’s agitated. “Layla, I knew it was pot. I knew what I was doing. I wanted it to happen, okay?”
“You-You wanted to have sex with me?”
“Yes.”
“Wh-Why?”
“Because…Because I wanted to know what it would feel like.”
“You mean having sex? You hadn’t had sex before? You were a virgin too?”
See, this is the kind of thing you should know about your sexual partner. I’d always assumed Caleb was more experienced, though it’s true that I never saw him with a girl. He was one of those guys who spent time reading, doing homework, sometimes hanging with friends.
But I thought he’d done it. I’d heard rumors about it. I never had the courage to ask, only the courage to throw baseless tantrums. Yeah, I fought with him over a stupid thing because I’d heard he’d slept with someone. I even broke his lamp and spilled water on his biology homework. Boy, that was a big fight.
“No, I wasn’t.”
“You weren’t a virgin?”
“No, Layla. I wasn’t.”
“But you just said you wanted to see what sex would feel like.”
“You know what, this isn’t the way I pictured having this conversation. I was hoping you’d come to the party and we’d talk. I’ve missed you, Lay. I’ve missed you so much and I’ve got so many things I wanna tell you, and I’m tired of not talking to you. Are you sure you can’t make it? I mean, it’s a Saturday.”
“Tell me what you meant.” I’m sitting on the edge of my seat, my legs bouncing on the floor, impatient.
“Don’t do this, Lay. I don’t want to do this over the phone.”
“We’re gonna have to, unless you wanna drive up in the snow.”
“Please, Lay, just—”
“What did you mean, Caleb? You know I’m not gonna let this go. I’ll keep calling you and drive you crazy until you tell me.”
This time his sigh is resigned. “I wanted to see how sex would feel like…with a girl.” I remain silent at his declaration. Things seem even more tangled now. “I’m gay, Layla.”
“No you’re not,” I blurt out.
“I am.”
“No, you’re not. You slept with me.”
I’m repeating myself and my voice is high, but I can’t seem to wrap my head around what he’s saying.
“I thought…no, I knew that if I was going to fall in love with a girl, it would be you, Lay. You were everything to me. My best friend. My go-to person. I knew you were in love with me and I thought if I could just push all those weird feelings away, I’d fall for you. I thought if I just…touched you, I could, maybe, fall in love.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No,” he whispers.
“So it failed, your experiment,” I mutter, talking to myself. “It was an experiment for you, sleeping with me.”
“No. God, no. Layla, it wasn’t an experiment. I could never do that to you. I—”
“And you left.” My voice seems dead to me. Flat. Without any inflection. “You left me in that strange bed. With people I didn’t know. By the time I got back home, you’d already gone. You know, when I was lying there in that bed, for a second I thought you’d gone out to get me coffee or something, like in the movies. I thought you were falling in love with me. I thought things were going to be perfect.”
“Layla, I’m—”
“Don’t. Don’t say it.”
“But—”
“I think I’m gonna hang up now.”
My entire body sags as I end the call. The phone slides out of my limp fingers and falls on the ground with a clatter. I sit on the couch in a daze. It’s hard to focus when the buzzing is loud in my chest, my ears, my stomach, even my arms.
Caleb can’t be gay. I love him—loved him. Whatever. I pictured our wedding, our honeymoon in Paris, our babies: one violet-eyed boy and a green-eyed girl. I pictured him making love to me countless times. Even though our first time was a fucking disaster, I knew we’d improve with age, like wine or…or some kind of alcohol I can’t think of right now.
How can he be gay?
I hear a crash then, in the distance…or maybe it’s inside me. I spring to my feet, but I can’t stand still. I keep changing legs, as if prepping myself to run. Somewhere. Anywhere. In the snap of a moment, I dash to my room. I’m dragging clothes over me. Tights over my sleep shorts. Leg warmers. A fuzzy white sweater over my camisole. My purple fur coat. A hat. My boots. Gloves. Three pairs of socks under my snow boots. And I’m out the door.
A snowstorm is easier to battle with, than my empty apartment.
He stole my notebook. The notebook I write my poems in. The notebook I had with me on prompt night.
That asshole.
How do I know it’s him? Because I’m not an idiot. I’ve looked fucking everywhere at home. I had to clean my apartment—twice—to get into all the corners. I’ve got blisters on my palms to prove it. My knees are chafed from kneeling and fishing out clothes hiding under my bed.
I still didn’t find my tiny blue spiral-bound notebook.