I’m so changed myself—so wasted for him, years on end now—all my focus is on staunching my wounds. I’m not looking past myself.
One of the cameras on the church’s front doors malfunctioned last night, so the security company traveled to our campus today. That meant several sets of eyes on all the footage. Normally, it’s Bruce or Sherry; whoever is on duty isn’t watching closely. Today was much more risky—so I couldn’t try to see him.
Today I felt near sick over all the things I can’t do for him. Today I drank whiskey in my office—and it didn’t help.
We had a meeting of the board of elders at five, and that made the day so much worse. At least I got the TENS unit for him. I paid extra so they’d have it ready for me to pick up when I left the church at seven-thirty. But the place was out near Oakland.
As I drove back toward Haight, Mom called. She heard about Megan from some biddy at the country club. We don’t talk about my situation, but I know that she knows. Just like I know Dad knew. How did I end up at a conversion weekend in Tahoe with Dad’s two good friends if he didn’t?
Mom asked me to bring some dinner over. Chicken fingers, of all things. When I dropped the food off, she pushed up on her walker, grabbed my elbow, and looked into my eyes. She said, “You’re not going to be happy if…”
If what, she wanted me to say. I wonder what she would have said back.
I got out of view of the cameras at her driveway’s gate and had to pull over by the Crestmore’s acreage.
“You’re not going to be happy…”
I’m not. When he leaves, I’ll have a gaping hole to patch up, and I don’t know if I can. Thing is, I don’t care.
We get upstairs, and I lead Vance into the bathroom. I run the tub. He looks tired and still seems quiet, like the alcohol has flattened him—or I have. The water runs while we stand by it.
“V.”
His eyes meet mine. I pull his hand to my chest. “Vance, I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
I wrap my arm around his neck, pulling him up against me—where I need him. I lean on the shower’s glass wall, and I fold myself around him. He feels so good against me. I rub my hand down his back.
“I know I messed up with you today. Don’t tell me I didn’t.”
His cheek’s pressed against my shoulder. “It’s okay.”
“Like it was okay when I ghosted you that New Year? Or when I acted like we didn’t know each other after you first got here?” I straighten, my grip around him loosening—because I want to move away from him. I want to move away from me. “Don’t lie to me, Vance.”
“Okay, Sky.” His eyes find mine. “What do you want to hear? You were a dick. But it didn’t piss me off today. It fucking scared me.”
I shut my eyes. I pull him against me again, tuck my chin over his head. “I don’t get how you don’t hate me.”
“Now who’s lying?”
I suck air in through my nose. He kisses my throat. “I could never, ever hate you, McD.” His arm comes around me, his hand rubbing my back.
I feel the truth of his words. For whatever reason, Vance can’t wall me out. I don’t know if he’s not able to or if he chooses not to. But he’s open to me—open for me—all the time. Like a boxer with his hands down. So it’s up to me to take care of him. I have to be better now.
We kiss, so long and soft and slow, and then we’re twined together. I brush my lips over his cheek. “I know I should, but I can’t bring myself to send you home yet.”
Vance takes my hand and we shed our clothes and sink into the now-full tub, facing each other.
“I won’t go home.” He takes both of my hands underneath the water. “How long do we have now?”
I shut my eyes. “Seven and a half weeks.”
His hands squeeze mine. “Only seven?”
I watch his face as I tell him, “I’ve got a two and a half week trip to Japan starting about two weeks before your time here is officially up.”
His eyes shut for a moment. Then he’s looking at the water’s surface. His thumb traces the veins inside my wrist. “Fifty-something days.”
“It’s fifty-three.”
“Fifty-two after tonight.” His face is soft now. Careful.
“I won’t do what I did today again.”
His lips give a grim twitch, and he tilts his head a little. “What did you do today, Sky?”
I grip his hands. I’m not a talker. This is Vance, though—somehow he always manages to know me.
“Did you have a shit day?” He knows better than to look at me as he asks.