Adore (On My Knees Duet 2)

That makes it harder to be done with him. Because I’ll never know he’s okay. But I can’t save him.

I think that’s the biggest shock from my time thinking things through in the tiny house. Since I met him—since that night we spent together my grandparents’ cabin—I wanted to help him. Sure, there’s fucking and attraction and love, even, but below all that, I think I really always thought that I could save him from his pain. All that time, I never could.

I roll out of Napa on a Wednesday morning feeling just a little more human. I’m still fucking pissed off. That he kissed her, mostly. More than anything, I can’t snuff out the jealousy. That wound gets ripped open when I get back to San Francisco, check into a hotel, and hear some girl talking in the breakfast line about “Pastor Luke” being “fuck goals.”

Mine.

Except he isn’t.

If he really wanted me, he’d find me. In the end, we’re at the church together three days before Luke, Pearl, and a few more leave for Tokyo. I don’t go outside into our port-a-room—not ever—and I never see him.

Then he’s gone, and it feels like the end.* * *I know I should feel freed. But I don’t. As the days pass, I find I feel…tangled. I finish the mural on a Friday. Monday, there’s a banquet for me—linner thing. I talk to a bunch of people who work at the church, and in the end, one of the elders of all fucking people talks me into doing a sort of open house for the piece. It’s not scheduled, but I’m told someone will call me. Maybe Pearl.

Pearl does call—on Tuesday. She tells me the church has me booked to stay in the townhouse for another week in case I want to see the city.

I tell her I don’t.

“How are you, Vance? I’m so sad I missed your finish.”

“I’m all right. How is Japan?”

“There’s a lot of good food here. And culture.” I think I can hear her smile as she says, “Missing Arman just a little. Maybe low-key sort of want to come home. Don’t tell, okay?”

“Promise.”

For a second, there’s some hesitation on the line. From her or me? A minute later, the call’s over. I look down at my phone’s screen. Somehow, it’s showing my textbox. Nothing new in there.

I check out of my hotel the next day with the intention of going back to Chelsea. That’s when I remember—Centaur.

Thinking of that gets me upset. I shed a few tears for the guy and tell myself that I’ll be less impulsive next time.

Next time what? I scoff to myself.

Next time someone breaks my heart, I answer.

San Francisco in May is cold and rainy. Still, I decide to stay a few days, just walking around and seeing stuff. Maybe if I spend a little more time, it won’t feel like such a bandage ripped off when I go.

I do MMA somewhere using a guest pass, and I find I’m crazy out of shape. I stay at this little mom and pop hotel. The gym I found is right around the corner. I go twice a day for two days, and the locals think I live here.

For the first time in a while, I wish I could call Mom.

More days pass. I stop going to the gym and enroll in an art class. That night, as I lie in my hotel bed, I force myself to admit there’s something wrong with me. I stand in the shower thinking. I tried not to think about him, but I couldn’t make a clean break from the calendar.

Luke’s been back in San Francisco for six days now. Six days without me. I wonder if he’s seeing her. I want to hope he’s seeing her. I used to tell myself that stupid lie—that I’d be happy if he was with someone.

I smile grimly as I dry myself off.

I hope he’s alone. If I can do it, he can.

Petty.

It’s not really even true. I look online for a sign that he’s back with her. Megan Mason is her name, and she seems like a perfectly fine person. If he was with her, that would be good. She could keep him from getting too lonely. In the end, that’s why I can’t go. It’s fucked up, but I’m a fuckup for him. I need to see if he’s okay.

You can’t change a tiger’s stripes. I’m still that guy. I want to be sure he has someone to sit with at school lunch. Realizing that makes me feel like I might cry.

“You’re the most emotional person I’ve ever met.”

I guess I really am. I wipe my face on the hotel’s towel. Not like I asked for it.

I dress in chucks, my black jeans, and a maroon hoodie with a Beatles shirt underneath. It’s a drizzly day out. I don’t have a car, so I call a rideshare and give directions to a street I think is near his.