Page 90 of Center of Gravity
I thought of my senior project again when the edges of the garage door blurred in my vision.
“I don’t know how the hell I can finish my project.”
I glanced over as Rob slid his hands from his pockets. He thumbed at his jaw, and looked over to the door.
“Maybe you will, maybe you won’t.” His shoulder hitched up in a shrug.
That surprised me. I’d expected him to say something along the lines of “you should” or “it’d be good for you,” some kind of pat supporting reply to what was mostly a rhetorical statement. I rolled my shoulder into the wall and faced him.
“But I think you will.”
I nodded. “Maybe so.”
He angled to face me, then. “You look pretty good in a suit.”
I gave him a wan smile and couldn’t think of anything to say. All those weeks I spent angsting over whether or not he was invested in me, how to get him to be and now here he was, clearly invested and I was the walking dead. I thought about how he’d come to me when I’d asked, how he’d let me stay with him, the days he’d taken off from his new job—that he’d told me about in detail, excitement written all over his expression—to be here for me. And then I thought of something else. Something that needled at me and wouldn’t leave me alone until I drew a breath and asked, “When I called the other night and you were out…” I studied his face, and saw it dim. “Were you with someone? Like on a date?”
He grimaced, one hand scraping over his forehead, smoothing his hair back. I could tell he was trying to think of what to say.
At last, he nodded and pushed off the wall. “I’ve been seeing someone. It’s nothing serious. But, yes. I was with him.”
“What’s his name?”
He gave me a pained expression. “Does it matter?”
I caught my lip between my teeth shook my head. I guessed it didn’t.
He reached out, catching me by the lapels of my coat and reeling me in until my chest was pressed flush against his. My arms circled him as if on delay and I buried my nose in the scent of him. So solid beneath my hands, so warm. His mouth touched my temple, then brushed across my cheek.
“I wish it had been me,” I said softly.
“Me too.” We both laughed again. It was brief and awkward, little shards of sound that couldn’t pierce the chilly air. His fingers closed around the nape of my neck, thumb tipping my chin so I’d look at him. “But Alex, it can—”
I shook my head roughly and peeled back, my throat starting to clog up as his features shifted from tenderness to concern. “Don’t. If you say what I think you’re going to say, I know what I’ll do. I’ll let myself collapse into you and I’ll let you try to make everything okay.”
“Is there something wrong with that?” His eyes were the same steady haven washed with concern. I buckled under the gaze and glanced away.
“No, I guess not, but…I’m afraid I’ll ruin it somehow. I don’t want to start right here. I don’t want this shitty day to be where we picked up just to make something—even justonething—feel better for me so I can ignore everything else. Because that’s what I do. I’m doing it right now, while I’m standing here talking to you and it’s taking everything in me not to tell you to take me back to your house and demand you fuck me senseless.”
His lips compressed into a thin line, then parted. And then he exhaled and nodded.
“I told you I’d do whatever you wanted. I meant that. If this is what you want…” His eyes searched mine.
“I don’t know if it’s what I want, but I think it’s what I need.”
He wanted to say more, I could see it in his face. He reached for my shoulder, gave it a light squeeze, and I knew he understood.
He stepped around me, opening the door and pausing against it to toss me a thin smile. “For the record, I struggle to see the problem with being fucked senseless.”
I chuckled and followed him inside.
Rob wasone of the last to leave. He wrapped casseroles and scooped salads into Tupperware—nine different versions that I knew we’d never get around to eating. He cleaned out the coffeemaker and went around the house blowing out the scented candles. He talked with my mother, helped Lainey load the dishwasher. On the doorstep, he pulled me in again and kissed my forehead, rubbing his thumbs over my cheekbones, and I almost went back on everything I’d said. I could go home with him, bury myself in the covers, bury myself in him. But maybe one day I’d wake up a month or two from now and realize that I’d just been drowning my sadness in him instead of confronting it. And I’d be starting all over again. So I drew a deep breath, nodded when he asked me to stay in touch, then I stepped back and closed the door.
I slept in the guestroom that night. The hospital bed had been returned, the double bed set up again. The sheets were clean and turned down as if my mom had known I’d want to be there. I rolled onto my side and reached out to the table to pick up one of the last miniatures my dad had been painting. I thought it was Sherman, but I wasn’t certain. I held it and thought of my father’s hand swallowing the paintbrush as he painted in minute strokes, his glasses sliding off the end of his nose, the way he’d tuck his lower lip in concentration. I felt his absence like an infinite, gaping chasm inside me that stole the air from the room and left me choked with sobs I buried into the pillow. It seemed as if nothing could ever fill in that kind of emptiness. And maybe that was just the way it was going to be.
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Rob