Page 45 of Hamartia

“Is this about Camille? Have you had a fight?”

“No, not really. I’ve just…been dealing with some stuff.”Cheating on her.“It’s my fault. All of it. She hasn’t done anything wrong. Fuck, she shouldn’t have called you.”

“She was worried about you, and now I understand why. You’re not making a lot of sense right now, Raphael.”

“I know.”

“But, if you tell me you’re okay, that you’re not thinking of hurting yourself or—.”

“Mom, fuck, of course, I’m not!” I almost yell. “I’m okay. I promise you don’t need to worry about that. It’s nothing like that.”

“Okay…then that’s okay.” She sounds relieved. “Do you want to talk? I’m here for you, always baby, you know that.”

“I know, mom. I know you are. And yeah, I do. But not right now, yeah? I’m still trying to figure shit out in my head first. Make sense of it all.”

I hear her let out a soft sound. “You and Camille are gonna sort this though, right?”

I can’t tell entirely how she feels about that, but there’s a definite sadness there.

“Honestly, I’m not sure, mom.”

She makes a soft sound. “Oh, baby I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Me too…”

I try to imagine what her reaction might be if I were to tell her how I feel about Jae and a rush of anxiety floods my chest and prickles over my scalp. I’m not there yet. Not even close. How can I talk to my mom about something I don’t even understand myself? I ignore the part of me that says maybe talking to my mom willhelpme understand it. I ignore it because that part of me thinks that once I say it out loud to my mom, she’ll know exactly what it is and I’m not fucking ready to hear it. Not yet.

“I can’t wait to see you. I’ll pick you up at the airport, okay? Just let me know what time and I’ll be there.”

Colorado. Thanksgiving.

Suddenly, I can’t fucking wait to go home and see my mom.

I’m sitting in the Shake Shack when I get his message. I see his name first and I’m fully expecting it to be him cancelling our plan for later, but it’s not. It’s a six-digit code: 140312.

That’s all it is. A text message with six numbers on it.

I drop my burger onto the paper wrapper and scrape a hand over my mouth as I think about a response. I want to encourage him to respond, but at the same time I’ve done nothing but beg and plead this guy for shit and I want to play it somewhat cool here.

Me: I’ll be there. Good luck tonight, dude.

I watch it deliver, then turn to read, and then nothing. No three blinking dots to tell me he’s replying. Fucking nothing. Cold. The guy is fucking cold. It turns me on even more somehow.

I laugh to myself as I pick up my burger, gazing out the window and thinking about how much I like New York. I haven’t been recognized once. Not in the clothes store or the record store, not on the subway, and not as I ordered a burger, cheese-smothered fries, and a beer. I love LA. Denver too. But NY has always had a buzz I’ve never found anywhere else. Berlin had something similar. A vibe that said the people here were cool but indifferent to fame and celebrity. I want to live here at some point. Then Paris. London too maybe—but then I remember the rain and push that idea away again.

I take a picture of my half-eaten burger and fries and upload it to IG, then I think better of it because if Camille sees it, she’ll know I’m out eating junk food and not contemplating our entire relationship.

I’ve finished eating and am sipping my beer when the message comes in. I almost ignore it because I’m honestly not expecting a response from him now. But I flick to my notifications to see his name.

JH: You are very American sometimes :) Thank you, I will do my best!

I reply with something which feels clever in the moment but I’m sure isn’t.

Me: I’m very American all the time. I’m American. Is there something else you’d rather I was?

This time he reads it and replies immediately.

JH: Korean?