Page 31 of Wham Line (The Last Picks #10)

I nodded. But I said, “A lot of people break up after deaths. They get divorced.” I wanted not to sound like my nose was full of snot when I said, “He called West.” I tried to sit up and clear my throat.

“I know I should be glad he talked to someone. I want Bobby to talk to someone. I mean, he’s such an amazing person.

He cares so much about—about everything.

And he sets this impossibly high standard for himself that he can fix anything, that he can make it all better.

Watching him these last few days, knowing that he was in pain and couldn’t tell anyone about it, seeing him with his dad and his brother and wanting to—to scream, Indira.

” A laugh broke out of me. “I wanted to start banging on pots and pans or hire a marching band or anything so that the house wouldn’t be so quiet.

So someone would have to say something .

So, yes, if I were a better person, if I weren’t so selfish, I’d be saying, ‘God, I’m so happy Bobby finally was able to talk to someone,’ because I love him, and I want what’s best for him.

But I’m not. I keep hearing him in my head.

How he sounded. And I’m so mad . And I know I’m mad because I’m hurt, but I can’t help it; all I do is get angrier and angrier. ”

“Why does it hurt so much?”

“Uh, never mind. Let’s strike all that from the record and go back to the part where I was the bigger person and said I was happy Bobby had someone to talk to.”

She didn’t say anything. But she did watch me in that way moms sometimes do, like her eyes could burn a hole in my head if it came to that.

“I don’t know,” I said. I did some squirming.

“It’s embarrassing, Indira.” I did some more squirming.

But she didn’t look away, and slowly, the force of that gaze pulled the words out of me.

“There’s this part of me that feels…betrayed, I guess.

I know that’s ridiculous. I wouldn’t feel this way if Bobby went to a therapist. Heck, or even if it was another friend, not someone he dated.

Or maybe I would; I don’t know. And what I said earlier—I’ve tried so hard to be a good boyfriend over the last few days.

I’ve checked in, but not too much. I’ve given him space, but I’ve let him know I’m available to talk whenever he wants.

I’ve tried communicating through Bobby talk, which means touching and being together and not forcing him to put things into words.

I’ve tried to take on every task I possibly can because I know he’s overwhelmed and doesn’t have the headspace for stuff like that.

And I just want—” I stopped because I felt the next words coming and they were a surprise, something I hadn’t managed to say even to myself yet.

“I just want him to tell me I’m a good boyfriend. ”

It didn’t sound great .

In fact, it sounded downright crazy.

But there was also this sudden, dizzying relief that I’d been able to frame it in words finally.

And Indira, bless her heart, only nodded, as though this weren’t going to make the list for the top ten craziest moments ever.

“I don’t know if this will help,” she said, “but do you know what my mother told me once? She didn’t want me to marry Mal.

She thought he was wrong for me. As it turns out, she was right, but for the wrong reasons.

Or maybe not. She might have seen something in him that I couldn’t.

I don’t know. But she told me that you shouldn’t marry a man—or a woman, I might add—until you’ve seen them sick or poor or grieving.

At the time, it sounded so silly. Old-fashioned.

And Mal was never sick. He certainly wasn’t poor.

And when you’re young, grief seems like something for other people.

I’ve thought about that a lot, though, since.

I still don’t know if my mother’s advice is necessarily true, but I do think that there’s some truth to it.

Pain cleaves us all to the bone; it makes it impossible to hide who we really are. ”

“Meaning what? Bobby doesn’t love me? I’m not a good boyfriend?”

Indira let out an exasperated breath. “Don’t be ridiculous.

I’m saying this is your chance to see the kind of man Bobby is when his world falls apart.

And I’d add that he’s doing the best he can.

So are you, Dash. You’re a wonderful person.

But have you considered the fact that, right now, Bobby can’t give you what you want?

I’m not saying forever. But in this moment, when he’s hurting so badly, he simply can’t respond to you the way you’d like.

He’s in so much pain, Dash, and it’s so disorienting, so isolating. ”

“I know. I know.” I even nodded, but the rest of it came rushing out. “But he talked to West.”

“He talked to West, Dash, because West isn’t you.

Because he’s not dating West. He’s not emotionally involved with West. You’re trying so hard to be a good boyfriend.

Did you consider that Bobby might be trying to do that too?

His dad. His brother. What do you think it means for Bobby to be a good boyfriend? What do you think it means for him ?”

I opened my mouth, but for once, nothing came out. (Probably to Indira’s relief.)

What did Bobby think it meant for him to be a good boyfriend?

Some of the answers were obvious; I could have listed them in my sleep.

It meant being responsible. Taking care of me.

Being attentive and present and kind and patient.

But it meant more than that. How had he put it today, when he’d sounded so unhinged about my rejection emails—fixing things?

That had been one of the first things I’d learned about Bobby.

He genuinely believed if he worked hard enough, if he tried long enough, he could fix anything.

It was why he’d stayed so long with West. I was tempted to beat myself up about that, to wonder if that was what was happening with me.

But Indira was still watching me with that look that brooked no self-pity, and so I forced myself to keep thinking.

I thought about the men in Bobby’s life.

How he’d grown up. The silence in that suburban home.

I’d known Bobby was—to put it politely—stoic.

(To put it less politely: he wasn’t great at communicating.) But I’d assumed that was a personality trait, that it was the way he’d been born.

What if it wasn’t?

What if, instead, that was what Bobby had been taught?

That this was what it meant to be a man?

That this was what it meant to be a partner and a husband?

To keep your troubles to yourself, to always be the strong one, to never show weakness?

And when you couldn’t show weakness to the person you loved the most in the world, what were you supposed to do? Who did you turn to?

When Bobby and West had been dating, I’d felt—I’m embarrassed to admit it now—special that Bobby had been able to talk to me when it had been so difficult for him to talk to West. And I knew that something had changed in my relationship with Bobby once we’d moved past just friends .

The ease he’d seemed to find in talking to me had disappeared.

I’d believed—or let myself believe—it was simply the consequence of deeper emotions.

But what if Bobby didn’t think he was allowed to share those things with me?

What if for Bobby, sharing those things with his boyfriend meant more than the risk we all took in making ourselves vulnerable?

What if, at some level that maybe wasn’t even conscious, he actually thought it made him a bad partner?

I said a few words you can’t say in couple’s therapy. (Okay, I actually think you can say them.)

“I know, dear,” Indira said. “But you were going to get there eventually; I just helped things along.”

I wasn’t sure about that, but I appreciated the vote of confidence. “What am I supposed to do?”

“You’re not supposed to do anything. Nobody likes to hear that.

We all want to know what to do. We all want to know how we can help.

But we can’t help, not really. Everyone’s grief is their own, and we can’t touch it, we can’t reach it, we can’t make it go away.

All we can do is be there, be ready, when the person we love comes back.

” Her voice softened. “And he will come back, Dash.”

I nodded. I didn’t say what she knew, and what she knew I knew: that not everyone came back, and they didn’t always come back the same.

Indira herself was proof of that. I also managed not to say the other thing I was thinking: that this was exactly the kind of terrible advice I’d gotten off the internet.

I wanted more than that. I wanted some secret key.

I wanted some way past or through or around it.

“You want to understand it,” Indira said, as though reading my thoughts.

“But it’s not something you can understand.

Nobody understands it. You want to know how to make it better, but nobody can do that either.

You want a perfect script of what to say and do, but those don’t exist. That’s what every culture and religion has tried to give people, and they all fall short. ”

I rubbed my eyes. “It doesn’t seem particularly fair.”