Chapter 22

Six weeks.

Six weeks.

I kept telling myself it had been six weeks since I'd broken things off with Matti. Maybe if I reminded myself enough how long it had been since I'd seen him, since I'd kissed him, since I'd felt his touch, I'd snap out of the depressing mood I'd been in. For six weeks.

Six weeks had passed since we'd shared a meal, since we'd walked the dogs together, since we'd talked and reminisced and laughed about something no one else would understand. I missed our inside jokes.

Six weeks had dragged by since we'd shared his bed. Or mine. Since we'd fucked like animals. Or tenderly. Or just cuddled on the couch, watching a dumb movie to which neither of us paid full attention as we rubbed each other's feet or shoulders or caressed the backs of the other's hand with a pinky, anxious but relaxed, content and blissfully unaware of the stupid mistakes the other person was bound to make in the future.

I still wasn't sure why. Why did I tell him I didn't want to see him anymore? It was a lie. All I wanted to do was see him. But I couldn't. The possibility of more heartache, of boredom, of a mutual loss of interest, or simply falling into a pattern of unrequited romantic gestures as we slowly fell out of love with each other was too much to process, too much to worry about. It was easier to break it off before any of that happened, I told myself.

Only it wasn't. I still felt the heartache, ten times worse than I ever had in the past. The boredom was excruciating. Only I wasn't bored with our relationship; I was bored with the lack of one. I had lost interest. Not in Matti. In everything. Because Matti wasn't there to share it with me.

He tried to reach out for a couple of weeks after I broke it off with him. He texted five times and left three voicemails. There was desperation in his words at first, then confusion, then defeat. He didn't understand why I didn't want to be with him anymore since everything had been going so well. But that was just it. It had been going too well. It didn't make sense. Until that night, there hadn't been any perceived deceit, no jealousy, no unwarranted arguments or spiteful manipulation. He never lied to me, as far as I knew. He wouldn't. He was too honest, too good. I didn't know how to process such genuineness, such fidelity, such generosity.

Had I concocted the kiss in my mind to get out of some perceived danger? No, I couldn't have. I saw it. I know what I witnessed. I understood it and processed it. I tied it up in a little ball and kicked it around for a while. It sat on my chest, crushed my windpipe, suffocated me with its weight, shattered my heart. I couldn't deny that it had happened. I would only be doing myself a disservice.

I had taken to walking Maestro at odd times of day so we wouldn't run into Matti and Hugo while we were out. I prayed that he wouldn't come into the shop, made promises to a god I didn't believe in. I hoped he got the message that I didn't want to talk to him, to see him. Maestro was confused. He missed Hugo, missed Matti, and I felt like a child, an immature fool who couldn't face the mess he'd made of things. I guess it was stupid falling in love with someone who lived in my building. From now on, I'd only date guys from the suburbs.

What was I talking about? I couldn't even think about dating anyone again. Just look at what this relationship had done to me.

They had all ruined me: Neil and Kenny and Nate and all the other simple, flighty boys who turned me on, then immediately turned me off. But especially Nate. He lied and cheated and climbed ladders to nowhere. He manipulated me and disrespected me and implied that I wasn't good enough. Nate Monroe made me lose myself, made me expect the worst in everyone. He drove me to not believe in anyone's sincerity. How could I when I never saw any in him?

I hadn't spoken to my friends in weeks. They tried reaching out, but I ignored them. I couldn't handle the questions and the accusations and the insinuations that I'd done something wrong. I'd been doing things wrong my entire life, and I didn't want to hear it anymore, couldn't listen to the shoulda, coulda, wouldas from people who were supposed to have my back.

Alex was the worst, desperately pushing me to talk to Matti, pushing me in directions I didn't want to travel. He was relentless, one "IMPORTANT!" message after the next. It was as though he'd turned against me, sided with the guy who messed up, the guy who broke my heart. Maybe I should have given him a chance, but he was incessant, the calls and the texts frustrating, a nuisance I couldn't deal with. Eventually, he left me alone with my pain—with my guilt—but not before twisting the knife: "Have it your way. Call me when you find your mind, because you've clearly lost it."

Matti and I spent over four months getting to know each other, going out for dinners and drinks, planning surprise dates, taking long weekends. Our time together was amazing. We connected. His touch calmed me. His voice excited me. Our sex was perfect, even when it wasn't. I fell in love with Matti the day I met him, only I wouldn't let myself experience that love. I had already closed the cover of the book that would have given me hope, a possibility of real love with someone. I was dead inside. No better than my pops. And I had gotten so used to being a shell of a human being that the lack of feelings about anything—everything—had started to feel typical, even necessary.

The colors around me had become duller and the sounds less interesting. The leaves on the trees were tamped-down shades of green, and the vibrant blue sky looked gray to me. I didn't hear car horns or birds chirping or the lively chatter of coffee shop patrons as I waited on line for my morning brew. All of it was a dull roar. Food had become bland and greasy and ordinary. I was used to it.

But Matti changed that when we almost bumped into each other that day on Tenth Street. Everything got brighter. Louder. Clearer. Sugar became sweeter and spices more aromatic. Butterflies and ladybugs and fireflies littered the world around me, making everything look prettier and more alive. Flowers were purple and blue and yellow and pink again. Shrubs had become vibrant hues of green, and the trees were lush and full.

Maestro and Hugo had become friends immediately that day, and I suppose Matti and I did as well. That was it. Matti was my friend more than anything. I'd made an irreplaceable friend that I wanted to share everything with, and I lost him. I fucking gave him up because I didn't want to get hurt. But the hurt had been unbearable anyway. My gut had been ruthlessly and relentlessly punched. My lungs lacked oxygen, and my shoulders carried fifty-pound bags of flour everywhere I went.

My friends had abandoned me. I didn't make sense to them. They loved Matti. I loved Matti. I still did. I might as well have been speaking a foreign language when I talked to Vonnie at work: Turkish or Bulgarian or French.

French. God, I missed Matti's accent.

I walked around the neighborhood like a ghost, empty and cold, my head down, my eyes glued to the sidewalk. Buildings could crumble around me, and I wouldn't notice. I longed for a cigarette. Times like these always made me want one, days that were gray and cold and barren. A cigarette would calm me down, stimulate my nerves, make me feel something. On the off chance I ran into someone I knew, I said hello and went on my way, brushing off small talk. What would be the point? Who would I tell about it when I got home?

Work felt pointless. Deep down, I understood that it wasn't, that I still needed a paycheck regardless of what had transpired in my personal life, but it meant little. I went through the motions: doing inventory, handling payroll, ringing up customers, smiling with half my heart. I placed orders and stocked shelves and walked dogs, more so lately, just to get out of the shop and be alone, to not have to talk to anyone.

But being alone wasn't any better. My thoughts consumed me, thoughts of Matti and me sleeping in on a Sunday morning while the dogs waited at the foot of the bed for us to get up and take them to the park. On the way to the park, we'd stop for coffee and pastry—a croissant for Matti, a bagel for me. The dogs would share a croissant as well, raining crusty flakes all over the patio before staring up at us while we ate, drooling and begging. Those mornings were the best, hanging out and strolling through the park, sipping our drinks as the dogs sniffed around and explored. I rarely worried or thought about anything but what we were doing. I lived in the moment. We both did.

And now, it was cold. The leaves had turned and dried and fallen, soggy remnants covering the cold concrete after it rained last night. The soles of my shoes sloshed against them with each step, tearing them apart, tracking them down the sidewalk, a metaphor for my stupid broken heart. Sixty-five-degree fall days had quickly turned to forty. Forty-degree temperatures never seemed that bad in New York, but in Atlanta, they felt searing and bitter, frigid raindrops stabbing at my flesh like a thousand little pinpricks. It wouldn't snow. At least not until after the New Year. But it didn't matter. The lack of snow just made the winter feel that much colder, darker, bleaker. Or was it fall? I couldn't remember.

My hands had become dry and cracked. I'd have to remember to pick up lotion at the market. Matti liked to do the shopping, picking up random items we needed for our condos that we'd forgotten on our weekly grocery trips: bars of soap and candles and laundry detergent. He had brands that he preferred. I was mostly indifferent. Certainly, that was true now.

We missed the Pet Shop Boys show we'd bought tickets for. I would have loved to have seen them perform, to have enjoyed the show with Matti, but my radio silence—my sudden disappearance into the night—ruined any chance of that happening. Maybe he'd taken someone else. Maybe that guy I'd seen him kissing that night six weeks ago.

The holiday decorations along Spruce Street were going up, strands of lights wrapped around tree trunks and branches and strung from light pole to light pole. The botanical garden at the park had been festively adorned with intricate displays for their annual festival of lights. Apartment buildings and street-level businesses had raised lavish, elegantly decorated Christmas trees and ornate, oversized menorahs. Cheery holiday music replaced the pop songs and easy-listening standards that normally buzzed from the sound systems in elevators and stores and hotel lobbies. The shops were getting busier, and the faces of people I saw on the street seemed merrier.

Except mine. I would spend another Thanksgiving alone. And I was apparently determined to spend another Christmas alone as well, waking up in the morning to Maestro and coffee shops closed for the holiday. Maybe Calvin would come over, and we'd order Chinese food and get drunk on mimosas in our holiday pajamas. That would be fitting and just depressing enough to make me hate myself even more than I did now.

Over and over, I replayed my last conversation with Matti in my head. I couldn't shake it. It was intentional, and Matti didn't know it was coming. I'd had to plan out what I was going to say because I knew he'd fight me on it. I knew I would change my mind if Matti had the chance to speak his piece. He'd tried. I couldn't give him the opportunity to get it all out, mostly because I knew he knew better. He would convince me that I was confused. I was. He would convince me that I was overthinking things. I was. He would make me believe that we were the exception to the rule of broken lovers. Maybe we were. But I didn't believe that. I was too broken, too brittle, too fragile. I had been taped and glued back together by the shaky hands of a drunk. Any turbulence could have caused me to shatter. It was best to play it safe.

But was it? Was it really? Six weeks and I hadn't been able to get over him. Six weeks and nothing had changed. On the inside, I was wretched. Everything in me felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. I dragged my feet and hung my head. Half the time, my eyes were closed, unable to detect anything going on around me. I was that person who didn't pay attention, bumping into strangers and apologizing to no one after they'd moved on, cursing me under their breath.

Even Maestro was depressed, moping about on his walks as though he'd lost something important. I guess he had. This wasn't affecting just me. It was affecting everyone around me. I had to snap out of it. But how?

I couldn't even answer my own questions. Trying seemed pointless. Had Matti been anyone else, I would have been over it in a few days. A week, tops. But he wasn't. He was Matti. And I was slowly starting to realize that I wasn't ready to get over him. Maybe he'd done nothing wrong after all, nothing for me to be angry about or jealous of. Perhaps it had been a misunderstanding. Up to that point, he'd done nothing but love me and make me feel like the most important person in the world, the exact opposite of what Nate had done. But I had to shit all over it. All because I was scared: scared of the truth, scared of being loved, afraid of being hurt.

I was sick of moping around. Everyone I knew was sick of me moping around. Vonnie had called me out about it, even though she knew I was in no place to hear it. I knew she was right, but I felt stuck. We'd been quiet around each other at work ever since then. We'd get over it. We always did. It just had to play itself out. But I was actively keeping that from happening, and I had no idea how to fix it.

I needed a drink. I needed a night out like Alex and Calvin and I used to have at Avenue. I needed to forget about my whole fucking life for just one night. Only there was no Avenue. It had closed years ago. And there was no longer an all-night, anything-with-anyone-goes place full of debauchery where the music was good and loud and had the ability to drown out all the bad thoughts someone might have running through their brain. The drugs weren't the same. The vibe of the city was different. But I had to try. I had to do something. Anything.

Alex was called. He ignored it, or maybe he was busy. He'd been finishing up that hotel project. But he called me back. I apologized to him. We hashed out our issues the best we could. He was guarded but happy I called. He didn't mention Matti.

A text message was sent to Calvin, one that might go ignored, considering my behavior over the past few weeks, but he agreed to meet immediately. He'd never been one to get lost in his emotions or wrapped up in grudges. I added Alex to the message so we could figure out what to do and how to get over this hump, how to celebrate us and our friendship, our bond. The fact that we were still alive, if a bit older and busier than we used to be.

"You need to dance," Alex suggested.

"I need to drink," I responded.

"You might just need to have sex. That always helps me out of a funk," Calvin typed, an attempt to lighten the mood.

"What about XO?"

"Too obnoxious."

"Emporium?"

"Too velvet rope."

"Handlebar?"

"I don't feel like sticking to the floor."

"I just looked," Alex chimed in. "Danny's at the Basement."

"Perfect," I typed. Danny was rarely in Atlanta, a New York City DJ at heart. It would be just like old times, only without the drugs and that lovely sense of consequence-free indulgence that came with being in one's twenties.

"I could get us some Molly," Calvin interjected, a laughing emoji to follow.

"Fuck you," I replied. "I'm too old. Meet at my place at ten?"

By eleven o'clock, Alex, Calvin, and Patrick—the trooper he was—were two drinks in and headed out the front door of Stratus to catch an Uber to Cedarwood Avenue, an after-dark strip in an otherwise sleepy neighborhood on the city's east side. Cedarwood looked abandoned during the day: doors locked, gates closed, tumbleweeds blowing across the street. But once the clock struck ten, lights flashed and bass thumped from the interiors of most buildings on that four-block stretch of the Old Fourth Ward. We probably would have hung out there more often, but it had become overrun with hipsters. As we aged, we stuck out like sore thumbs.

At least the Basement would be dark. And loud.

Two more drinks and an hour of dancing later, the four of us retired to the bar to cool off. We grabbed water and made our best attempt to rehydrate. Patrick was getting tired—we all were—but he tried not to show it. I just couldn't face going home yet. Not to that empty condo. Maestro was probably fast asleep on the couch or keeping the bed warm for me, but he couldn't replace the feeling of Matti sleeping next to me—his warmth, his arm draped over my chest, needing to touch me, me needing him to touch me.

And just like that, the thoughts were back. For a couple of hours, I was able to forget, but the minute we left the dance floor, I was back in the same headspace, missing him, feeling sorry for myself over something that may have been a misunderstanding.

"You gotta snap outta this, B," Alex shouted over the music. "You're bringing us all down."

"What am I supposed to do?" I snapped back, commanding the attention of the group.

"I love you, B. But that's on you to figure out. Have you even talked to him?"

"To say what? He's not even calling anymore. He's not texting me."

"You can't expect him to chase you forever."

"I don't," I continued, unsure of myself. Maybe I did expect that. Maybe not. Everything was a blur in my mind. "It just feels like the door is closed now. It's too late. It's been too long. And he wouldn't understand anyway."

"You love him, don't you?"

"Of course I do."

"Then you have to trust him. You have to trust him with your heart and your soul and your fucking truth."

"He won't get it."

"Don't be so sure," Alex responded. He knew something. We stared into each other's eyes. "He knows about Nate."

"What? How?" I asked, but Calvin chimed in, demanding my attention.

"We love you, dude. And we're here. All of us." He motioned to my group of friends. My best friends. "If Matti loves you like I know he does, he'll understand."

Patrick threw his arm over Alex's shoulder as they looked at me, Calvin twisting the plastic water bottle with both hands, crumpling it, Alex giving me that knowing look that he'd perfected over our eighteen years of friendship.

"Shit," I resigned, shaking my head in defeat. "What have I done?"

"You fucked up," Alex insisted. "But you can fix it."

I looked at my friends. They cracked smiles as they watched me come alive again, reborn in my quest for love. My shoulders pulled back, I stood strong, my eyes finally focused. I could see things again, exactly as they were. I could see my friends, my life, my past as my past and my future exactly as that… my future—a clean slate, free from the bad relationships with my pops and exes and all the stupid baggage I had been carrying around for years and years and fucking years. I could see Matti as my partner and my friend. I could suddenly see him for who he was. Not someone that was intent on hurting me—even though he had done that and might accidentally do it again—but as someone who loved me and wanted me around and would try his best not to hurt me. I was sure of that. He would help me and shelter me and be there for me when I had a bad day. And I would do the same for him. I wanted to.

I needed to.

"There he is!" Calvin shouted with a smile before ordering a round of tequila shots for us. I'd regret it in the morning, but I was going to need all the courage I could get. We threw back our shots, and I slammed my glass down on the bar with more force than I anticipated, the sound commanding the bartender's attention.

"Sorry," I announced before ordering us another round. Again, I threw mine back and suddenly felt more like myself than I had in weeks. I had to do something. Now.

I turned to face my friends again. They were intently watching me figure out my life between slugs. "I gotta go."

"Go," Alex agreed, a knowing twinkle in his eye.

But I stopped to think about what I was doing. "Is it too late? Should I wait till tomorrow?"

"Go!" they all shouted as if they wanted to wring my neck for second-guessing myself.

I laughed and went, almost running as I spilled onto Cedarwood Avenue into mobs of people and traffic backed up in either direction. My friends were probably talking shit about me back at the bar or simply gathering their belongings to head home, figuring their jobs were done. What did I care? I had to find Matti.

Pushing my way through the crowds and across the avenue, I practically ran to Granger Street. Traffic would be lighter, and ordering a car to take me back to Stratus would be easier. I could have tripped. The street was dark, the lights burned out, the sidewalk littered with loose gravel and garbage. My determination kept me focused though. Within minutes, my ride picked me up and carried me back to my building. To our building. Matti's and mine. The trip seemed to take an hour, but only ten minutes had passed when we hit traffic on Grove, blocks' worth of cars full of people going out clogging the street.

I couldn't stand the wait, so I jumped from the car and ran the four blocks to Stratus, pushing through the back doors, sweating and clumsy in my moderate state of inebriation. A crisis was averted as the concierge agreed to let me up in the North Tower without question. A quick elevator ride to floor thirteen helped me calm down—not much, but enough to hopefully form a coherent sentence through labored breathing.

I didn't know what to expect as I stood in front of Matti's door, not knowing whether or not he was home, whether he was alone, whether he even wanted to see me. I hoped to get the truth about that night at the Back Door. I hoped to give Matti the truth about why I left, why I never gave him a chance to explain. It was almost one o'clock. My palms were sweating, and my heart pounded out of my chest. I could feel it in my eardrums. I was so nervous. Could I even do this?

I had to. I had to try.

I felt my fingers rap against Matti's door before I knew what I was doing. It wasn't aggressive, but the sensation radiated in my knuckles, heat and dull pain traversing through my fingers. The waiting was torture. What was I going to say? My chest tightened as I lingered. It was like being on hold, never knowing when the person on the other end was going to pick up or if they ever would. I could have thrown up. And then, the door pulled open slowly, an uncertainty behind its swivel.