The Darker Side

I regret these words the moment they come out. This man, this wonderful man, has just said that he loves me, and that's the best I can do?

'Oh, for fuck's sake, Tommy. I'm sorry. That was lame as lame can be.'

He amazes me by smiling.

'Relax. I'm smart enough to understand that you need some time to process this. I'm not insecure enough to need an answer right away. I just had to tell you, had to cross that bridge and burn it behind me. It was time.'

I look at him and take care to choose the words I'll say next, because I know what I say next is very, very important. I opt in the end for good old-fashioned bare naked honesty. I grab his hands in mine. I want the contact.

'I do need time. I wish I didn't, but I do. That doesn't mean I'm saying I don't feel the same way. It just means . . .' I search for the words that fit what I'm feeling. 'I'm scared.'

He brings my hands up to his mouth. He gives each one a soft kiss, two benedictions. His eyes are full of a gentle compassion that I've never really seen in him before. I have seen kind Tommy, angry Tommy, thoughtful Tommy, deadly Tommy. This is a new Tommy; understanding and empathy without the sometimes saccharine falseness of sympathy. Ahh, I realize, this is loving Tommy.

'You loved one man, Smoky. You met Matt when you were both still teenagers, and you knew he was the one. You never doubted it, you never wondered about it, you never longed for something else. You lost him because of a tragedy, not by choice. It makes sense that this would knock you for a loop. I can understand you not having an answer right now. I just need you to think about it and figure out what the answer is.'

The words, their compassion, their complete lack of agenda, are a punch to the gut. They squeeze the breath out of me. A lone tear rolls down the unscarred side of my face. Tommy reaches out a thumb and wipes it away as gently as he can.

'Don't cry, baby.'

He's never called me that before, baby, never used such a personal term of endearment, and it undoes me for reasons I can't quite grasp. I have no idea why. I move into his arms and bawl my eyes out against his chest. It's not a bad grief, there's no despair in it. It's a thunderstorm that's rolled in, clouds that have to cry. I pound against his rocks for a few moments, he takes it, the tears eventually stop and turn into sniffles, he is quiet and strokes my hair. It occurs to me that I could stay right here forever, if this moment was all he wanted from me.

But there's the rub. He doesn't just want this, he wants everything. I pull away from him, and wipe my cheeks with the palms of my hands.

'Where does that leave us in the meantime?' My voice is husky from the tears.

His eyes are a little bit sad. 'We need to spend some time apart. You need to process this and I need to not sleep with you until you do.'

'What? Why?'

It's the question of a child. The truth is, I know why.

'I can't sleep with a woman after I've told her that I love her until I know she feels the same way. It's not a punishment or an ultimatum, Smoky. I just can't be with someone who feels less for me than I feel for her.'

I stare at him for a long time and then I sigh. 'Yeah. I couldn't be with you either, if the shoe was on the other foot.'

He leans forward and he takes my face in his hands. They are strong hands, rough hands, soft in places, callused in others. He brings his lips to mine and the kiss is perfection. Deep, passionate, Casablanca all the way. It leaves me breathless and teary-eyed again. He stands up.

'You know where to find me.'

'Hey, Tommy,' I call after him as he walks toward the door. 'That integrity thing? You're right, it's a real pisser.'

No reply.

'Tommy?'

He stops, turns his head to look at me.

'Yeah?'

I manage a smile.

'I still think it's a good quality.'

He returns the smile, tips an imaginary hat with his fingers, and then he's gone.

I am left alone again with all my contrasts. They're like bats that chuckle as they tangle in my hair. I pull my knees up to my chin and wrap my arms around my shins. I rock back and forth.

'Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.' The tears are coming again, hot galloping horses behind my eyes. And me without any ice cream.

Hey, that inner voice says, a little sly. You still got some Jose Cuervo hidden away in the upper kitchen cabinet. I ignore myself and stick with my most faithful friend: the good cry. AMA--After Matt and Alexa--I've spent a lot of time with my good buddy grief. We hang out together for a few minutes, a worthy jag, and then I send him on his way.

I lean back on the couch and stare at the ceiling while I sniffle. I feel drained and miserable.

What is your problem, anyway? Tommy's a good man. No, scratch that--Tommy is a great man. He's honest, he's loyal, he's sexy as hell, he loves you. Like you have so many other choices?

But it's not about Tommy, I know this. It's not about the present. It's about the past.

Sure, there was a time when the idea of being with another man felt like a betrayal of Matt. Matt's ghost used to be everywhere; here in the living room, standing in the kitchen, lying in bed next to me. But Matt's just a lovely memory now, not a phantom.

Besides, I know Matt would want me to be happy again. So? Then what?

Well, there is Bonnie . . .

I shake my head.

No. Don't you put it on her.

One of the last holdouts of Bonnie's childhood is her penchant for Saturday morning cartoons. She never misses them and when Tommy is here, he gets up and they watch them together. I don't share their love of early mornings, but I have stumbled down the stairs toward the coffeepot on a number of occasions to find them laughing together as horrible things happen to Wile E. Coyote. I don't know if I would call it a father/daughter bond that they have, not yet, but Bonnie cares for Tommy, and she knows that he cares for her.

The truth is, I realize, I can't pin this terror on anyone but myself. So why?

A word bubbles up from the darker parts of me, like brimstone from a crack in the earth.

Punishment.

I turn the word over in the mouth of my mind, tasting its bitterness and wondering at the slight hint of terror it seems to bring. Punishment? For what?

You know what. For that unforgivable thing you did after Matt and Alexa died. That thing that no one knows about, not even Callie. I clap my hands together. The sound is startling in this quiet house. A rifle crack. I do it again. Crack!

We're not thinking about that right now! Not now, maybe not ever. NO way.

Inner me pauses. I sense sadness now, not slyness. Well, fine. But it's why you're afraid to love him: you don't think you have the right to love anybody.

I have no reply to this; none is needed. Truth tends to get the last word.

I stand up and head for the kitchen. I need a distraction, now now now. Jose Cuervo will do just fine, thank you.

I grab the bottle from its hiding place in the upper cabinet and I pour myself a shot. I lift the glass in an angry toast.

'To the truth that the truth doesn't always set you free.'

The tequila goes down like the paint stripper that it is. The heat blossoms in my belly and brings a rush of focus and contentment with it. I put the bottle back and clean the shotglass, making sure to leave no trace of this little secret. I'm too disciplined to be a drunk, but I only drink tequila in such moments of weakness. This never fails to deliver a prick of shame and a need to conceal. The bitterness, that jittery taste of terror and dismay, has not been so much expunged as blurred. Its sharp edges are now covered in foam rubber and that'll work for now.