I Can't Make You Love Me
I wasn't going to write anything but I'd been listening to a sad song. It depressed me. I don't write romance because I'm not good at it. This is my best shot. If you want to read what is for me the definitive version of Steve pining for his Catherine, read chapter 16 of 'Kaikua'ana by praemonitus praemunitus.
I hope you enjoy this lame attempt anyway.
*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0* Hawaii 5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*
He sat at his father's desk and opened the drawer where the writing paper was kept. He still thought of this as his father's desk even though he'd been home now for five years. He wondered if he would ever think of this house and its contents as his own.
Over the years, several people had mentioned that he should do more to personalize this place and get rid of some of his dad's old stuff. For whatever reason, he still hadn't made much headway on that project. The clutter was still here even though some of it sat packed in boxes now. They were stacked next to the ones that held some of Cath's things. The old house, just like his life, was cluttered by history. Too cluttered to allow him to truly move on.
He knew he could have done this on his laptop but it just somehow wouldn't seem right. This needed that tactile sense; the neural connection that couldn't be achieved by tapping away at a keyboard. Rather than mere muscle memory, it requires the deliberate control it takes to move pen across paper.
The sun had set hours ago and the only light in the house, other than the bluish glow of moonlight through the window, was the amber pool glowing on the desktop. The lamp on the corner of the desk was one that had been in his dad's family for years. Its shade was made of small rectangles of colored glass he knew was called craftsman style. His dad had insisted on it despite Doris' objection. She liked more modern décor with cool clean lines while his dad opted for cluttered warmth. He'd no idea how telling those traits would prove to be.
Reaching for a pen kept in the cup with the missing handle he jostled the container that sat next to his elbow and some of its contents sloshed onto the desk. He quickly righted the amber bottle before it sent the whole thing cascading over the old blotter but a small puddle of lager sat fizzing in the middle of the scarred leather.
"Dammit." he muttered to the darkened room. He quickly removed his over-shirt and used it to sop up the foamy liquid. He was pretty sure it wasn't the first time the worn and stained surface had soaked up alcohol. His dad was known to occasionally imbibe in the hard stuff as well as beer.
Finished with the mop-up he draped the shirt over the back of the chair to dry. He'd throw it in the laundry tomorrow.
Back to his original plan, he drew out a few folded sheets of notepaper. He sat staring at the sheet on top. It was still blank. Taking a deep breath, he picked up the pen. His hand paused over the paper for a moment before he set down the writing instrument and reshuffled the small sheaf to the first page that had been written months ago.
Getting to this point usually took a lot longer. It usually took a couple weeks of brutal work with even more brutal outcomes and a few shots of Jack to get here. He was glad Danny had gone to Molokai to check out that lead and wouldn't be back until tomorrow afternoon. Danny knew something was up with him and the man was too tenacious to let it lay. Anyway, by tomorrow, the storm should be over . . . until the next time.
Teeth clamped on indrawn lips he began to read the neatly written page. His penmanship was usually pretty good but as he got closer to the bottom of the sheet he saw that the precise script had deteriorated to an only half-legible scrawl. There may or may not have been watery smudges as well. He snorted and muttered, "Pretty obvious frame of mind, huh."
Catherine,
I know I can't make you love me. If I could, maybe you'd be here beside me instead of halfway across the globe. There wouldn't be any need to write this because I would have told you in person.
I thought you did love me. You said you did.
Was it because I said it first and you didn't want to hurt my feelings? Is that why?
I guess I'll never send this letter. Even if I did send it, where would I send it to? I know you're out there somewhere trying to make the world a better place for at least one child. I know that but I guess I just can't get my head around the fact you chose to be there instead of here - with me.
Here, the letter had paused and had obviously been taken up at a later date. There were several such pauses in what he considered maudlin ramblings. The ink could be different, the strength of the penmanship a bit different; sometimes heavier or more precise or sloppier. Sometimes he'd only manage a line before deciding he couldn't bear to write any more and he'd shove it all back into the drawer and go off to drown himself in work or possibly something that came in a bottle.
It just hurts more than I ever thought it would but I understand. Really I do.
I know that you have a job to do and that you won't stop until you feel you've completed it. It's what I'd have done if I were in your place. It's what I'd done since before I'd known you.
It's what I continued to do throughout our relationship. I'd go off who-knows-where for who-knows-how-long expecting to find you again when I returned. I know that I took you for granted. I know I was overconfident - and maybe a dick.
You know I've always admired your strength. You were the only one I ever leaned on. The only one I could count on. Now, thank God, I'm told I have others though I'm still not completely sure. If you'd stayed, your burden would have been lighter I think. Now, neither of us will ever know.
Did I lean on you one too many times? Was that it? Did my fucked-up life and my fucked up way of going about the world drive you away? Did it? If that was the case I'm sorry. I'm so, so, sorry. I never meant for my baggage to weigh you down so much that you'd want to escape it.
I miss you.
He stopped reading here. His throat ached too much. Sighing, he reached next to him and brought the brown glass bottle to his lips; tilting his head back to drain the surviving lager. Delaying this mission for just a few more seconds he paused to set the empty into the wastebasket beside him.
Taking a deep breath, he once again plunged into his self-created abyss to read on.
I've always loved you even if it took me way too many years to tell you. I hope you somehow knew that anyway. You were always so good at figuring things out. You were the one who could make sense of things when I couldn't. I'm sorry I wasn't better at the communication stuff. I'm such a fuck-up sometimes.
It hurts so much that you're not here with me. It hurts that I gave you everything I've never allowed myself to give to anyone else in my life and it still wasn't enough. I don't want you to feel guilty. Well, maybe I do but that would be wrong wouldn't it? I just want you to understand - at least that's what I keep telling myself.
I know I can't make you love me.
He set down the pen and pushed his chair back as he ran his hands over his face. At least this time there were no tears to wipe away, just a bit of dampness clinging to his lashes. Damn.
Kono's wedding was in a couple of days. He still hadn't decided if he should ask Ellie to go with him. Maybe it would send the wrong message. He liked her . . . a lot. But Cath was always at the back of his mind when they were together. Ellie had a great sense of humor and made him laugh and there was no denying she was attractive. But he wasn't ready. He also didn't want to fuck-up a good friendship if things didn't work out. The woman couldn't possibly want to put up with his bullshit like Cath had.
Whenever he was in danger of going off the rails all Cath had to do was put her hand on his arm and look at him with those beautiful chocolate eyes and things would seem not so overpowering. He'd be almost instantly calmed. Maybe she finally got tired of that . . . of being his anchor in storms that were rough and brutal and far too frequent. How could he expect anyone to put up with that?
He angrily shoved the paper back into the drawer, turned off the lamp, and stood up a bit unsteadily. He knew alcohol wasn't the answer but neither was writing all this crap on a piece of paper no one would ever read. How pathetic.
Without any further wobbling he walked through the silent house; only the light of the moon providing illumination as he aimed for the deck overlooking the back yard.
He couldn't make her love him. That's all there was to it. It was time to knock off this deplorable drama and get on with his life. He knew that. Hell, everyone knew that.
He reached the back door and stepped outside into warm dampness stirred by a soft breeze. He could feel its movement over his skin but there was strangely no difference in temperature. It was as though his body and the air were one. Maybe it's what alcohol and lack of sleep did to you.
He felt as though he could spread his arms and just disperse into the vast night that stretched out before him. If only.
Leaning on the railing he looked toward where the moon painted a coruscated path across the water as waves broke across the sand. Without looking at his watch he knew it would be light in a couple of hours. This was usually his favorite time when all was still except for the ocean. At this moment, it only meant he had too much time to kill before he could get ready to go to work. He wasn't quite sober enough to swim yet. He wasn't that stupid.
It's cold there right now.
He hoped she was somewhere warm but he wondered if she was lying looking up at the night sky; if she was staring at the moon. Did she ever think of him? Did she ache like he does? Did she compose letters that would never be sent?
He shook his head and laughed softly . . . then whispered into the night, "I can't make you love me if you don't."
*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0* Hawaii 5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*
In case you haven't figured it out, the song that inspired this blubbery mess is "I Can't Make You Love Me" sung by Bonnie Rait.