Balance. Is that what it was, how it was? Was kissing a bi-polar cocaine addict who'd never ever chosen me being in balance? I remembered that time at the wedding gig, the shiny metal kitchen things all around us, and he'd given me the friend speech. A speech I'd heard before, from him and a thousand others. 'You're my friend, my really really good friend,' and I'd cringe because I didn't want to be the friend. I wanted to be something more.
Still kissing him, his kiss soft and insistent and I somehow never wanted it to end. Damn Jesse and his skewed view, damn Marco and his disapproving looks, damn Ashley and her cautionary tales , damn Manny for knowing more for once.
He pulled away, looked down at me with a sweet neediness. So that's what it was. He was vulnerable and I was playing on that, sucking it like a vampire in a trashy novel, like a journalist chasing an ambulance. Desperate. Desperate described this better than balance.
"Craig, listen, I'm not sure I should have come," He listened, kept looking at me and I felt ashamed of myself for focusing so much on me, making my needs paramount when he was dealing with things, with issues that would, that were taking up time. He didn't say anything and what could he say? At the airport he told me he meant what he said, but which part?
I moved away from him, shook my head. What did I want from this? Why couldn't I know my own motivations better? I'd wanted him, Ashley and Manny's sloppy seconds but I didn't care. That whole summer we hung out I tricked myself into believing he liked me, too.
I had a long drive ahead and it was getting late. There were classes and The Core and Jesse and I just picked up and left like some impulsive…kid. That's how I was acting, like a kid who would do anything to get what she wanted.
He sat on the bed, patient. I guess he wasn't going anywhere. I shook my head again, like I was trying to erase the thing I'd just said.
"So, how has it been here?" I said, sitting next to him. I felt myself slipping into the mode of that summer we hung out, friends who could talk about things that bothered us or things that were happening.
"Okay, I guess," he said, his voice soft, eyes down. We were damaged, we'd broken something, maybe. I didn't push it, if he didn't want to tell me real things than that was okay. It had to be.
"Good," I said, my tone matching his. He was still so beautiful, despite the slight emaciation, the hollow eyes, the addict's aura. So beautiful, wounded eyes, hurting everyone he ever got close to. God was that seductive.
"How's college?" he said, and I just couldn't believe we were making small talk. I hated small talk. But we were in a small talk place. Hurt beyond words, I guess.
"Oh, you know, it's good. A little stressful at times but mostly…good,"
I wanted to snap my rubber band but I didn't want him to see, didn't want him to have reminders that I was fucked up, too. Let him be the fucked up one for once. He could carry that burden. I was sick of it. So I chewed the inside of my cheek instead.
A little knock at his door and he looked up almost guilty, like I shouldn't be in here or something. I scanned the room for an escape route. A nurse brought him a pill and a plastic cup filled with water and he took it dutifully and she left. I just stared at him, wide-eyed. That must have been the bi-polar pill, pills he probably wasn't taking in Vancouver.
"Okay, well, I guess I'm gonna go," I said, and stood up to show that I meant it. He stood up, too.
"Thanks for coming," he said, his voice still so soft and I remembered this book I had read once called Ordinary People and in that book a character had tried to commit suicide and when his family visited him in the hospital he would always say that, 'thanks for coming'.
"You're welcome," I stepped toward him and hugged him, squeezing him like maybe I'd never let go.