It's eight, but he's not here.
I hadn't realized how dependent I had become on the sound of his music until just now, stepping out into the near darkness without it.
My inside is hollow, my heart heavy.
Is this because of our conversation?
It shouldn't be, because that was two days ago. He came two nights after it and the routine continued as if nothing had happened, no words had been exchanged.
I find myself reaching for my phone, refreshing the messages in hope that he said something about why he isn't here.
But why would he?
Still — it's empty.
I tap open his old messages, and my fingers hover over the keyboard, but I don't know what to say.
What I would say?
I throw the phone down into my lap, slumping back into the chair. My eyes sting, but I blink back the tears.
There is no reason for me to act like a child who didn't get what they wanted. It may feel cruel, but he had no obligation to me. I was not paying him, I don't even know him, not really.
Not really.
But I do.
Not really—
Still, I wait.
I wait and wait until the sun is fully gone, but there is no sign of him. None of the lights are on in his place, and again I pick up my phone, wanting to ask where he is but—
It's none of your business.
It really isn't. His life is not intertwined with mine, I have no business in wanting to know where he is, what he is doing.
If he's leaving.
I don't remember ever seeing him before that night, nearly two weeks ago now. The apartment building he was in was full now (I checked) despite it being open three years ago when Meg and I were looking for places. It was a little out of our budget, so we had to pass it on.
He's at least been here as long as I have, but I know that I would have noticed him before.
He must be semi-new to the place, so why would he being leaving?
Why are you assuming the worst, Christine? People leave town all the time to… go places. Visit people. It's not like he's never coming back.
Never coming back.
The three words send a dull thud straight through my body.
What would I do… if he never came back?
I would go on living, but what… what about—
What about what? He's never done anything for you or you for him.
Then why do I feel so disappointed? Why does my heart suddenly ache and my stomach churn? Why does the thought of him leaving make me so—
"What are you doing out here again?" Raoul says. "It's getting colder and you're still not wearing a coat."
He laughs, and pulls me into a hug, but I don't have it in me to hug him back. To make up excuses.
"Hey, you doing all right?" He pulls away, brushing back a strand of my hair. "You haven't seen yourself lately."
"I'm fine."
Lies.
"I know I've been gone more, but…" He looks over my head, then back at my eyes. "I wanted to talk to you about something… about that."
"Sure, you want to go in?"
When he uses that tone… He's so soft. Gentle. Loving. So himself that I can almost forget what happened last weekend with him and how I told him—
I slide the door behind us, closing the curtains tight. Leading him out of the room, I do the same in the living room. He may not be home, but I'm not risking having anyone see anything this time.
Mysterious man or not.
He flicks a lamp on, walking over to me, picking up my hands. He leads me to the couch, sliding us down on the worn piece. He looks in my eyes, leaning forward to kiss me—
"You wanted to talk about something?"
His lips brush mine. "I wanted to kiss you first."
I yield slightly, but pull away when his press more firmly. "What did you want to talk about? It sounded pretty serious—"
"No, no, not really." He pulls away this time running a hand through his sandy-blond hair. He grins, looking at me. "I was thinking about what you were saying… last weekend. About what happens next."
I swear my heart stops beating, my body goes still. I didn't want it to happen here, I'd rather have it somewhere more romantic, as I've always pictured it, but…
Are you going to propose?
"Yes," I say slowly. "What about it?"
"Well." He stands, pacing the living room. He runs another nervous hand through his hair. I stifle the urge to tell him to stop, get on with it. "I have been thinking."
He stills his pacing, walking towards where I still sit on the couch. He goes down onto his knees, taking my hands in his. I swear to God my heart has never beat so wildly.
"My parents want me to move to New York. For work." He kisses both hands. "And I want you to come with me."
"W-what?"
"I want you. I want you to come with me, live with me. I've already got a place, it's beautiful and twice the size of this place. You could do whatever you wanted all day — there would be no reason for you to have to work, if you didn't want to."
I stare at him. "That's… it? That's what you wanted to say. Everything you wanted to say?"
He beams. "Yep, that's the most simple version, but I can go into details. It's just like I've been doing on the weekends, meetings and stuff I'd just live down there so I didn't have to keep driving all the time. The place is state of the art—"
"No."
"No what?"
"I can't…" I twist my hands out of his grip, standing up. I want to run, but I have to face this. Now. "I can't just… move."
"Why not baby? I moved for you," he says honestly. "You think I wanted to live in this tiny town after living in New York and Paris my whole life? It's boring as hell here. You don't even have a good bar—"
"I don't want to move. I can't move."
"Why not?"
Because I'll never see him again.
"Because I've worked for this Raoul, don't you get it? For nearly four years, I have worked my butt off and I'm proud of what I'm done."
"I'm proud of you too, but I don't understand what's so repelling about moving."
"No, no." I rush to him, hand on his chest. "It's not moving. You don't get it, do you? Of course you wouldn't get it."
"Get what?" his voice raises. "You're not telling me what I don't get."
"You don't get that I am proud of this place — small as it might be. That I like this town and my college because they are mine. Because I have worked so hard for everything I have that I just can't… give it up.
"You haven't worked for anything, Raoul," I continue. "You can't be as proud of your house or your job because it was just given to you. You didn't have to earn it with your sweat and blood and tears. And I need this. I need to continue, until I graduate and get a job to prove it."
"Prove it to who?"
"To myself, Raoul! To prove to myself that yes I can do this. Yes I can work hard and earn something. All my life I have had to work and I'm almost to a place where I can be sure of my success, and I'm not just going to give that up… to do nothing!"
"I thought you would like it, okay?" he fumes. "I thought you would want a break. You've worked so hard, you deserve a break! I don't care about school or apartments, you need a break. You need to live with me."
"Why, because my living here is inconveniencing you?" I want to punch him in the face. "Because you want me to stay at home all day so I can be your little sex doll when you come home from work?"
"No, because I love you, Christine!" He yanks on my shoulders. "I want to be with you. I want to always be with you."
"Then why haven't you proposed?" the words fly from my mouth before I can keep them in.
He stills, grip on my shoulders going slack. "Is this what this is about, then?" he say quietly.
As much as I want to say no, as much as I want to deny how utterly pathetic I'm being, all I can do is nod and blink back the tears.
"Chris, I'm not ready for that." His hands finally fall, brushing down my arms.
"But moving in with you is practically the same thing. It's only a legal document—"
"Christine, I love you but I don't want to get married. I can't get married. You know how my parents are—"
"Just because your parents went through a nasty divorce when you were twelve doesn't mean we'll go through that. I won't let us go through that."
"Then why can't we have this conversation without fighting?"
"I'm not fighting with you."
"Yes you are — you should be able to just be okay with it! There's nothing wrong with two people moving in with each other before they're married."
"And I agree, I just don't want it that way, Raoul." Don't cry. "I don't—"
"Don't love me enough, is that what it is?"
"There are not levels of love, Raoul!" I cry. "Once you love someone, you love them entirely. With your whole heart, Raoul, without doubting."
Then why can't I do this?
"Then why won't you move?"
"You don't understand," I say quietly.
"I do understand, you're just not being sensible."
"This is not what I meant when I said—"
"This is the next big step, Christine. You wanted the next big step — this is it. This is where we move on."
"Stop making this my fault… why are you trying to blame me for this?"
"Because you're not being sensible. You say you want one thing when you really want something entirely different."
"I want you."
"But do you?"
"What do you mean do I?"
"I mean exactly that — do you actually want me?"
"I—" Why am I hesitating. "Yes, Raoul. I do want you. I love you—"
"Then move in with me."
"No."
"Why?"
"I've told you why."
"That's not a good enough reason."
"You don't even have a reason, reason. And you're giving me no reason to want to live with you."
"I want you to live with me because I love you and I want to see you work less."
"You want me to work less so I can serve you." It's a low blow, but my mouth moves faster than my sense.
"Stop twisting my words, Christine." He sits down on the couch.
I notice the clock ticking in the background.
"I hate this, I hate that we fight like this," he says."
"Maybe it's good we're not moving in, maybe we need a break."
The makes his eyes look right up from the floor at me. "What the hell, Lotte? We're fine." He looks like he's about to punch something.
"We're obviously not fine. There is clearly some stuff we need to work out."
"Then let's work it out together, like we've always done," he says, voice rough. "We've worked through things before, why can't we work through this."
Because I don't want to work through this.
Because I love you but I think that we're done. I've thought that we've been done for awhile now.
Because you can't take no for an answer.
"We need a break."
"No we don't."
"I want a break."
"No you don't, you're just saying that because you are mad. You said it before, I'm not letting you say it again."
"Then there is probably a reason why I've said it before. Why it's coming up again. Because it is true."
"No."
"No?"
"I'm not letting you do this to me, Christine." His voice breaks, and a little part of my heart splinters with it. "You can't do this to me. I won't let you—"
"I have to, Raoul." This time, when the tears sting my eyes I can't hold them back. "I have things I need to sort out… in my head there is so much you don't know about."
"I'm your boyfriend, Christine. Why can't you tell me these things, why can't you let me bear the burden with you?"
Because you wouldn't understand.
Because there is only one person who I want to understand…
And it's not you.
"Raoul."
"Little Lotte—"
"Don't call me that, please." It hurts too much. Reminds me of too much.
"I see." His eyes flash for a second, knowingly. "What day is it?"
"Don't ask that question."
"I know it's hard, Christine—"
"Don't say anything about it, please—"
"But it will only get easier—"
"What do you know of grief—"
"Over time."
I stare at him, his face blurring through my tears. "It's only three days. Why did the worst and best things have to happen on the same day?"
He pulls me into a hug and I sob into his chest, unable to hold it back.
"Why did he have to die, Raoul? Why did he have to go to New York that day? He was acting so strange, all week. Like he wanted to tell me something. And he missed my audition. For whatever he was doing. And I yelled at him and told him to go to hell for not being there for me and he just left. And I never saw him again."
"It's not your fault, Christine—"
"It isn't but that doesn't mean I can't regret what happened! When I got there he was already dead. Dead, Raoul! And I had no one left, I had no one—"
"You had me. You have the Girys. And you still have us, we're not going anywhere."
"But you have to." My chest is caving in. "You have to leave me, you have to give me some time, Raoul."
"I'm not leaving you just because your grief is causing you to say things you don't mean!"
"But I mean this, Raoul," the words feel dark coming out of my mouth. "I need some time alone. I need a break. Give me a week, Raoul—"
"But our anniversary?"
"It's just a day, we'll celebrate it later."
"Your birthday?"
Our anniversary, my birthday, and my father's death all happened on the same cruel day.
And now this.
"I need time, Raoul. Time to sort through everything in my head."
"And you just want me to… leave?" his voice cracks.
"You've been fine with doing it before. You leave every weekend." Why are my words so cruel?
"Don't say that," his voice is panicked. "Take that back. Take everything that you've said this past hour and take it back."
But I can't. Because all of it is true and I'm done lying to make people feel better. I'm done lying and making myself feel like shit so that other people can feel good knowing I'm fine and they feel good.
"I'll call you. When I'm ready to talk again."
"You can't just do this—"
"Why don't you take no for an answer?" I blurt. "I'm saying no."
His eyes flash, and I want him — I want him to say something about what happened. About that monster he became, that side I never saw until that weekend. I beg him to say something, to admit that he did something wrong—
"Fine. But I'll fight for you Christine, I will fight and fight and fight until I have you back. I will fight every demon and monster who holds you mind captive and I will bring you back. You're not the same girl I met at the opera, and I want that Christine back."
"Death changes people."
"It shouldn't have changed you, so much."
"But it did."
We stand in the silence, clock ticking in the background. He stares at me, eyes damp. I'm sure I look like a hyena myself, but I can't stop myself as I pull him to me, kissing him. Kissing him like I'll never see him again—
Because I won't. I know deep down that I won't. That this is the last time that he is going to see me.
Because I can't let him be dragged down by my mind.
By my own monsters.
The door clicks open, and I pull away from him. Meg's smile drops when she looks between us.
"Everything all right?"
"Just… fine," Raoul barely grits out.
I want to kiss him again, I want him to hold me and comfort me, but I can't let him. I won't let him.
"I'll see you soon?" I say.
It's a lie.
"Yeah."
But he doesn't move. I give him a little shove.
"I love you."
"I love you too," I say.
It's a lie.
He moves, brushing past Meg. She looks at him with concern, then me with alarm. The door slams behind him and it's just Meg and I, and before I can explain anything she slaps me in the face.
"What the hell, Meg?" My hand flies to my stinging cheek.
I'm horrified when I see tears in her eyes, as if she's the one who has been hurt in this situation.
"You just dumped a perfectly decent guy," she screams. "You bitch."
"I didn't dump him, we're just taking a break—"
"We both know that is horseshit," she says, fuming. "You just broke his heart Christine, don't think you are ever getting it back."
Her words sting more than her slap, and I want to think of something to say, but I can't. I can't think of any words that will make what just happened any better.
She storms off to her room, throwing her purse on the couch. It hits with a thud and I cringe.
What the hell have I just done?
I find myself involuntarily glancing to the windows, where the curtains should be open. Where I should be able to see his windows, lights on. Him in the shadows, moving around. Doing whatever it is he does.
But I can't.
