Day eight
Raphael had the ingenious idea of ordering pizza at 10pm. Greasy, thick crust, cheese pizza that we devoured seconds after he dropped the box open on his living room couch.
The tomato sauce, or grease, or both, left a slight glistening sheen on his lips. Tinted it a shade between pink and red that made them appear larger in size.
Unable to resist, I leaned in and tasted his lips. Felt him freeze at the unexpected gesture, but continued to swipe my tongue against his lips.
Our eyes met for a moment before Raphael looked away. Shyly, if he was anyone else, but on Raphael it was only meant to keep me away. And I was slowly beginning to find more of that look on his face. Wanting to know how to erase it. Wanted to hold him gently by his jaw and steer his face towards me. Learn more about the lines that creased his brows and the alternating shades of his blue eyes.
"It's been a week," he said, jarring me away from my train of thoughts.
I didn't pretend to feign ignorance. I had thought about it. Of that promise I made to myself a week ago, stupidly indulging Raphael into the equation. Stupidly trying to push all thoughts of it away for later.
For now. For when he brought it up because otherwise I would have been all right with erasing all traces of it from my mind.
So I said, "I know."
He ran his fingers through his hair, the sleeves of his oversized sweater sliding partially down his wrist.
I wrapped my fingers around his arm and pulled it closer, therefore pulling him closer as well.
His arms were bare. Which was normal. Which was good. Which was fine.
But not for Raphael.
I wondered when it had happened. Between waking up to his lips between my legs and his disappearance as the sun reappeared. Or between my tired walk from the apartment to the university.
Or perhaps just seconds before I arrived. Frantically scrubbing all scrapes of his emotions from his skin with cheap soap and a sponge in equal condition.
He tugged his arm back, looking like I had threatened to have it dismantled and thrown away.
I didn't say anything. Suddenly the pizza churned in my stomach, feeling heavy and full. Making me feel uncomfortable in return.
I realized how much I liked the ink on his skin, how I loved the way it looked on him. How I loved imagining what went on in his head while he did it. Where he did it. Sitting on his toilet seat with his knee drawn up to his chin, or on this couch as music played softly from his record player, or with a cigarette between his lips as he leaned against the backdoor of the tea shop.
I imagined it. After I kissed him goodbye the other day, or right before he swung by the antique store. Or maybe it had nothing to do with me. Maybe after a rough day at work. After another attempt at standing up to his fear of sharp needles.
I realized that it was something that came along so naturally with Raphael. It was so natural to notice a new drawing between his thumb and forefinger, on the curve if his wrist bone, on the skin where his pants rode up and revealed a slither of his ankles.
And it was gone now. So blatantly, so casually, so unannounced.
I wasn't sure what I was expecting.
"It's got nothing to do with you."
Meaning it had everything to do with me, and I did this. Stripped him bare of the only thing he could turn to for pure comfort. I took that away.
And I had no idea how.
"You should go home," he said, moving away to grab the pizza. Standing so crumbs of its crust tumbled down his shirt and to the worn out rug at our feet. "It's late."
I stood up.
"And talk to him," he said, still turning away. Still walking away, but faster now. Until his voice trailed away as he disappeared to the kitchen. "He must be worried at this point."
"Are you sure?"
He re-emerged, leaning against one of his walls, arms drawn across his chest.
Raphael shrugged. "I'm not your boyfriend."
"Right."
Because kissing you and only you, touching you and only you, wanting you while everything turned to fog in comparison did not amount for anything.
Because the feeling that started to seize my chest with an iron grip was nothing.
He couldn't have been kissing other boys, other men. I would have known. I would have noticed.
"But he could be yours," he said, interrupting my messy thoughts. "You're in love with him. Still. And that's something you can't throw away. You shouldn't."
I felt dazed, but my head nodded. I nodded. I agreed, and his eyes turned to examine the ceiling.
"So go home," he said.
I held my breath. This was it. "Do you want me to?"
He must not have expected that response, because his eyes fell sharply to mine before going back to the ceiling.
"He's been waiting for over a week."
"He didn't notice," I said, taking a step forward. "And you didn't answer my question."
"I know I would be worried," his arms tightened around himself. And in his cramped, dark apartment, he never looked more alone.
"But you don't want me to go. Why can't you say it?"
"Go."
I swiftly grabbed my jacket. "Fine."
Outside, under the orange glow of the streetlights, I shuddered from the cold.
I shuddered at the image of him more alone now. Standing still in his apartment.
I didn't understand it. Why he would want me to go away so badly. If it was my fault for hurting him. If he'd just simply gotten sick of being around me and this was the only way he could tell me to leave.
This lie. Because we both knew that whatever I felt for Nate was over before I kissed his lips for the first time, before he took me to bed, before I relished under the morning sunlight while his body slowly began to mold with mine.
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Back at the apartment, alone it seemed as all the rooms made no sound, I signed into my email for the first time in days.
Hey,
I'm happy to hear that everyone's well. I miss everyone back home-
I held my breath. No.
I miss being with you.
Fuck. My eyes skimmed the rest of the email.
I lied to you...holding you...I need you...Kiss-
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
My inbox was filled with confused replies from Nate. Of "is this a joke" and "call me" or "email me" or "we need to talk."
That was the last one.
11AM (today)
We need to talk.
I'm assuming you're avoiding me because it consisted of the truth. But you have to talk to me about it. It's fucking with my mind, Jake. I can't tell Ian about it because he'll freak but he's starting to notice something is off.
I'm worried.
Please email back.
It was that draft I'd saved a while ago.
What felt like ages ago. Years, and decades ago.
But how?
I distinctively remembered saving that email as a draft.
Panic finally settled in and I scrambled for ways to fix this. To figure it out. To try to play it off as something else, but I was tired of lying to Nate. To everyone. To myself.
I knew the right thing to do was to tell him the truth.
I clicked on "new message" and began trying to explain.
That was an accident. I'm sorry.
You weren't supposed to know. I understand that you're upset because I lied. But everything else. It's complicated. But I no longer have feelings for you.
Try to forgive me?
Jake
I pressed send before I could chicken out, and fell back against the couch with a heaving sigh of disbelief and pure frustration.
I was doing okay. I was finally feeling like I was happy. Genuinely happy and content.
And it seemed like I'd lost all of that in one night.
The doorbell rang and I stood up. Scarlet must have forgotten her keys again, something I reminded her to constantly stop doing but never seemed to register with her.
But it was Raphael who stood behind the door, and I had to stare at him for a second before acknowledging his presence.
"Don't go to him," he said, quietly. "We can forget about tonight."
"Why now?" I asked. "Just seconds ago, that seemed to all you wanted of me and now..."
A thought crossed my mind, but I pushed it away.
He dug his hands into the pockets of his worn out jeans. The ones that ripped down his knees and revealed the bony structure of his legs. Sharp corners of his body, his elbows, his collar bones. I had to look away. His skin was illuminated now under the bright lights in the hallway, so different from how pale it looked in his apartment. Far less lonely, far more inviting. "I changed my mind, all right?"
"To what? You're pushing me away. Maybe I should stay away."
He glanced behind his back, looking almost hunched over now.
"It's too late anyway," I said. In place of what should have been his pleas to have me back. He should have been begging to have me back.
"What?"
"I checked my emails. I replied back to his."
He stared at me, and that's how I knew.
"How did you do it?"
He looked away. "I need to go."
"You're not going anywhere," I said, reaching to grab his arm but he staggered away. "You're staying right here and-"
"You gave me your laptop," he said. "Your email, your password."
"Fuck," I angrily ran my fingers through my hair. "Why the fuck would you do that?"
He shrugged. "I was jealous."
A sound like a half laugh escaped between my lips. "Jealous? That isn't jealousy. That's psychotic."
He clenched his jaw. Bitterly, he said, "I know."
I clenched my fists. "That's all you're going to say?"
"It was bothering me," he said. "That you were so obsessed with him. I thought it would do you good. But then you decided not to check your emails for a week and, and I just wasn't thinking."
"Please leave," I said.
Still avoiding my gaze, Raphael nodded once before walking away.
It took a while to processes the words that left my lips, and by the time I did, the hallway was empty again.
By the time I did, Raphael was making his way down the staircase, to the main door. Sliding behind the glass, out into the open night sky just like I had. Under the orange glow just as I had been. Walking alone to his apartment. More alone than he did before.
Good, I thought.
And fuck him. Even though that felt like a dozen paper cuts along the surface of my heart.
By the time I managed to detach my thoughts from him, I had an aching headache and fingers that cramped from holding them in fists for too long.
y i k e s
Hope no one's too disappointed lol <3