The Other Guy (15 page)

I holed up in my room whenever possible, still taking pains to avoid Michelle. If she suspected anything of my self-imprisonment, she probably attributed it to me still trying to wrap my head around her return, which was at least half true. The other half was that I resented her return, resented her for leaving in the first place and for setting everything in motion to the bookends of my heartbreak.

And still, knowing she was just on the other side of the door made some sad, nostalgic part of me want to seek her out like I used to, to listen to her soothe me with tired comforts of everything turning out okay in the end. I knew it was a bad idea, so I didn't, but the notion was there all the same.

I couldn't fathom making things go back to the way they were with her; there were too many broken pieces to find and too much to bury, but that didn't stop me from wondering anyway. We had been happy before, hadn't we?

But Nate and I had been happy too.
"At least he didn't say 'it's not you, it's me'," I mumbled to Linn when I caught her on Skype on the sixth Nate-less day, pulling the cuffs of my sweatshirt over my hands and rubbing my eyes, making the dark circles even darker. I probably looked deranged.
"Yeah," Linn said kindly. "Because it's definitely you."
I removed my hands temporarily to glare at the screen. "Hey, you're supposed to be on my side."
"I am, dude," Linn said. "You know I love you more than my own brother. Which is kind of why I'm obligated to tell you that you fucked up."
I let out the long groan of a dying beast. "I know. I know I did." I looked up at the screen, where Linnea was gently dandling her baby in her arms, and added, "Hey, shouldn't you cover her ears if you're going to swear at me?"
Linn gave me a flat look. "We live in Scotland. Chances are, she's going to have twice my repertoire of curse words before she's six. Tristan said 'shit' to me the other day; he's not even two."
"Oh, well, you might as well give her a head start, then," I said.
"Yeah, I mean, she's going to want to keep up with her big brother, right?" She turned to her precious little girl, touching their noses together, and cooed, "Your idiot Uncle Emory fucked up with Uncle Nate. Yes, he did. Yes, he did."
The baby laughed, the heartless little thing.
The corners of my mouth pulled downward. "Hey, you barely even know each other. How come he gets to be an uncle too?"
"Because I like him. And because you want him to be," she said simply.
I frowned into the webcam, disconcerted.
"Why? Why are you making this face at me? This isn't breaking news, Em," she said. "You've been in love with him practically since you met."
"I don't-- I don't believe in love at first sight," I said churlishly.
"I'm not talking about love at first sight; I'm talking about you being happier in however many months you've known him than... god, since I've known
you
."
"What?"
Linn rolled her eyes dramatically; any further and she'd snap a tendon. "You were
happy
. Like Christmas morning happy. Like..."
I cocked my head, waiting for her to go on.
She made a wild gesture, agitatedly searching for the right analogy that would penetrate my feeble mind. "Like manifesting a dream you've had your whole life happy. Like thank god I can stop searching because I found him happy. Like I never knew I was missing a part of myself until now happy."
"Oh," I said. So that's what that was.
"Y'know, before you screwed it all up."
"And I thank you for that reminder."
"I was already planning your big gay wedding, you know," she said, somewhat accusatorily. "It would've been amazing."
As she delineated her amazing plans, describing things in Tuscan red and champagne, the fog of doubt and irresolution in my mind cleared for a blissful second. It wasn't an image of anything Linnea was saying, because hell if I knew what a pomander was, but one of me and Nate, dapper and nervous in tuxes and in front of an officiant.
The picture came so naturally to me I could have cried.
At the moment I couldn't even remember what color a vest I had been wearing on my real wedding day, but this I could see, down to the stitches on Nate's lapels, and the light of his smile. God, I ached for that smile.
"Please let me plan this wedding for you," Linn said. "Go and grovel, and be happy."
And yet. "What about Michelle?"
Linn groaned a gigantic groan of frustration, which thoroughly bewildered the baby. "Emory Archibald James," she said, channeling all exasperated mothers the world over, pointing a stern finger at me.
I squinted into the webcam. "That's not even my name."
That took the wind out of her sails. She looked at the screen, perplexed. "What? Really? That's what I always say when I imagine myself yelling at you. That's not your middle name? Are you sure?"
I gave her a look that I hoped would appropriately convey how insane I thought she was, which was extremely. "It's Anthony."
She let this information digest for a moment, mouthing both versions of my name to herself, and shook her head. "No," she decided. "Archibald has a nicer ring to it."
"There are many things wrong with you, including the fact that you think Archibald is in some way an acceptable name for a living person," I said, though I gestured for her to carry on.
"Emory Archibald James," she said evenly, "you don't owe her anything. And you don't owe the old you anything either. What you owe yourself, Emory James, in this moment, is to go after what makes you happy. And I think you know exactly what that is."
I did, and it was terrifying in its sudden clarity.
Funny little things, epiphanies. Sometimes they ambush you from the shadows, sometimes they just trail alongside quietly until you realize one day they've been there the whole time, simply waiting for you to turn and notice.
I definitely noticed now, though it would have been helpful if it had at least tapped me on the shoulder before I had completely ruined things with Nate.
"Your kids are lucky to have a mom like you," I said after a while.
Linn smiled. "Yeah, I know, I'm totally kick-ass, right?" she said, and laughed the mock arrogance away. "Can I record you saying that? Then I'll have proof to show them that at least one person said it when they turn teenagers and hate me for the next ten years."
"I'll put in a good word," I said. "And they will believe me because as someone who is not their parent, they'll never stop thinking I'm cool."
"Yeah...
cool
," she said skeptically. "Let's go with that."

"Oh my god, Em," was the first thing out of Michelle's mouth when I admitted to her that I had been seeing Nate, owner of the mysterious, pointless, fingerless gloves and a sizable chunk of my heart.

"Did I-- Did I turn you gay?" was, regrettably, the second thing.
I looked at her askance. "Okay, say that again, just in your head this time, and then tell me whether you really want me to answer that."
Michelle stared for a moment, and then shook her head at herself. "Sorry, sorry. I'm... surprised, I guess. I kind of thought-- I thought we had a shot," she said, directing a rueful glance at the floor.
"Once," I said. It wasn't meant to be unkind, just true.
We would've had a nice life, me and Michelle. Maybe a house with a fenced yard in the suburbs, a dog to ruin that yard, some impossible fraction of children; it would've been pleasant. And that's all it would have been at its best, if that best was something we could even hope to achieve. I couldn't trust her unreservedly with my heart anymore as I once had. A shred of doubt would always hang between us, because although forgiveness comes with time, forgetting doesn't. Besides, I couldn't entrust my heart to her because it was already in someone else's keeping.
I was giving up a nice life for the possibility of a great one, damn the consequences. Me and Nate -- I had the feeling that we had a chance to be truly happy. And he already came with a dog.
Michelle shifted her feet awkwardly. "So... I guess I should probably get out of your hair, huh?" she said, and started to gather some of her things that had gotten strewn around the living room.
"Hey," I said, "if you need to crash here a little longer..."
"No, this was a mistake," Michelle muttered. She lifted her head, a book clutched in one hand, her eyes closed as she attempted to compose herself. She smiled at me when she opened them. "No, it wasn't a mistake. You were worth the try."
"Uh. Thank you," I said, taking full possession of the awkwardness in the room now. It fit me like a glove, a proper one.
"Em," she said, squeezing my hand, "everyone should be so lucky as to have you in their lives. I just realized it too late. You deserve someone who knew that from the first minute he saw you. He did, right? This Nate of yours?"
This Nate of mine
. My mind reeled in a litany of memories of all that Nate had said and done when we had been in Thailand, when we had returned to our real worlds; maybe it would have been clear then, too, to someone a little more observant than I was. He had been trying to tell me all along.
"Yeah, I think so," I said.
"Good," Michelle said. "That's really good, Em."
We got her packed and put in a cab, and though I offered once more to let her stay until her new lease started, she had none of it, opting for a hotel instead. We hugged goodbye, and I stood on the empty sidewalk, watching the cab take her away to wherever in her life she was going, swallowed into the stream of city traffic.

It occurred to me one morning that any day now I would be required to forswear any old allegiances to the The Other Guy Club and turn in my membership card.

My life had somehow veered into Good-Looking Bastard territory, all chaos and meaningless chatter up till the point when realization had come upon me like a sack of bricks -otherwise known as that one time Linnea shouted at me.

(Not to be confused with that one other time Linnea yelled at me. Be on the receiving end of her pointy finger enough times and you learn to distinguish the finer subtleties.)

It was Nate who made me happy, and I'd been stupid enough to not notice. Never mind the Good-Looking; I was just, plainly and simply, Bastard, and I needed to get it together, needed to get him back.

I didn't have a grand plan to win him back.
Tradition dictated that I should do it in a hugely public way, preferably with a microphone and backup band involved, so that there would be enough witnesses for him to feel really awkward about saying no.

But chances were I'd get more embarrassed about the whole thing much, much earlier than he would. Plus, I'd always considered such public displays a cheap substitute anyway, showy but essentially lacking in substance. They are the fingerless gloves of relationships.

Instead, I invited Hal over to play video games with me. It was after I underwent two solid trouncings at kart racing that I finally brought Nate up. That way, if Hal happened to storm out with the intention of never speaking to me again, he could at least leave our very last gaming session together on an otherwise high note. It's the little things.
"So, uh, do you remember Nate? From the Super Bowl party?" I asked, in what I hoped sounded like a casual tone of voice.
"Super Bowl party. Tall, thin?" Hal said. Something clicked into place inside his head, and he added, pleased with himself for remembering, "Not from the speech clinic."
"Yeah, that's the one. He wasn't from the speech clinic," I said. I let my guy careen right off the racetrack to certain doom, and put the controller down so I could rub nervous palms on my jeans. "Um. We, uh... We were sort of-- We were seeing each other for a while. Like, dating."
"Like?" Hal said.
"Dating," I clarified at last, decisively, and braced myself for whatever blow was headed my way.
Hal flipped his controller onto the couch and stretched. "Yeah, I kind of already knew," he said through a yawn.
My stomach unclenched, and I blinked at him. "What?"
"Super Bowl party," he explained, setting the scene. "You cut yourself and I went to your bathroom for bandages. There were two toothbrushes in there. Plus, there was this whole weird vibe between the two of you the entire time."
"Seriously?" I wheezed. "Are you actually serious?"
He'd known all this time. After all that anxiety, all the sleepless nights I'd gone through over telling him, this was how he repaid me? I could have punched him in the face.
"Why didn't you say anything?" I demanded.
He shrugged. "You didn't."
"Okay, that is a fair point. I will give you that," I conceded. "And... you don't care?"
"Nah, he seems cool. I mean, you like him, right?"
"Yes," I said, carefully watching his expression.
Hal shrugged again, his face changing not an iota. "Then okay."
I grinned, infinitely grateful for his easy understanding. "Hal," I said, overflowing with goodwill as I clapped him on the shoulder, "I am glad we are friends."
He eyed me suspiciously. "You're not going to make us hug or anything, are you?"
"Good lord, no," I said. "To show my appreciation, I will let you win this next round."
"Yeah," Hal laughed, picking up his controller again and selecting our next challenge. "You keep telling yourself that, buddy."

With the first phase of what I realized had become my grand plan successfully conquered, I set my sights higher for the next round.

Until I got through this I had no business trying to get Nate back. My fears, my apprehensiveness had been the driving factors in making Nate go away in the end, and unless I wanted that hanging over my head forever, I had to find out, one way or another, what telling the truth would bring.

It wasn't for Nate, at least not exclusively for Nate. Regardless of whether or not he was in my life, it was still something I had to face for myself and with as much honesty as I could muster. Nate was only the catalyst in all this; I had to be the one to pull the trigger.

When my lunch break came around, I reached for the phone to call my parents.
The phone rang as soon as I touched the receiver, startling me into rolling a few inches away in my desk chair. Clipping my hands to the edge of the desk, I dragged myself back and picked up the call, rattling off the standard office welcome.
"Petersen Speech Clinic, Emory James speaking."
"Hi, Emory," said a voice I couldn't quite place. "It's, um, Julie, Abby Montgomery's mom? She used to come to you for her esses?"
"Of course. Hi," I said, slightly disconcerted that Nate's sister of all people would be calling at this precise moment.
I suppose that for the sake of true serendipity, I would've preferred that it be Nate himself on the other end, but you take what you can get when the universe decides to move in mysterious ways.
"What can I do for you, Julie?"
"Um," she said, and I heard the intake of a shaky breath. "It's our father-- Um, Nate's and my father? He had a heart attack and passed away early yesterday."
"Oh my god," I said, stunned. "I'm so sorry."
"The memorial service is tomorrow," she continued, her voice steadier now. "I think it would mean a lot to Nate if you were able to come."
"I-- I would love to-- I mean," I amended, mentally slapping myself. "I mean, I really appreciate the opportunity to pay my respects to your father, but you know that Nate and I aren't... We're not, um... We haven't spoken in a while."
"I know," said Julie. "And I know it's short notice; it's out of state and you'd have to fly out, and... It's just that I think he could really use a friendly face."
It hit me then, what she really meant. After nearly fifteen years of staying as far away as he could, Nate was finally going back home, going home to carry a casket.
"I'll be there," I said.
After writing down the details, I got online to book an air ticket and a hotel room, and went out to the front desk to inform Marybeth of my impending departure.
"Marybeth, hi," I said, barely waiting for her to acknowledge me. "I have to cancel all my Friday appointments. Tomorrow's appointments. Um, emergency."
She gave me a look of deep concern. "Oh no, is everything okay?"
"Yeah, yeah, fine," I said, trying to keep my tone light. "I have to fly out to a memorial service tomorrow, and then I guess the burial is on Sunday."
"Oh, I'm so sorry. Who passed?"
I had been hoping she wouldn't ask, but of course she would ask. She was a kind and caring person with a vested interest in all of our well-beings, and at the moment I very much wished she would stop.
"It's..." I said, and decided that if it had to come out sometime, it might as well be now. "My boyfriend's father."
Technically, not true, but saying ex-boyfriend would have made it sound even less like a real reason, and I was already having enough trouble with this conversation as it was.
Even without the inclusion of the prefixal distinction, the look she directed at me this time was one of deep suspicion. "What? Honey," she said, raising a disapproving eyebrow. "Usually when people want to take a long weekend, they go with a grandmother's funeral. Are you sure you've thought this through?"
I sighed. "Look, it's a long story. You remember my articulation case from a few months ago, Abby Montgomery? About yea high?"
Marybeth nodded, her eyes still narrowed as she acknowledged my hand gesture.
"Okay," I said, buoyed. "You remember she used to sometimes come in with her uncle? Tall, super handsome?"
"Yes. The girls and I always loved Monday and Thursday afternoons for that," Marybeth said, and her expression gradually changed to one of surprise as it all sank in. "Are you telling me that you and him...?"
"Yeah, me and him. We-- Yes. And only well after I discharged Abby," I hastily clarified, preempting any further eyebrow action. "Look, you can call Abby's mom if you want; we still have all their contact information on file. Besides, it was Julie who called me not ten minutes ago to tell me about the funeral."
She leaned forward, gazing at me curiously, almost proud. "No, no, I believe you. It would be such a stupid story to make up otherwise, but it's you."
"Uh, thank you?" I said, not at all sure what she meant.
"Good for you, hon," she said, outright grinning now. "No wonder you were smiling like such an idiot all the time. And now that I think about it, the two of you? I bet you look nice together."
"Okay..." I said, feeling more awkward than ever. "Um, please help me cancel my appointments for tomorrow?"
Marybeth nodded. "Done."
"Thank you," I said. I turned on my heel to return to my office, but then ended up making a full swivel to face her again. "And please don't tell anybody."
"Okay."
"No, actually," I said, giving up the ghost of a past me, "tell anybody you want. I mean, if people are going to talk about me, I might as well do them the courtesy of being away while they do it, right?"
"I think that's wise," Marybeth said, pointing a pen at me. "Snag yourself a guy like that, you definitely shouldn't be keeping it to yourself."
It was enough to make me laugh. "Thanks, Marybeth," I said.
I turned again, making it all the way back to my office this time to finish up the rest of my reports with an occasionally wandering mind.
I hoped Julie had made the right call by getting in touch with me and inviting me to the memorial service. With Nate doubtless in an already brittle emotional place, I wasn't sure if seeing me would make it any easier on him.
After all, as he had so succinctly predicted, I had turned out to be the heartbreaker in our equation; I hadn't believed him then -- I mean, look at me. A single yellow school pencil is already difficult enough for me to snap in two, let alone break someone as resilient as Nate. And yet I had managed to do it anyway.
Go me.
Still, I had to go to the service. I wanted to be there in whatever capacity he needed me, even if it was to have somebody to yell at. And if he didn't want me there, then that was fine; I was prepared for that possibility too.
It was a long night, tosses and turns come to disturb me for hours on end as I lay in bed, wondering what Nate was feeling, what he was doing. Getting more sleep than I was, with any luck.
From what Julie had intimated, Nate would already have arrived in his North Carolinian hometown by now. Would he have gone to see his mom right away? Would it just be a reprise of the rift they had created years ago?
As ineffectual as it was, I closed my eyes and concentrated on the image of him, sad and alone out there, sending him what little strength I could through the ether.
With that, he could at least break an extra pencil if he wanted. Every little bit counts, right?
By the time I fell asleep, it was time to get up.
The bulk of my flight, thankfully a relatively short jaunt, was spent in a state of nervous agitation, and making sure I could see a corner of the airsickness bag in the seat pocket in front, in case of emergency hyperventilation or worse.
Even though my intentions were to head out to the service for Nate and not for me, there was no stopping the way my stomach kept twisting in anticipation of seeing him again.
If Julie was right and he was happy to see me, then maybe we would still have a chance at something after all. But if she wasn't, then it would simply be the end. That wasn't a thought I particularly relished entertaining, but it was one I needed to brace myself for.
Not having Nate around for the past couple of weeks had been hellish in its utter emptiness. Work provided a sufficient distraction during daylight hours, but it was in the quiet, in the dark, when there was nothing to keep me company except the thoughts I lashed at myself, that it was nearly unbearable.
Up until now I at least had the treacherous hope that there was still a chance of things working out, that maybe he might knock on my door one day and say that all was forgiven. I still had that hope for at least a few more hours, and I cradled it close, for all the good it would do.
The plane landed without incident, and I got my rental car and headed to the hotel, changing quickly into a black suit.
I inspected myself in the bathroom mirror; I looked exactly like what a caricaturist might draw of someone who'd recently suffered the twin misfortunes of heartache and insomnia. If this was what I had looked like in Thailand as well, Nate seriously needed to make an appointment with his optometrist as soon as possible, because there was nothing remotely resembling cute in this face.
Splashing a handful of cold water over it in the hopes of looking at least slightly less like a dues-paying member of the local undead chapter, I steeled myself for whatever may come, and headed for the funeral home and, ultimately, my reckoning.
Once I reached the funeral home and parked my car, I stayed seated in it for a while, watching an erratic stream of visitors trickle in solemn-faced, wanting the safety net of being lost in the crowd if I ended up needing it. I didn't see Nate or Julie; they had probably been inside for a while.
Finally, with two minutes left, according to the digital display in the car, to the start of the service, I let myself out.
Inside, most of the guests were already seated. I took a program but avoided the guestbook. The picture of Nate's father on the program had obviously been taken in his later years, but immediately I could see the traits Nate had taken from him -- the lean build, the dark, deep-set eyes, the line of his jaw. Nate's heart, however, was all his own.
Hovering in the far back of the room, I spied Nate in the front row with Julie, Abby and an older, gray-haired woman I assumed was his mother. They said all of nothing to one another, but I hoped at least that his being seated with his family was a good sign.
Everybody went through the appropriate motions -music, speeches, readings of Bible passages to ease the hearts of those left behind. I learned more about Nate's dad from the variety of remembrance speeches presented over the course of an hour than I had ever heard from Nate in months, but nobody in the room learned about Mr. Harris from Nate's eyes.
But I guess a memorial service isn't really the best time to talk about a father who didn't love his son enough.
Once the closing prayer was finished, the guests began getting up and adjourning to a nearby room for the reception, a few of them making quiet remarks to the family on their way past. I remained in my spot in the last row, waiting and watching, until almost no one was left.
Julie spotted me as she passed toward the reception. She gave me a nod and a small smile, which I returned, and indicated with a tilt of her head that it was probably okay for me to unglue myself from the back row.
She quietly took Abby in one hand, and her mother on the other arm, out of the room, and then there was just me left, and Nate in the front, his hunched back to me, elbows heavy on his knees as he stared up at the wreathed photo of his father behind the podium.
I took a deep breath, swallowed the anxiety that had knotted in my throat, and walked toward the front of the room, sitting a couple of seats away from him.
"You look a lot like him," I said, as gently as I could.
Nate's head snapped up at the sound of my voice, his face a shambles of too many emotions to name. "What are you doing here?"
"Julie called me yesterday," I said.
Something fiery crossed his face, though I couldn't tell whether he was grateful that I had come, or if he was pissed at Julie for interfering in his life. It didn't help that he chose not to say anything in response, only went back to leaning on his knees, the fire petered out as quickly as it had flared up.
"For what it's worth," I tried again, "I'm really sorry about your dad."
He acknowledged the sentiment with a short nod. His fingers were twined, turning white in places where he was gripping too hard.
"She won't talk to me," he said to the floral carpet.
I didn't have to ask who he meant, nor did I attempt lobbing anything as useless as a
she'll come around
at him. After fifteen years of not coming around, who was I to decree a change of heart?
I moved one chair closer.
"She tells Julie to tell me things, even when I'm in the room," he said, and then let out a bitter chuckle. "If she can even stand to be in the same room with me for that long."
He seemed in the mood for talking now, so I remained silent.
"Julie says it's because I look so much like Dad and it's hard for her to see so much of him in me now that he's gone. But, you know, I looked like Dad too when she threw me out, so I don't think that's the problem," he said, his voice quietly edging toward fury.
I rested a hand on his back, in the space between his shoulder blades. It was an inadequate gesture at best, but he didn't shove it off, so I left it there.
He sucked in a long, shuddery breath and gathered himself. "There's a reception in the other room," he said, suddenly realizing he was technically supposed to be in some kind of hosting capacity. "There's, I don't know, sandwiches and stuff."
"Do you want me to get you something?"
Nate shook his head.
"What do you want to do, Nate?" I asked softly.
He looked around the empty room, taking in its unfamiliar furnishings, the wallpaper that should have been stripped and redone a decade ago. His face crumpled in bewilderment, as though he couldn't figure out how he had even ended up here.
"I want to get out of here," he said, in the same tone of voice a much younger version of himself might have said
I want to go home
.
"Okay," I said. "Let's go."
I trundled him to my rental car, and for a moment we just sat there while whatever radio station I had half-listened to on the way here played a grating commercial for weight loss. Nate stared out the windshield, listening even less and providing no destination options.
Suspecting I would get none however long I waited, I keyed the ignition on and backed out of the parking space.
"Okay, I'm just going to drive. Stop me if you see something interesting, otherwise I will just keep going," I said. As an afterthought, I tacked on, "Keeping in mind that this car has no navigation system and I have never been in this town in my life. Or this state, for that matter."
He may have cracked a smile, but that might have just been wishful thinking on my peripheral vision's part.
We drove. I turned when I had to, or when the fancy tickled, more likely than not going in circles, though Nate didn't seem to mind.
"That's my high school," he said, pointing out the window to his right, when I found a new street to go down.