Everything inside me freezes. I don’t know how to answer. I don’t know how to talk about Caleb. How to explain it.
“He was there when I had no one,” I end up saying. It’s true enough.
Logan nods, but it’s the kind of nod that implies he realizes I’m keeping back more than I’m saying. “How about I offer up some really . . . personal information? So you see I’m for real. I just want to know. I’m not going to judge you or try to . . . I don’t know. I just want to know.”
“What kind of personal information?” I can’t help asking.
A pause, as Gino brings yet another dish, something else kind of like lasagna, wide rolls of pasta in sheets, stuffed with ricotta and ground sausage, doused in marinara.
“Did you see the painting?” Logan asks.
“Starry Night,” I say. “Yes, I saw it. I wondered about that.”
“You know, Van Gogh only ever sold a couple paintings in his lifetime, and that was one of them. But that particular version of Starry Night was actually only one of dozens he did that were similar. He painted them from an asylum in France. What we’d call a psychiatric home now. It was a lunatic asylum for the wealthy. He was chronically depressed, suffered a mental break. Cut his ear off, I guess, or part of it. Admitted himself there, to Saint-Paul de Mausole. He had a whole wing to himself, and he’d sit in this room he’d made into his studio, and he’d paint the view, over and over and over. Different perspectives, trying different techniques. Day, night, close up, far off, everything. There’s another one, called Starry Night over the Rhone. Anyway, he’d just paint the view from that room over and over again. But that one, the one we both have copies of, it’s something special. He was a deeply troubled man, Van Gogh, and that painting, I guess to me it just . . . echoes things I sympathize with. That deal that went wrong . . . I ended up in prison. I don’t want to go into the details, but they’d let us out into the yard during the day, so we could lift weights and all that cliché bullshit. The view from the yard, there was this hill in the distance with some trees on it, and birds would fly in from all directions. I can see it now, the grass heading off into the distance, with yellow dandelions in patches here and there. Then the hill, and the trees. I don’t know what kind, oak, maybe? Thick, huge, with these massive spreading branches. And I’d be there in the yard, in the crazy fucking heat, staring at that stand of trees and the shadows they cast, daydreaming of being up there on the hill, in the shade. It was a scene I could paint from memory, even now, if I were able to draw for shit. And Starry Night, it’s . . . there’s this sense of distance, peace—I don’t know, it’s hard for me to put it into words. But it just reminds me of how I felt, staring out at that hill every day.”
“For me, it’s the view of the city from my window, at my condo. It’s hard for me to go outside. You saw that. Walking here, it was the first time I can remember that I didn’t feel any panic at all. But looking out, watching the people and the cars, everyone just going about their lives so easily, it just . . . sometimes I’d long for something that simple, that easy. But then—I get outside, and the noise, and the people, and everything is so big, and there’s so much of everything . . .” I close my eyes, try to make sense of my own thoughts. “Starry Night, to me, is about how none of that matters. The stars will shine, and they’ll light up the world, no matter who you are, or, in my case, who you are not. I mean, I woke up, and I was no one. But the city goes on. That’s both comforting and scary, depending on my mood. But the stars will shine, for Van Gogh, and there will be cathedrals and cypress trees, and there will be something out there that’s beautiful, no matter what’s inside me. I don’t know how to make any more sense of it. Like you said, it’s hard to put into words.”
“No, I get it.” His hand reaches for mine, and there’s a moment, then, that passes between us. An understanding. It’s nebulous, but real.
But then time reasserts itself, and I can’t fall back into that moment, no matter how much I wish to.
Something has shifted.
Being here, with Logan, like this . . . it’s too easy. Too simple. Too real. I want to enjoy it, the wine and the food and the impossibly handsome man who seems to want to know me, but I can’t. He wants to know about Caleb, and how do I explain that?
How do I explain that even now, Caleb is a part of me? Even now, to talk about Caleb feels like . . . sacrilege. Like betrayal. Like to put into words the wealth of what has occurred between Caleb and me would be to make less of them, to bare to the light things that should not be revealed. Not secrets, just . . . private things.
One cannot be more bare, more naked, more vulnerable than to be without identity, to be denuded of all personality, to be utterly without an identity, without a soul.
To be no one.
Caleb made me someone. And that someone is all tangled up and woven around the person that is Caleb.
“X?” Logan’s voice. Quiet, but sharp.
“Yes, sorry.” I try to smile at him.
“I lost you there, didn’t I?”
I can only stare at him, stare into his eyes. “Can we . . . can we go, Logan? This is . . . wonderful. And maybe you can’t understand this, but . . . it’s too wonderful. Too much.”
He sighs, a sad sound. “Yeah . . . no—I get it. I really do.” He stands up, digs into his pocket, and tosses some money on the table.
Gino is there, dishes in hand. “No, no, you cannot go, not yet. The best is yet to come!”
Logan claps him on the shoulder. “Sorry, man. My friend isn’t feeling good.”
“Ah. Well, if you must go, you must go.” He shrugs, as if to say what will be, will be.
Outside, then, Logan’s hand in mine. Evening has fallen. Golden light has faded to dusk, gold melting into shadows. The magic hour has gone, and the spell seems to have snapped. I don’t know why or how. But I walk, and feel ill at ease.
Instead of beauty, now I see the underbelly. The trash on the streets, the smell of Dumpsters, diesel fumes, a man’s angry shouts from an open window. A curse. Glass crunching underfoot. Graffiti on the walls, ugliness marring crumbling brick.
I feel a bit dizzy from the wine, thick-headed. A headache prods at the interior of my skull.
The walk back feels like it will be endless, and my feet hurt.
When was it I woke from the bath?
How long has passed? An eternity, it feels.
Was that really all just today?
The length of the day is crashing down on me, the pressure of all I’ve experienced weighing heavily. Heavy food, heavy wine. Logan’s mouth on mine, his body against me, his kiss. Wanting him, yet feeling as if . . . as if I shouldn’t have him. As if to be with him would be . . . wrong, somehow. I can’t make sense of it. To try is dizzying.
I want my own bed, my library. I want to read Mansfield Park and sip Earl Grey. I want to watch night fall from my window.
But I can’t. I left that behind. I walked away from it.
Was that a mistake? It felt right at the time. But now? I’m not so sure. Who is Logan? A warrior. A man who has been to prison. A man who has been to war.
A man who risked much to do what he felt was freeing me.
But can he understand me, understand my situation?
“X?” Logan’s voice again, concerned. “Are you okay?”
I try to nod. “It’s been a long day. I’m very tired.” So much left unsaid.
“Let’s get you home, huh?” His arm around my waist.
Home? Where is home? What is home?
“I can’t walk anymore, Logan. I just can’t.”
I feel him look at me. “Shit. I’m an idiot. I’m sorry. You’ve been through a lot today, haven’t you? What was I thinking?” He lifts a hand, and like magic, a yellow taxi appears and swerves over to us.
Logan helps me in, slides after me, gives his address. The ride is short.