I packed my bags, dropped the dogs off with Amara, and then got my arse over to San Francisco. I’d hoped to be there in time before Kayla had to say goodbye but I got there just after.
Seeing her walk out of that room, a world of agony on her thin shoulders, heartbreak ravaging her face, undid me like a spool of thread. I could barely stand the sight of her in that much pain and sorrow but I needed to be as strong as I could for her.
She collapsed into my arms. She collapsed into my heart.
I held onto her with both and told her I was there.
There was no protest, no anger. She accepted me and just for one, small flash of a second, I had her and everything was right in the world.
My beautiful world.
But of course, everything is still so very wrong.
I go back with Kayla that evening to her apartment. I told her I’d gladly stay in a hotel, that if she didn’t need me around, I wouldn’t be around. But she wouldn’t have any of that.
It’s weird being back in her place. It feels like decades ago when I first came in here, blind in my lust for her, with no idea what could happen between us. I must have known, deep down, that she was going to be the love of the life. I just didn’t know that our love would be so fraught with so many challenges.
Or maybe I did know that. I still said “fuck it” and went for her anyway.
I can’t say I would ever do it differently.
“I’m going to take a shower,” she says, dropping her purse on the table. “I haven’t been clean for a long time.”
For a moment I think she might invite me, like she always had in the past. But she just gives me a tired smile and closes the door behind her.
I sit down on her couch and let it all sink in.
I wish I knew what we were to each other.
She said she loved me over the phone.
Could that matter right now, through all of this?
And if it could, what does that mean for us?
She’s in the shower for a long time and when she steps out, her hair wet around her shoulders, her towel wrapped around her, she takes my breath away. So beautiful that it feels like a knife.
“Will you come to bed with me?” she asks. Her voice is quiet and she looks at me shyly, like she’s unsure if I’ll say yes, unsure that she should even ask to begin with.
I nod, getting up. “Of course.”
I follow her into her bedroom. Even in the dark it’s a disaster zone, the product of someone who has been living through hell and can’t be bothered with much. I can imagine her sleeping here at night, so alone and in so much pain.
She removes her towel and gets under the covers and I stare blindly at her naked silhouette, both terribly turned on and hopelessly in love.
But I don’t want to make any presumptions. I take off my boots and socks, my pants, but keep my underwear and shirt on. I know there’s the stirrings of an erection – it can’t be helped when she’s naked around me, especially when I haven’t seen her for a month – but I ignore it. I don’t want to be inappropriate with her, not now, when she’s so close to breaking.
I get under the covers, staring at her warily, unsure how to act, how to be. She turns to me and settles into my arms, her face on my chest, hand on my heart.
I want to live in this moment, the quiet comfort of her skin against mine.
“Thank you for coming,” she says after a few beats.
I rub my hand down her back, wincing when I can feel her ribs. She’s gotten so thin.
“Anytime,” I tell her. “Thank you for telling me you love me.”
She pauses and I worry I’ve said the wrong thing. “On the phone,” I add. “Whether it’s true or not, thank you for that. You can’t know what it meant to me.”
A few heavy moments tick on by, seeming so long in the darkness.
“I still love you,” she says, pressing her hand down on my chest. “Here. I love you here, your big, beautiful heart.”
Those words, those words.
Hope flies within me.
“But, it’s not enough,” she says and as quickly as it had risen, the hope is dashed, fallen from the sky, wings cut to the bone.
“I understand,” I tell her, voice ragged with pain, even though I don’t understand. I can’t. Because my love for her can conquer anything.
Then again, not many things can conquer death.
“It’s just…it was so hard, you know. At times. And I know we could have worked through it, but you needed help that I couldn’t give you.”
“I know,” I tell her. “But it’s different now. I’m seeing a psychologist. I’ve been sober. I spent a few weekends at rehab. I’m making the changes, I really am. I want to be a better man, not just for you, but for my family, for myself. For life.”
I can feel her smile against me. “Good. That…that brings me relief like you wouldn’t know.” She sighs heavily. “But it’s done. You know? I don’t think we can come back from it. Or, I can’t come back from it. Not now. Not with my mom…it’s too hard. I don’t know how I’m going to get through tonight, let alone tomorrow. And the next day. And the next. How am I even going to put one foot in front of the other. I’ll fall. And I’ll stay down on the floor. I can’t ever pick myself up from this.”
“Kayla,” I whisper to her. “Take your time. There’s nothing to rush through. I’m always going to be here for you, always going to feel the same. I will wait.”
“But I don’t want you to wait for me,” she says, almost sharply.
I close my eyes, absorbing the pain.
She’s breaking.
I’m breaking.
“Okay,” I say hoarsely.
“It’s not fair to you. I have my own shit to deal with here and I can’t deal with any more guilt than I already have. I can’t deal with knowing you’re across an ocean, waiting for me, loving me, when I know I’ll give you nothing. I can’t give anything anymore. Don’t you understand?”
I nod, knowing completely what she means and hating it. Hating it. “Aye. I understand. You know, there’s something about me I never told you.”
She stills against me, waiting for my confession. I bite the bullet. “When I decided to get clean, when I decided to come back to Jessica and Donald and beg for their mercy, to take me back in, it wasn’t a gradual choice. It was an immediate one. I had a friend, Charlie. A junkie just like me. All his bad faults were due to the addiction. If you took that away, he was a kind, charming young man. Funny as fuck. And he was loyal, though his loyalty was always to the drugs, to that high, first.” I lick my lips and realize that the story isn’t ripping me apart like I thought it would. The pain and shame and guilt of what was done has been pushed aside. “Charlie really wanted to get into heroin. I never did it, though Brigs and a few other people think otherwise, but I never did. Not that that makes me anything special – meth is just as disgusting, maybe more so. But I didn’t do it and when Charlie wanted to get high that way, I refused to help him. I didn’t want any part.”
I pause and look down. She’s listening, wide-eyed. I go on. “But then I saw him shoot it up and saw how happy he was and then when he came down, it didn’t seem like meth. It seemed harmless. I told myself that. I told myself a lot of lies. So when he wanted some more a few days later, I told him I’d get it for him. We helped each other like that and now, well, now I believed I was really helping Charlie. So I went to some people I knew, the wrong people, but they had it and I got it for Charlie…used money I made begging on the street. It felt better than using it for food. We rarely fucking ate, you know. We could but it just wasn’t important. There was only one thing that was. The bloody high. So I went back to Charlie, gave him the smack. He shot it up in front of me. But…I don’t know what went wrong. Maybe he used too much, maybe it was bad stuff, maybe his body couldn’t take anymore. The problem was, I was so fucking high on meth myself that I had no idea what was going on. He died in front of me.”