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**Chapter 2 is now up if you want to read it before you continue.
March 2002
Dear Jack,
I don't know where to begin. I never do. Words are such a poor substitute for emotions. Memories. I've tried several times before. Every time I concluded with a promise I knew I could not keep. Every time I picked up this pen I vowed not to make that same mistake. And every time I got to the end I could not control the words. They always led to the same place. The same wish. The same hope. This is where I live. A world where I am not in control...
He chewed the end of his pencil, struggling not to look up at the clock. Ten rows down the lecture hall a professor was droning on about nineteenth century literature and its effect on modern popular culture. Tobey couldn't understand how a fifty-minute class could feel so long. He glanced up at the clock. Three fifty-seven. Thank God. Impatient anxiety coursed through his veins, his leg shaking in nervousness. The craving was unbearable. Perhaps he would just leave three minutes early. Surveying the seats to his left and right he decided next time he would sit in the aisle. As he contemplated the courage to disrupt the students beside him, they stood and began packing their bags. Without finesse, he jumped up and made for the doorway at the back of the room, stepping over several chairs and students along the way.
Once outside the English building, he looked down the concrete steps and reached into his jacket pocket, removing a small pack of cigarettes and a lighter. With incredible skill he had a cigarette in his mouth, lit, and the package already put away before he reached the bottom steps. His disdain for smoking had not changed; it just didn't stop him from having one from time to time, mostly after class, and especially right now. The rush of nicotine was the only thing that made the flashes of memory bearable. No amount of therapy or alcohol seemed to be able to drive the image of Jack from his mind, and the long-term effects seemed a fair price to pay for control over his thoughts, even if temporarily.
A white puff rushed past his lips as he sped up the walkway to his dorm. Pausing at the door, he took one last drag and then tossed the butt into the browning shrubs that lined the stucco wall. He waved his dorm card at the attendant, and went through the inner door to the common area. Students littered the couches and tables, chatting about homework, the news, and their weekend plans. On the television in the far corner, Oprah chimed about taking control of your life in five easy steps. Tobey laughed inside at the implication that light, inhale, chug, inhale again, and relight weren't simple enough.
"Hey Tobey!" called a voice as he made his way to the staircase at the far end.
Tobey stopped and turned, confronted by a dark-haired man in house pants and an old ratty t-shirt standing at a nearby couch.
"Hi Tom," he managed, struggling to keep his eyes on Tom's face and not let them wander down his thin shirt to the blue checkerboard of his pants. Tom Kipling was Tobey's RA, not to mention the predominant figure in Tobey's fantasies, other than Jack. Tobey had tried to convince himself to fall in love with Tom in order to rid himself of his feelings for Jack, but knew that falling for a seemingly straight man would be more harmful in the long run. Now it was hard trying not to fantasize about him.
"I still need your ten dollars for the thanksgiving potluck," Tom said, walking over to Tobey.
Tobey nodded his head. "I'll stop by your room with it later, I promise." He forced a smile and then turned back to the stairs.
"Hey," Tom called after him. Tobey turned back, trying not to look annoyed. "A bunch of us are going out for some drinks tonight. It'd be cool if you came."
"I, uh," he stalled, trying to think of an excuse. "I've got a proposal to submit tomorrow that I haven't even started. Another time."
"Bullshit," Tom said shaking his head. "You gotta stop living in your own head, Tobey. Before you know it'll be the end of the year and you'll realized you didn't even live it."
"Fuck off, Tom. You don't know a single thing about me." His face reddened. He turned back to the stairs and began up without heeding Tom further.
"That's the entire point!" Tom shook his head at the empty stairwell and turned back to the room, noticing for the first time that it was quiet and every student's eyes were fixed on him.
Tobey opened his door and threw his bag down in a pile of clothes on the floor. He flopped into the chair at his desk and pulled out the keyboard tray. Shaking the mouse, the screen hummed to life. Disappointment painted his face when he saw he had no new emails. It was an irrational hope. Why Jack would email him this long after their breakup, he didn't know.
He turned in his chair to the wall beside his bed, a large dent in the drywall staring back at him. Above it Jack's smiling form stared at him too. He had hung the frame that had caused the hole almost two months earlier. The glass was still fractured. It was a reminder of what he had lost and how he was not able to deal with that loss. His therapist would have called that an unhealthy intentional integration with prevailing stresses. Tobey called it refusing to give up hope.
Images of Jack danced across his mind as Tobey lay on top of his disheveled bed. He closed his eyes and saw Jack sitting in a field of white, smiling back at him. In a flash of thought Jack's shirt disappeared revealing a perfect sculpture, but the image did not remain. Tobey strained to close his eyes further, trying to recall the fading details of Jack's body. He walked toward Jack in his mind, summoning a desire to the image that no longer existed. His hand slid down along his chest to the waist of his khakis. He imagined kissing the soft creases of Jack's collarbone, as his hand moved below the cotton fabric. He fought to lose himself in his unattainable thoughts. Giving up control he didn't even own to the one person who had already taken it away. Tears streamed down his cheeks as his hand increased its tempo. This was the only hope that remained.
The street light hummed to life in the late January afternoon as cold rain drizzled around his head. The glowing embers two inches from his lips flared to brightness for a short moment as he inhaled. Lifting a hand to his mouth he withdrew the cigarette as a dirty cloud of white escaped his lips and mixed with the moist air. Replacing it between his lips, he removed his glasses, and placed them in the dryness of his jacket pocket.
Short moments later a bicycle glided up beside him, sailing to a stop. Tobey's eyes sparkled in the glow of his cigarette as his lips curled to a smile around it.
"You really have to stop smoking those," Tom smiled from beneath his rain-soaked hood. He shifted his gaze to Tobey's hair as he ran a hand through the damp locks. "You're soaked."
"And you're late," he grinned, not flinching at Tom's touch.
Tom shrugged, looking down the path and smirked. "I had a proposal that I hadn't started."
Tobey smiled with equal fervor. "Bullshit," he quipped playfully.
In two months Tobey and Tom's relationship had gone from shaky to rocky and then somehow to strong and mutual friendship. At least that's what Tobey called it, and Tom did nothing to convince him otherwise. The touches, the hugs, and the late-night heart-to-hearts where conveniently not factors in assessing the friendship.
Two months ago Tom did not know the first thing about Tobey. Now he knew that he came from Provincetown, Massachusetts, was a Gemini, and was tending to some rather serious post-breakup emotional wounds. Tom learned about Jack in quite a lot of detail, and to Tobey's surprise, was a willing participant of such conversations. He learned about the hole in Tobey's wall and about the day the picture that caused it was taken. He learned about the weekly letters Tobey wrote and never sent. In two months he knew almost every detail of Tobey's recent history, yet in the same time Tobey learned very little about Tom.
This was becoming somewhat of a ritual. Every Wednesday, Tom met Tobey outside the English building and they would go for coffee. In the beginning, Tobey found the encounters frustrating and at times painful, until one Wednesday when Tom never showed up. An hour later, still standing beneath the lamppost, Tobey recognized the feeling gnawing at his chest as disappointed abandonment. That night when he saw Tom at the dorms he made Tom promise he would never forget again. He never did.
And here they were again. Another Wednesday, another rendezvous beneath the streetlamp. Tobey stared into Tom's smiling brown eyes through the mist, feeling the rigidity of his knees begin to waver.
"So," he managed as he tossed the remains of his cigarette onto the hard soil, "where do we go today?"
"Actually," Tom said, his eyes darting subconsciously to the V of Tobey's sweater and back up, "I was thinking we'd go back to the dorm and just hang."
Tobey shrugged his shoulders in affirmation, indifferent to the suggestive nature that those words would otherwise hold.
Tom shook his head at the beer Tobey offered him. Tobey shrugged and began drinking it himself, tossing the cap beside the three already empty bottles on the desk. Tom studied Tobey as he slumped into his desk chair, drinking the beer as if it were water on a hot summer day. Tobey was aware of the eyes that perused his less than perfect self, annoyed and yet aroused by their scrutiny.
"Have you eaten today," Tom asked with concern.
"Yes, mother," Tobey chuckled with dripping sarcasm.
"You're looking pale, that's all."
Tobey turned in his chair to face Tom, his beer fizzing with the sudden movement. "I didn't know you looked at me that closely."
Tom ignored the hint of red his cheeks began to reveal. "It's not that hard to notice."
Tobey smiled relentlessly, the combination of the beer with an empty stomach obviously making its mark. His eyes flashed over with sparking fury. "Why do you care, Tom? What, did you think that after a few months of casual conversation and revelation that I'd give you permission to care about me?"
Tom shifted; unaware of the self-hatred he had stirred.
"Don't presume to care about me! I don't want your pity or your help!" Tobey coughed. "I was coping just fine in my misery before you came along, Thomas Kipling, I don't need your compassion." He coughed again, more violently. The alcohol taking its toll. "Jack... Jack will take care of me..."
Tobey trailed off in nauseous discomfort. He turned sharply, hunching over his garbage pail, beer and bile searing his throat with every heave. Tom winced at the sight and the smell.
Surprisingly, seeing Tobey in such a state did not stir any sympathy, Tom's annoyance at Tobey's words still stinging. He would not let Tobey have the last word in this haphazard argument. He would not be a punching bag for yet another day.
"Well, Jack's not here, is he," Tom spat. The moment the words left his lips, he knew he had lost the fight. He became increasingly aware of the space around him - the weight of the air on his shoulders, the proximity of the walls to his fragile skin. He looked at the picture behind him, Jack's smiling form staring back at him. Tom saw the letters on the desk, another picture beside them. A stuffed animal on the bed had been a gift of Jack's as well. The room was conspiring against him, against his every action. In the moment of those words said out of frustration, Tom realized how wrong he was. He could spend every minute in this room, and he would only be an observer to a life that was slowly fading away. Tobey could not be rescued from these walls. He would have to be his own savior.
Tom knocked a fourth time, and still there was no answer. He had waited under the streetlight for over an hour before he remembered it was spring break. Now standing outside Tobey's door, Tom wondered what state he would find him in, if he were there at all. Tom knew that Tobey always kept his door locked, but he still tried the handle. It was open. He pushed it slightly, letting it squeak open on its hinges.
The room was surprisingly in an ordered state. The desk was clear, save the computer and the stack of letters. The clothes that usually littered the floor were hung or piled in the hamper. For a moment Tom thought he was in the wrong room, or in what Tobey's room would have looked like had it not been scarred with Jack's betrayal. The hole in the wall dispelled this illusion immediately.
He found Tobey sitting widthwise on his bed, the telephone resting on his lap. He was breathing shallowly, staring off into the depths of thoughts that Tom had only began to understand. He sat down beside Tobey, offering the sole comfort of his breath. He would wait for Tobey to speak first, as long as that would take.
"That was him," Tobey strained through shell-shocked lips.
Tom looked up in astonishment. The man who until this day had lived only in tales and photographs of fading colour now had a voice. Tom summoned words of reply, but found none.
"I lied," Tobey continued. "I have dreamt of this moment for months and... I lied to him."
Tom could feel his heart pounding beneath his ribs, unknowingly synchronized with Tobey's. He was hung in suspense for Tobey's next words, inexplicably knowing that they meant more to him than he would admit.
"I told him," Tobey struggled for the strength to say what he had said so easily to Jack. "I told him you were my boyfriend."
The synchronous dance of Tom's heart fell into disarray. He stared at Tobey, his eyes urging him to continue.
Tobey shook his head at his loss for articulation. "He called to see how I was, and I said 'Great.' He asked if I was seeing anyone and I said 'Yeah, his name is Tom.'" Tobey looked up into Tom's eyes hoping they might offer some explanation for his actions. When he could find none, he turned his gaze back to the floor. "I'm sorry," was all he could manage.
Tom nodded, not knowing why. Then he wondered for whom Tobey's apology was meant. "Sorry for what?"
"I'm sorry I still have feelings for Jack."
Tom forced a smile, concealing the wound the words made. "Why should you apologize for that?"
Tobey looked back at Tom and said, "Because they're obscuring my feelings for you."
Tom turned away from Tobey, knowing that was the reaction he expected. And then he sensed Tobey's disappointment, coupled with his own. He reached an arm around Tobey's shoulders, pulling him in slightly. Tobey sighed, trying to forgive himself for the feelings he could not purge. Without realizing his actions, Tom kissed Tobey's head and whispered that everything would work out. Without much thought Tobey's hand fell to Tom's knee where it stayed a brief moment before traveling up the soft denim of Tom's jeans, breaking a silent rule that until tonight had never been broken.
With a jolt, Tom stood and walked over to the desk, forcing himself to peer out the window.
Tobey looked up, perplexed. "What's wrong?"
When Tom said nothing, Tobey raised himself off the bed. He stood a foot away from Tom, confronting the ambiguity of the past few months. "I'm confused, Tom. I thought you were happy with this, with us. But how could you be? We've never discussed it. We've just coasted along in our mutual, what, attraction? Need? Because I do need you, I'll admit that. But I want you to admit something too."
"What," Tom hushed, his eyes not meeting Tobey's.
"I want you to tell me you're afraid."
The tension was thick. Blood rushed at incredible speeds in the two bodies, inches apart. And then Tom did something Tobey did not expect. He smiled.
"You think I'm afraid of you touching me? I'm not. You think I'm afraid I might like it? I do. You think I'm afraid of falling in love with you? Too late." Tom stopped at the realization of his own admission. He tried not to bow his head in embarrassment, but it was unavoidable.
Tobey stood wide-eyed at the confession. If this had been any other moment between them, Tobey would not have thought twice about closing the gap between them and surrounding Tom with his arms. Now he had to will his courage to take him there. Taking first one step and then another Tobey found himself inches from Tom's reddened cheeks. And then something came over him. A feeling. An urge. A tongue darted across his lips as he leaned in to close the distance from Tom's lips to his own.
Tom wanted to be kissing Tobey, but his lips did not move. Months of tension could drain away in that kiss if he would just let it, but there were too many reasons not to give in. The temptation was not yet worth its price. He pushed Tobey away while struggling to justify it in his mind.
"I don't want this," he muttered.
Tobey took a step back, wiping at his lower lip. "What do you want?" he forced through tears.
Tom stood unmoving in the doorway, fighting his urge to comfort Tobey. "I want you to quit smoking," he began in subdued anger. "I want you to quit drinking, and I want you to stop loving the pain Jack gave you. And," he stopped raising a pointed finger to the wall behind Tobey's head, "I want you to get rid of that picture. You've lived in it far too long." Tom looked back at Tobey and then over to his desk. "And these," he said, holding up the letters to Jack, "Send them or toss them. This is your life now, Tobey. Jack gave it up a long time ago."
Tom stood a while longer in the doorway, his face red with embarrassed anger. When he left Tobey did not notice, Tom's last words still stinging in his ears. His eyes drifted to the cracked glass above the gaping hole on the wall next to his bed. And as he stared at it through the objectivity of the tears Tom had given him, he wondered what purpose the picture continued to serve.
Tobey slumped into his desk chair, wiped the tears from his cheeks and stared a moment at the sealed envelopes addressed to Jack. Reaching into a drawer he withdrew a piece of white paper and a felt-tipped pen. He looked at the paper, hoping the words would write themselves, and then took a deep breath and penned "Dear Jack, I don't know where to begin..."
As I near the end I ask myself will history repeat itself? Will I make the same promise? Will I be able to keep it? I know now the answer is yes because I no longer fear it. I am stronger now.
Jack McPhee, I did love you for the better part of a year. And from this day on I promise that I will no longer be a prisoner of that love. I deserve more, and you deserve not to have such a burden to bear, even if unaware. I hold no grudge against you. I understand that the pain of these past months was my own creation, and I release you from that guilt. Take care, Jack.
____________________ Always, Tobey
After letting the pen fall from his hand, he looked at the folded paper, its words already fading from his memory. A deep breath. The paper made a soft scratching sound as it became encaged in the envelope. Sealed. Stacked. A pile of letters, all to Jack. Tobey stared at the pile. This was all that remained of the past: unsent words.
Jack stumbled down the stairs, still groggy with sleep though it was well into the afternoon. Sunlight flooded the living room as he made his way to the kitchen. Jen was standing at the island preparing a cup of tea. He opened the fridge in search of orange juice, not noticing her trying to draw his attention. When he stood and turned to her he saw the look of concern and curiosity. Confused only for a moment, he followed her stare to the small white slip on the black granite of the island. It was a letter. He lifted it up and immediately understood Jen's expression. It was from Tobey.
His heart quickened and his face dropped. It had been a month since he called Tobey and learned of Tom. They had not spoken since.
Hesitantly, Jack slipped a finger under the corner of the seal and ripped the envelope open. Inside were a single piece of folded white paper and a photograph of him and Tobey camping, small scratches in the glossy surface. He stared at the photo for a moment, remembering the day it was taken a year ago with absolute clarity. Turning to the paper, he unfolded it with shaking hands. Staring back at him were the small felt-tipped pen strokes. "Thanks," was all it said.
November 2001
The tears eventually dried. They had to, I suppose. The well of pain runs only so deep without being replenished. It was not the memories of the last few days that made me cry. It was the reminders of the days before. You. Your touch. Feeling like I'd never know that love again...
January 2002
Tom stood in front of the wall beside Tobey's bed, his nose just inches away from the frame and the exposed drywall. Tobey wondered why the picture interested Tom so much. Perhaps it was because Tom had never seen Tobey display the same degree of happiness that he once seemingly possessed. Perhaps it was because Tom could not bring him that same happiness. Oddly, the thought amused Tobey, curling itself with his lips in a half smirk.
I gave you too much power over me. Even months after you left I continued to give it to you. And so it came down to a simple choice: would I allow myself to be dominated by you, or would I risk casting off my former self in order to finally be happy...
March 2002
I quit smoking after that. I left my therapist and took the cracked frame off the wall. I can't say that I am over you, but I know I'm on my way.
Epilogue