“Of course you will.”
“I don’t know, Blythe.” Then, he lets out a ragged breath to control his emotions. “Because the girl I trust most in this world is taken.”
Now, my heart is pounding again. “I love you. You know that.”
“I do. The problem is, I might be in love with you.”
He’s just said what I’ve been unable to face. “Is that why you left Maine and moved here?”
“Yes,” he says directly. “I thought leaving would make it better, but it’s the same now. And I left because I already feel goddamn guilty enough when it comes to Chris. I get so happy when I’m with you, and then I just crash hard because…I can’t…I’m not allowed to feel anything for you.
“You draw me in, and we’re completely in sync. I’m fucking complete. And that makes me miserable because it shouldn’t be like that. You’re not mine. I don’t get to feel like that. There are times when I watch you with Chris, and I’m so…I’m so jealous,” he confesses. “I don’t want to have to say that to you, but you wanted honesty. I’m jealous. I’m an asshole for that. It’s wrong. So, I run and try to get you to stay away, but that doesn’t work either. And I know it’s all on my end, and it’s my fault.”
I have to think long and hard before I say what I do. “I don’t know that it’s all on your end. I don’t know what it is, but there is something happening between us that’s different than it’s been. I understand…the jealousy. I’ve felt it, too.”
He shakes his head. “You can’t. You’re in love with Chris.”
“Yes, I am.” I search for how to understand and explain what I feel. “But…Sabin, I get overwhelmed by you sometimes, by how much I care for you, by the force between us. We call each other best friends, but that doesn’t capture it, does it? We’re not just best friends.”
“No, maybe not. So, what are we?”
“I can’t define it. I mean, right now? Right in this moment, I cannot for the life of me figure out how to explain what you mean to me, how to make you feel everything that I do. To…to convey that I would fall apart without you. That I adore you on so many levels. There are no words to capture that in a way that feels satisfying. When I hug you, when we’re close, it doesn’t seem like enough. It doesn’t show you the importance of the way I love you. Normally, when you feel this powerfully for someone, you…you show them. Physically. You make love.”
“And we can’t do that,” he says.
I don’t like what I have to ask. “Is that what you want? How you think about me?”
The rumbling sound reappears, and the ground beneath me vibrates. “Sabin, it’s another one?” My words catch in my throat.
With my hand still in his, he takes the few steps forward to be close to me. He puts his other hand on the doorjamb above my head. “Just hang on. It’s okay.”
He looks down at me, and I squeeze his hand.
I do love him, so much. I just don’t know what to do with these feelings, how to categorize them. And I am at a loss for how to fix what has been building between us. What has been so perfect and easy for so long now feels terribly complicated.
The earth shakes for another few seconds and then stops as suddenly as it started with no warning on either end.
“It’s like you’re in my blood,” he says softly. “I can’t get you out.”
I feel his body touching mine, and as I look up at him, he moves in a bit closer. There’s a charge between us, one I can’t deny but one I can’t label either. I have the urge to envelop him in my love, to protect him, to convince him how he moves me.
Now, he puts his hand on the back of my neck. There is such tenderness and care in his eyes.
“Sabin…” I can’t move. I don’t want him to stop, but I also don’t want him to move in closer.
He does though. Just a hint. Just enough so that I feel his breath on my lips.
We are both still, waiting for some kind of divine intervention to tell us what to do.
But there is none. There is just us.
Finally, Sabin chooses, and his mouth moves in a fraction more.
I still can’t move. I still can’t react. This feels perfectly right and so horribly wrong.
“Sabe,” I whisper.
He pounds the doorframe above me and sharply pulls away. “No! No! Chris has done everything for me, and I don’t deserve any of it, so I cannot be in love with you. I won’t.”
Sabin backs away from me, his face showing that he is as stunned and confused by what is transpiring as I am.
“Please don’t go,” I say. “Please. Let’s just…let’s just…”
“What?” he demands as he continues to walk away. “Figure this out? How? Oh God, this is fucked. This is fucked.” He shakes his head and gives me the most heartbreaking look. “I can’t do this. I have to leave. I’m so sorry. I have to leave.”
The door slams behind him, and I clap a hand over my mouth to stifle the sobs. Finally, my knees give out, and I sink to the floor.
I’m going to lose him, I can tell, and I don’t know how to stop that from happening because I am so mixed up. It’s been a long time since my thoughts have been so convoluted, so impossible to get a handle on, and I don’t want to be back in that place.
My world is coming undone.
Earthquakes are the least of my problems.
I barely get out of bed the next day. I’m a walking zombie, unfocused, teary, my mind ringing with torment. Disappearing into depression is easy for me. I know how to do this all too well. Sheltering myself under the covers, shutting out the world—I can do that really well. I’m a fucking expert.
So, I do.
I don’t bother with trying to call Sabin because I know he won’t answer. I’m sure he’s spiraling the way I am.
Chris calls repeatedly, and I answer and immediately hang up on every call.
Finally, when the sky just begins to darken, I answer just to make him stop.
“What?” I’m almost too tired to even say that one word.
“Blythe,” he says softly, “what is going on?”
I close my eyes. “You’re the one carrying your wedding invitation around. You tell me.”
“I was afraid of that. I found your note. You can’t possibly think that anything is wrong with us?”
“I can think whatever I want. Leave me alone.” I hang up and turn off the ringer.
The phone flashes to show that he’s calling back, but I ignore it.
Then, he texts me.
Chris: Please don’t be upset. There’s no reason to be. I’ll explain it to you, but we’re not doing this over text. Either pick up the phone, or we can talk when I get back.
I don’t have the energy to reply. My heart is too shattered—because of him, because of Sabin.
The ceiling fan takes me into a trance, and I stare at it minute after minute until the sky is black and until I hear music. I should find it odd that the ceiling fan is making music, but I just listen. It’s beautiful, and it lulls me into some kind of resemblance of peace. I let myself drown and be engulfed in it. Minutes tick by, and I don’t question how long I’ve been buried under the sheets.
Only then, Sabin’s voice cuts through my delusion. It’s his music, I realize, coming from outside. It’s barely audible, but that voice is like no other. So, I lift myself from the bed and stand by the open window. There’s just enough moonlight that I can make him out. I would know him from any distance—the shape of him, the way he moves, the character he exudes. His entire being is so distinctive to me that I could pick him out of a crowd of a million.
I laugh at myself. I would know him from any distance. I’ve thought that about only one other person, Christopher, and right now, my ties to both of them are fucked up.
The walk from the bedroom out to the deck feels endless, but I make it. I can’t imagine what he’s doing here when he abandoned our last scene so quickly. Based on the dying campfire he’s sitting next to, apparently, he’s been here for a while.
My heart can’t take another talk right now, and I’m about to turn and leave when he begins to sing.
WHY DID YOU RUN?
YOU WERE SO COLORFUL. YOU WERE SO BEAUTIFUL.
IF YOU’RE BORN IN THE FIRE, YOU WILL BURN.
WE AIN’T BORN ANY WISER. YOU WILL LEARN.
IT’S GETTING COLD IN THE WATER, MY LOVE.
COLD IN THE WATER, COLD IN THE WATER.
I WAS BESIDE MYSELF WHEN YOUR SOUL LEFT THE ROOM
’CAUSE YOU’D TALKED OF MISTAKES YOU MADE
AND HOW YOU DON’T WANT THE SAME FOR ME.
NO, HOLD ON, BE STRONG
’CAUSE THE TEARS WILL STILL FALL AT WILL.
Sabin’s been drinking. I can hear it. There’s just a slight edge to his voice, and the only good thing about it is that it jerks me into alertness and fight mode. I am not going to let him drown if I can help it.
With determination and as much of a level head as I can maintain, I make my way down the stairs from the deck and cross the sand to reach him. I stop a few yards away.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to build fires on the beach,” I say.
“Well, I did a nice job, didn’t I? Rocks around the edges, well contained.”
I kneel down and try to assess how drunk he is. “You’ve been drinking.”
“So what? Can you blame me? And don’t get all fucking preachy on me. I cut myself off an hour ago. It’s not working.”
“You’ve been totally out of touch…after what happened.” It’s excruciatingly hard to say even this. “Why are you here?”
Sabin takes his time setting his guitar back in the case before he stands and begins walking back and forth. He’s a mess. His sleeveless shirt is dirty, his face is unshaven, and his black hair is unruly. More than that, he’s boozy and volatile. That’s easy to see.
“Here’s the thing, Blythe. I can’t do this anymore. I won’t.”
“Do what?”
He waves a hand between us. “This. You and me. It’s over. I don’t want to see you anymore. Not after tonight.”
It’s as though he’d hit me across the face. I stand up. “Sabin, don’t you dare—”
“No!” he says sharply. “We can’t be friends. Or anything. I’m just here to tell you that. We are over. Everything about us is over.”
“You don’t get to just announce that like it’s no big fucking deal.” Now, I’m angry with him. “You stick it out with me, and that’s that. Because we will figure this out. So, no. You are not ending this. I won’t let you.”
“Actually, Blythe, I am ending this. I can do whatever I want. When it comes down to it, we don’t really have any ties to each other, do we? No. I stole your coffee. You fell in love with my brother. That’s the end of our story. You and he get the enviable connection, the whole aligned-with-the-stars one. Not you and me.
“And I need to take myself out of this mess and away from you and Chris because the guilt…” His pacing speeds up, the distress in his face increases. “Jesus, the guilt is impossible. I can’t sleep. I can’t be awake. I can’t find anyplace that isn’t filled with guilt. It’s already bad enough over Chris, but I cannot add in all this bullshit with you on top of that. Do you fucking get that?”
“On top of what? What do you feel so guilty over?” I run my hands through my hair in frustration. “You are the most genuine and loving person. So, no, I don’t get it. Explain it to me. Chris worships you. You know that. He would do anything for you.”
“And that is the goddamn problem. Don’t you see? He did everything!” Sabin’s agitation is growing. “Christopher Shepherd motherfucking protected all of us, and he left nothing for me to do! He took the brunt of what my father dished out, and Chris never let me give back to him.”
He is screaming at me now. “He always stepped in when he could, Blythe. Chris is a fucking saint. He is. He threw himself in the path of brutal bullshit over and over. He set himself up for it.”
Sabin starts to cry, and his emotions tumble out fast. “Always. And I should be grateful for that. I am grateful, but…but I also hate him for that. Now, I am left standing here, all alone, having done nothing to shield him. I did nothing. I did nothing.”
Watching Sabin, of all people, fall to pieces rips apart my entire system. I don’t know how to face him or what he’s saying. To some degree, I’ve had to get used to it with Chris, but Sabin has always convinced me that he tackled and beat his demons, which was a fucking trick that I stupidly allowed myself to fall for.
He went to rehab and got all fixed up. No follow-up needed. Done.
It was easier to believe that he’d somehow magically healed after such a short time.
“Chris did everything, Chris is a fucking saint,” Sabin tells me again. He can’t stress this enough. That is clear.
“Always the martyr.”
“Making the big sacrifices.”
“Hero.”
Sabin’s words from Christmas Day rush through my head.
“Chris has all the glory. He gets to be the strongest, the bravest, the one who stood in the path of danger so that we wouldn’t have to. So, he deserves to be applauded. Really, he does. But I fucking hate him for it, too. I hate how he blocked me from getting to stand up for myself, but more than that…I never got to fight for Chris. After all he did, I couldn’t fucking fight for him? I hate him. I hate him. And I can’t stand that I hate him. How fucked up does that make me, huh? He has scars to show what a prince he is, and I have nearly nothing next to that.”
“Oh God, Sabin.” I take a step forward.
Approaching his agony takes a lot of strength because it’s never easy to walk into someone else’s storm. But I can’t, nor would I ever, abandon him, no matter how destructive it proves to be.
“You have scars, too. Honey, you have scars just like Chris.”
Sabin’s arm flies down, and he grabs the bottle of whiskey. He unscrews the cap, and he flings it away. He looks at me with anger and takes a long drink. “It’s not the same. You know that, Blythe. He took more than his share. He took way more.”
The burning embers near me are hard to block out, and they are wreaking havoc with my thinking.
Fire, burning, flames, smoke, James, glass, blood, death, my family…
I have to shake that off, so I turn my gaze to the dark waters, searching for what to say. I don’t matter right now. Only Sabin does. I’m someone he trusts, so I have a chance to get him to let go of whatever it is that he’s been holding in. I know that something inside him needs to be discharged into the world. The release of what he’s been trying to suppress could save him, and I will not accept anything less than that. Saving Sabin is the only acceptable option. I’m not sure that I can do it, but I will try.
“The paintings we saw the other day,” I prompt. “There was one in particular…the burn Chris got under his arm.”
Sabin flinches, and I keep my eyes glued on him until I understand.
God, I hate having to say this. “That was meant for you, wasn’t it?”
He takes another drink and wipes his mouth. “Yeah. I wanted it. I practically asked for it. To help…even things out, you know? So, I could be Chris’s partner in all that shit and not someone he had to suffer for.”
He’s breathing hard, sweat forming on his hairline. “I started it, you know? Our father was in his studio, working on that huge painting, devoting and caring for that fucking canvas like he never did for us. He had…he had smears of color everywhere. Palettes and whatever. Brushes bleeding red. And there was this little kiln he kept running in the winter, partially to keep warm in that huge room but also for when he worked with metal. He liked metal a lot. Heat it up and bend it to do what you want. I didn’t think about that risk.”
He stops and faces me. “I didn’t think about that. All I wanted was to badger him. That was all it would take. Say one wrong thing. So, I walked into his studio without permission and told him that his painting sucked. That it was stupid and
ugly. I don’t know what else I said. I was fast back then, but I didn’t even try to run because I wanted to get what I’d come for—something that was just for me and not for Chris. But my father only got in one good hit before Chris heard me screaming. I got too scared, and I screamed, Blythe. If I’d just kept my mouth shut—fuck!”
His desperate face wrecks me. Chris has told me a number of hideous stories, but Sabin never has. I’ve never heard one detail from him, and now, I am again watching someone I love explore levels of anguish that I can only imagine.
“Chris got there, and…he was in his shorts, still wet from swimming, and he put himself between our father and me. I can’t remember exactly…Chris started taunting him, saying he was a better target. He’s the one our father really wanted. Then, somehow…” Sabin shakes his head, trying to recall the details.
“Oh. I know. I do know. Chris told me to get out, to run. He pushed me. He literally pushed me out the door and slammed the deadbolt shut. God, I can still hear that sound. I pounded on the door. Really hard until my hands hurt so much. I was screaming and crying because they wouldn’t let me back in. I think I was ten, maybe? Eleven?
“Chris forgot there was a window though. He forgot that I could go to it and watch. So, I did. I watched what was supposed to be mine. He smacked Chris. He slammed Chris’s head on the table. And more. Then, my father, without thinking twice, just took one of the tools he had by the kiln. I don’t know what it was, something metal though. And he stuck it in the kiln, and he made Chris wait. Then, he burned Chris. Right in front of me. After, he rubbed the tool onto the canvas, so it was part of the painting forever. I can…I can still hear Chris.”
Sabin’s deluge of tears and guilt is nearly intolerable to take. There is no possibility that the abuse stories they tell me will ever make me less sick to my stomach, less full of rage that I cannot ever fully release. It is my job, however, to be a source of stability and strength now. I’ve learned that. So, I have to at least try.