Page 5 of Then Came the Fall
“Exactly what I said. What do you want?”
The words bite. “I,” I stammer, “I want to help.”
He laughs, and it sounds vile, venomous. It doesn’t match the Matt of my memories. “How could you possibly think that showing up at my doorstep unannounced couldhelpme?”
Stunned, I don’t respond.
“You think I want you to see me like this?” he goes on.
“I, um, I didn’t think—”
“No,” he interrupts. “Youdidn’t.” He pauses. “Anyway, I can’t accept your money.”
“You can, though.”
“I won’t.”
“Please, Matt. Consider it a belated baby shower gift. Use it for your daughter.” I imagine a delicate white and pink invitation trimmed in lace, made lovingly by his glowing, pregnant girlfriend.
Who’s gone now, replaced by a hastily posted GoFundMe page.
“You wrote me a check for ten thousand dollars, Taylor. That’s fucking ludicrous. Whodoessomething like that?”
“Someone who wants to help.”
“I haven’t seen you in—what—seven years? I don’t need your pity.”
“Is that what you think this is?” I try not to raise my voice, but there’s no way to mask my frustration.
“Then what is it? You find out that I’m sick, and you come up with all this money that comes from God knows where and show up at my house with it? It’s pity, and I don’t want it. I don’t need to be your pathetic charity case.”
“Matt, can you shut up for a second? Just listen to me.”
“No—you listen to me. This has been the worst few months of my life. And to have you come here out of thin air and see me like this? It’shumiliating.”
Anxiety is replaced with agitation at the absurd notion that someone I’ve loved so deeply could be reduced to some kind of…obligation. “How can you say that?” I wonder aloud. “You sat on the bathroom floor with me the night I couldn’t stop puking from norovirus. You watched me cry so hard that I blew my nose in your T-shirt after my mom died. You were there when I found out my dad went to prison! How can you evenusethe word ‘humiliating’ with me? We’ve been through everything together!” My blood pressure builds. “Did you think I went there to makefunof you? Do you think I give a fuck what you look like? Jesus, Matt. Don’t you know me at all?”
He quiets, surprising me. I’m used to him putting up more of a fight.
“Did you read the letter?” I ask, catching my breath.
“How else would I have your new number?”
“Didn’t I make it clear? Why I went to see you?”
He sighs. “Actually, no. Nothing is particularly clear to me anymore.”
“Well, then, take the night. Re-read it in the morning. Carefully. And then, if you want help—which, by the way, is totally different than charity—call me again.”
I hear him breathing through the thick silence.
“But keep the money, Matt. I want you to have it.”
“You can’t buy your way back into my life. Youchosethis, remember?”
His words are a slap across my face.
I want to scream at him, or at least explain myself. But I can’t. Because really, he’s not wrong. Idowant a way back in, though not in that same carefree way that one might want to spend time with someone whose health is fully intact. I’m terrified of what it means to be a part of Matt’s life now. The risk involved. But I can’t sit back and let this happen to him without me. Not after all we’ve been through.
