Page 82 of Every November

Tuesday morning my phone buzzes and I realize it’s Marcus’s neighbor.

Diane:

Just wanted to let you know I saw him leave for work this morning around 8. Looked tired and he had a beard, but he was up and dressed.

I read it over and over. I feel relief and grief tangled together so tightly I can’t separate them. He didn’t open his door all weekend, but when he knew I was gone, he did.

I try not to let that mean what it feels like it means. But for days I sat there and begged, and the morning after I flew across the country, he got dressed and walked out his own front door.

It’s probably not about me at all, and I’m making this more personal than it actually is. Maybe today was the first day he felt good enough to get out of bed. Maybe his boss said he couldn’t have any more time off and he knows he needs his job. It could be anything.

Me:

Thank you so much. This means more than you know.

Diane:

Of course. I’ll keep you posted. You take care of yourself too, alright?

Me:

Yeah, alright.

He’s not okay, but he’s moving. I’m not naïve enough to mistake “left the apartment” for “healed,” but it’s something. And he has a beard? I wonder if shaving is too much right now. I’ve never seen him with more than stubble. I should feel relief and let that be what matters because he’s functioning and safe. But underneath the relief is a gnawing thought that’s ugly yet persistent: Why wasn’t I enough to get him to open the door?

My whole life I’ve experienced love relatively easily. And now here I am, twenty-six—about to be twenty-seven—finding out what it feels like to love someone with everything I’ve got and it still not be enough.

I feel selfish. I shouldn’t be focused on me, but my heart feels like it’s splitting straight down the middle.

Is this how Marcus feels about his family?

Fuck.

This version feels nothing like the version of Marcus who bought a whole grocery store, the one who told me about editing his family into something bearable, the one who marked my skin with his mouth so I’d remember him. I loved every single one of those versions. I still do. This version is just one more piece of him, and when he finally lets me in, we can work through this together because this isn’t enough to push me away.

The days begin to blur together, and Diane’s updates of him going to work are the only thing that breaks them up. Every day, I text him to remind him I’m here whenever he’s ready.

Me:

Morning. Hope today’s a little easier than yesterday.

Me:

I miss you so much.

Me:

No real reason for this text. Just wanted you to know I thought about you first thing when I woke up.

Me:

I’m listening to the record I brought home from Chicago and it’s really good. You have good taste. Don’t let it go to your head.

Me:

It’s supposed to rain here for the next six days straight. Thought of your whole “at least you don’t have to shovel rain” line. Wish you were here to make fun of it in person.

Me: