Page 83 of Every November

I know you're not reading these most days. I’m still going to keep sending them. Just so you know, whenever you do come back to your phone, there’s going to be a small novel of me thinking about you waiting here.

Me:

Happy almost-spring. I hope the light starts making things better and brighter for you.

None of them get a response, but I keep going anyway because if silence is what he needs right now, the least I can do is make sure it isn’t lonely. Some days it takes everything in me not to call or book another flight and show up at his door uninvited again, but I don’t. Instead, I just keep sending proof that I haven’t gone anywhere, and trust that eventually, whenever he’s ready, he’ll have a long trail of it waiting for him.

All this space has done is turn me into a bit of a workaholic because at least when I throw myself into a project, I get to redirect my focus somewhere that doesn’t hurt.

Kenny, Priya, and Mikey have all been asking me what’s going on between Marcus and me, and I don’t have a good answer to give them. They’ve apologized because they’re the ones who suggested I go visit for Christmas, but I don’t think that was ever the problem.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I tell Priya again, over drinks she insisted on buying after noticing how many hours I’d logged that week. “If anything, going to Chicago was the best thing that happened to us. Whatever’s going on now isn’t because of that.”

“Then what is it?” she asks, much gentler than her usual bluntness. “You don’t have to give me details if they’re not yours to share. I just hate seeing you like this, Evan.”

I don’t have a good answer for that either, so I just shrug and take a long drink instead.

Mikey’s less delicate about it over lunch a few days later. “Are you guys still even together? Like, is this a breakup you haven’t told us about, or⁠—”

“I don’t know,” I admit, because I don’t know if we were technically even dating. The closest we ever got was Marcus joking that Paul would think I was his boyfriend. I asked if that would be the worst thing, and he flipped bacon instead of answering. We never even had a conversation about being exclusive. We just kept choosing each other once a year from two thousand miles away, and I assumed that counted for something. But maybe for him, it was just an escape from Thanksgiving with his family?

No, that thought doesn’t sit right with me. “It’s not like there was ever a clean moment to define it. We were figuring it out as we went. And now he’s not really available to figure anything out with, so I’m just... stuck in whatever this is.”

“Do you think he’d say the same, though? If you asked him?”

“I think so. I hope so.” I exhale. “I guess I don’t know for certain. I just know I haven’t wanted anyone else the way I’ve wanted him since the moment I saw him standing at that bar, three years ago now. That’s the only thing I’m sure of.”

Mikey squeezes my shoulder and I offer a small smile.

CHAPTER 29

Marcus

Idon’t know how long I’ve been like this now—a shell of a person.

I went from the highest I’ve ever been to the lowest, all in one day, and I think the fall is what broke something. If I’d never known how good I could feel, maybe the bottom wouldn’t hurt this much.

Somehow it’s summer now, and it feels like all I do is get out of bed to go to work, go to the bathroom, and stand in front of the open fridge and stare at whatever food I have left in there, but don’t eat. It’s exhausting.

Any time I’m not doing that, I’m thinking about Evan.

He still texts me often, and somehow, my brain still finds a way to turn them into proof of the wrong thing. He’s just being kind. He feels sorry for you. He just doesn’t want you to hurt yourself.

Because how could he still want me after all of this? After I left him sitting outside my door for days, so scared he called the police just to find out if I was alive?

I remember lying there, listening to them knock, hearing a stranger say someone’s worried about you through the door. I couldn’t let them in. Couldn’t face Evan. So I dragged myself out of bed for the first time all day, walked to the bathroom, and flushed the toilet, hoping it was just enough confirmation that I was alive.

And it worked. They left.

And Evan stayed on the other side of the door, apologizing to me, while the only thing I could give him was the sound of a toilet.

Whatever he felt for the guy who made him breakfast in December, it can’t survive this version of me. Maybe he’s already moved on to someone who can give him what he needs.

Someone who isn’t broken.

Someone who can text back.

Someone who isn’t so fucked up.