Page 178 of These Secret Years

Everyone keeps asking me what’s wrong, and I haven’t been able to bring myself to tell them. I broke up with the best human alive because I’m an incomplete person and a freak, and I don’t see that changing any time soon. I’m helping him cut his losses.

His resilience has only shone a light on my complete lack of it. But also, yeah—could he have just held me down and fucked me the one goddamn time? I didn’t think that was asking too much. He asked if that night would have ended any differently if he had, and I wanted to shout of course it would have. I might have broken down and gone to cry in the shower, but I also might have finally had the breakthrough similar to the one he had during that first game.

But he is a knight, and I am forever sullied. Do I think I don’t deserve him?

Of course I don’t deserve him. Who the fuck could? But that’s not why I asked him to leave. I did that because I could no longer bear being the person who wanted to deserve him and couldn’t manage to do it. It’s complicated. And it sucks.

And yeah, I still fucking hate myself.

In my too tight skin, I take my mom’s car over to the run down lake house after the sun goes down. It’s the day after Thanksgiving. It’s cold, so I bring a space heater along with a propane lamp, my violin, and sheet music.

Some part of me must have been hoping for Knight to be here, because when I walk through all the rooms and find them dark and empty, I’m crushed to find myself alone wondering whether we even happened.

Was there ever a Christmas tree right there? Were there ever hot dogs boiling on the stove? Was there ever music and love in this crumbling down place by the water? Or had I imagined it all? Was our whole relationship some trauma product I made up in my head to keep myself sane? Am I sane? I couldn’t possibly be if I thought dumping Knight would solve all my problems and not just break me down more.

When I came here today, I was planning to write some lines for Shannon’s latest monster thriller, but what I wind up doing instead is composing more of a funeral march. I play it before I transcribe it, and it comes out sounding very sad, especially with the way the acoustics in the living room work. Even though the windows aren’t boarded up anymore, the sound still bounces around in the eeriest way.

I take a minute to hit record on my phone. I’ll send it to Shannon at some point. He might not notice, but he usually does pick up on subtleties like acoustics. He might even think this place sounds as haunted as I do. As much as Shannon’s work inspires me, mine can sometimes do the same for him. Two lines of my music as played on the cello, gave him the idea for the short film he released last week, and the movie is creepy as fuck. It’s getting a lot of attention, and his dorky ass has started calling us the dream team.

“An elegy.”

I almost come out of my skin at the sound of his voice, turning quickly with my bow out in case it’s not who it’s supposed to be, but there he is. Knight Winters, looking like he’s lost another parent. His eyes are bleary and puffy. His lips are red, and his clothes don’t make any sense together. Pajama pants, a sweater, and some warm looking slippers I’ve never seen that cover his feet. It’s the sweater that looks like the afterthought.

I’m so caught off guard my first question is, “How could you tell?”

“I know an elegy when I hear it. Slow, sad, sounds like it should have a horn section.”

“Were you looking for me?” I ask.

“Sort of. I didn’t know you’d be here, but I kind of hoped.”

Me too. “Why?”

“If we’re breaking up, we should go over the details, right?”

I think I said we should take a break. It hasn’t even been a week, but whatever. I’m scowling at him, and he holds up a finger. “Just a sec.”

He leaves through the front door, and when he comes back, he’s got an air mattress—the air mattress—a sleeping bag and a pillow. Just the one of everything. The air mattress is already blown up, so it looks like he prepared his campout in advance. “I’m gonna bring the cooler in, too.”

“House sitting?”

“It’s my thing,” he says. His voice sounds a little flat but hearing it at all has never been a bad thing. Not even now. I still sort of feel like I’m dreaming until I see the cooler.

The Yeti covered in stickers he and I have collected over the last few years arrives, gets put on the kitchen table, and then he kicks the air mattress closer to where I’m sitting on the dusty old couch. He lays out his sleeping bag and pillow, then goes to the cooler. “Beer?”

“No thanks.”

“I’m gonna have one.”

“Do we really have to do this now?” I ask.

“Why? Is there a better time to have a depressing conversation? In your opinion? I didn’t get a choice about the other night, so I’ll answer that. Yes, we really have to do this now. You suck for what you did.”

I sigh, putting my violin—the one he gave me—back in its case.

“How long had you been thinking about dumping me?” he asks.

I swallow hard. “I feel like it was inevitable.”