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But it had turned into a letter to Caleb. Half love letter, half hate letter, it flowed over page after page, then morphed into something else entirely. I started writing about when things had changed from excitement over our first album hitting the charts, to the dread I now felt whenever I left the house or the hotel, or went anywhere I was likely to be recognized. It had crept up on me slowly, that dread—so slowly that I almost didn’t notice it until I realized that going to Caleb’s farm freed me from it.
I also realized, as I paged back and forth through my nearly illegible scribbles, that there was a deeper dread lurking beneath the one I’d located. It came from the sense that the person who got recognized was more real than I was. How could I—the actual, singular Theo Decker—exist, when the Theo Decker the world saw was legion.
That week, I wrote the skeletons of three new songs, building them from the melody out, unlike how I usually wrote. I thought maybe that was because they weren’t Riven songs.
Maybe they were songs just for me.
I wasn’t sure what that meant, exactly, but I knew I wanted to work on them, see where they’d go.
It was about ten in the morning, and I sketched a tired hello to the doorman, a new guy whose name I couldn’t remember. Robert or Randy. Then I went upstairs, left my bags just inside the door, and fell into bed without even showering off the grit of travel.
I don’t know how long I’d been asleep when the front desk buzzed me and Robert or Randy or whatever his name was told me I had a visitor.
“A Mr. Caleb Whitman,” he said.
My heart started pounding a rhythm that made me woozy and I swallowed compulsively around a tongue gone dry as bone.
“Uh, yeah, yes, okay, thanks.”
“Ah, shall I send him up, then, sir?”
“Yeah, yup, thank you.”
I ran to the bathroom, sliding in my socks, and brushed my teeth as fast as I could, trying to erase sleep and airplane food. I glanced in the mirror and saw that my hair was a wreck and I had dark circles under my eyes, but there was nothing to do about it now. The knock on the door came as I dried my mouth and I made every effort to walk to the door slowly, in an attempt to control my nerves. But when I opened it to my first sight of Caleb in almost three months, any control I’d gotten slipped away.
He looked so good I wanted to throw myself into him.
His hair was longer, one side tucked behind his ear, his beard was meticulously groomed, and he looked healthier somehow. Tan or glowing or something. I crossed my arms over my chest, self-conscious about my own state.
“I—uh, I was sleeping. Just got back from tour,” I mumbled, holding the door open to him.
“Sorry to wake you.” His eyes were locked on me as I raked my hair back self-consciously.
“Um, do you wanna sit?”
We sat on the couch and I tucked my feet up under me, suddenly chilled in just a T-shirt.
“How have you been?” I asked, internally rolling my eyes at the bad oh-hello-there-let’s-make-small-talk dialogue.
“Better,” he said. “I’m better. I, uh, followed your tour a bit. Looks like it went well?”
Thank god he seemed as uncomfortable as I felt.
I nodded. “Yeah, it was good. Thanks.”
Then we sat, the air between us buzzing, the seconds ticking past in awkward silence.
Finally, after what felt like forever but was surely only about a minute, Caleb cleared his throat and held out a hand.
“Can I?” He took my hand and I nodded. “I’m so damn sorry, Theo. I know I may not have any right to show up here, but I’ve missed the shit out of you, and I’ve spent a while thinking about things, and I’m hoping you’ll give me a chance to explain. To try and…I don’t know, tell you why I freaked.”
Some place deep inside my stomach unknotted, let go of a tension I hadn’t even been aware of. I squeezed the hand that held mine, and used it to pull myself closer to him.
“Are you…I mean, do you want…” I held up our joined hands. “Is this a thing where you want to apologize so I let you go, or you want to explain so we can…try. Again.”
Because I wasn’t sure if I could handle another round of Caleb’s come-closer-get-away. I forced myself to look up at him though I was terrified to hear which one he’d choose. He cupped my face in his other hand and brought our foreheads gently together.
“I want to try again,” he said, voice the soft timbre of wind over water. “I’m hoping you’ll give me another chance.”
I scooted even closer and threw my legs over his, so I could wrap my arms around his neck. When that was awkward, I hoisted myself over onto his lap and molded myself to him. I could feel his chest expanding as he inhaled deeply and put a hand flat against my back and another in my hair.
