Collide

Wesley’s asleep, but not really asleep, so I tap him on the temple and tell him we have to take a ride.

“Wut tha hell, Rine. I have ta be ta work een three hours,” he says without opening his eyes.

Even though he was raised two hours west of New Orleans, he speaks with the affected accent of a rancher from Odessa, Texas. “I can’t really understand what you’re saying when you mumble, but I need you to please drive me back to Rehab so I can get my inhaler out my car,” I say, slipping into a pair of gym shorts I find on the floor. “It’s either my car or the ER, stud.”

He dramatically throws off the comforter and makes glottal noises while getting dressed. I follow him down the stairs and into his night, staring at his ass the entire way. Less than an hour ago, we were having sex and he told me he loved me. And I said it right back to him.

Saying the first “I love you” during sex is like converting to Christianity in the middle of The Passion of the Christ — it’s out-of-place and probably long overdue. But I said it, and I’m still trying to pin down why.

We drive until we arrive at Rehab (Clementine, Louisiana’s only gay bar) just as the sun’s coming up. I tell Wesley I’ll see him back at his place and he doesn’t even turn to me. In my car, I take a long inhale from my puffer, then put on my favorite Rachael Yamagata song, "Collide," pushing the volume all the way up. This song always reminds me of my exboyfriend, Wit’s End, and I typically only listen to it when the weather’s cold. Like Joni Mitchell and The xx, Rachel Yamagata is best enjoyed during winter. The temperature gauge says 55 degrees, so I guess I’m not breaking any rules. Rachael coos and I pull air into my lungs and push it back out in heavy, deliberate streams. I’ll quit smoking tomorrow and make an appointment with my pulmonologist on Monday.

Wesley’s apartment is dark and spooky. He let himself back in without me — not caring to wait while I caught up. In the bedroom at the end of the hall, Nick is sleeping with Wesley’s roommate. I didn’t hear noises earlier, but I assume they fucked, because neither was sober enough not to fuck. I undress and lay next to Wesley, my back to his, then I grab my phone and jot down a note before I forget:

I'm waking without you, and that's fine with me.

And I'll text you back later, at a time when I'm free.

You can still be my boyfriend, just please leave me be.

In a few hours, we’ll all wake up and we’ll all be late for something. And with socks, phone, and underwear in hand, I’ll leave Clementine with Nick, and we’ll talk about our bravery and recklessness through mouthfuls of McGriddles. Later that night, Nick and I will go out in Lafayette where I’ll meet Nick’s friend from DeRidder, Allen. Then, I’ll wake up Sunday morning next to Allen, never having said “I love you” once.

I don’t know it yet, but this is my future. My present is staring at the ceiling, listening to Wesley snore. And though I'm still, I'm in free fall. Since Heath moved away, life seems to be barreling on top of me. The days unfurl hastily and force me down rabbit holes and trap doors. I'm nineteen again and men are not men — they are mountains to climb, claim, and descend. I don't even bother to save their numbers anymore. I feel myself nearing impact with the ground and my body jolts, briefly waking Wesley and sending a shot of adrenaline throughout my body.

I’ll quit smoking tomorrow and make an appointment with my pulmonologist on Monday.