Blindness

I’m so happy to see our room. Like I’ve been out in the wild and just made it to home base. I think maybe part of me was worried it wouldn’t be the same, that it would be gone somehow. I sit down on the bed and lay flat on my back. I turn my head to the side to take in our clothes—Trevor’s, and mine—lined up and intermingled in our closet. The picture I have of us from our last Dean’s dinner is propped up on the night table on my side of the bed, my phone charging next to it.

When I scoot up the bed, I notice the message light blinking. My body reacts with a shot of adrenaline, my eyes almost not focusing, and my head swirling with dizziness. I’m tense until I listen to Trevor’s message, and when I realize it’s only from a few moments ago, I’m flooded with relief.

Without stopping to think, stopping to plan, I hit dial. I realize I’m not sure what to say when the ringing begins. I’m thinking about hanging up, but then Trevor’s voice is there—familiar, warm, and happy.

“Hey, you are up!” he says, almost surprised. My wits are about me enough to realize that it is a little earlier than I usually get up on a Monday. My first class isn’t until ten, and I’m only at my internship on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

“Yeah…I couldn’t sleep anymore. I decided to just get up. Must have been in the shower when you called, sorry,” I say, the hardness in my gut needling at me from my lie.

“Good. I mean…not good that you couldn’t sleep. Just…I’m glad I didn’t wake you,” Trevor says, his voice sweet and full of sureness.

My guilt swallowing me up just a little more, I try to up my enthusiasm to match his. “I miss you. What are you doing home? Aren’t you usually in the office by now?” I ask, suddenly worried that something’s happened.

“Yeah, I actually just got home. We were up all night going through some old case files,” Trevor says through a yawn. “I was just hoping to catch you before I went to bed.”

“I’m yours,” I say, my arm covering my face at the double meaning—perhaps a reminder to myself.

“Well…I happen to have two tickets to West Side Story at the National Theater this weekend…” he doesn’t even have to finish, and I’m squealing in the phone. I’ve been to a few live theater shows in Cleveland, but nothing truly big. To see something on stage, at the National? The building is approaching 200 years old. And of all musicals to see—I used to watch West Side late at night when I waited for Mac to come home.

“When can I come? When can I come? When can I come?” suddenly I’ve become a puppy, ready for my treat.

“I thought you might be excited. I have a ticket for you already. You’ll need to leave Friday morning. I’ll pick you up at the airport. The show’s Friday night, but I have Saturday off. An actual day off! Thought we could spend it together and then you can head back Saturday evening,” Trevor’s voice is proud; he loves surprising me.

“Perfect,” I say, the torn and twisted feeling that was torturing me minutes ago fading.

Trevor chuckles a little. “You’re easy, you know that?” he jokes.

“Hey, don’t think this means you’re going to get me in bed that easily,” I tease back, already thinking about the sexy outfit I’m going to pack. I stand to look for it in my top drawer. I really only have one, and I bought it right before we moved in together, not thinking about how uncomfortable life would be in his parents’ house. Also not foreseeing the distraction covered in ink and piercings—who was now suddenly standing in my doorframe.

Shit!

“Okay, well I’ve gotta get some sleep. I can barely keep my eyes open. Love you,” Trevor says.

“I love you, too,” I say, almost a whisper, hoping that somehow Cody would miss it, and wishing like hell he didn’t have to hear it. His face looks like it did after his mother slapped him.

I expect him to bolt, so when he doesn’t, the discomfort that’s already clouding up the entire room gets thicker by the second. We don’t speak. We don’t even blink. We just stand there, chewing on lips, flexing fingers, shuffling feet and staring. It’s like I knocked the wind out of both of us with one tiny sentence.

I’m riffling through every possible thing I can say, nothing coming to mind, when Cody finally breaks through.

“Hey, I hope…I hope I didn’t make things weird,” he’s unable to look at me, and it breaks my heart.

I want to rush him, throw my fists on his chest and pound, yelling “Yes. Yes, you made things weird. But I don’t regret a single second. And I have no clue how I feel about it!”