Blindness

I meet him in front of the door and take a deep breath. “Should I…close my eyes?” I ask, not really sure how to maneuver any of this.

“Uh, hmmmm, yeah. That’s good. Here, I’ll guide you in. Let me cover them,” Trevor says, reaching around me and covering my eyes with both of his hands. I feel him push the door open, and we step slowly into the room. I realize I’m holding my breath when a few seconds pass and I’m not greeted by a pitter-patter of puppy feet. When Trevor starts to slide his hands away, I’ve resolved myself to the fact that it’s probably a fancy dress or another piece of jewelry.

But then I see it.

I’m sick, and a part of me dies.

“What do you think? Do you love it?” he asks, the beaming smile on his face like a slap to mine. In the spot where, just hours ago, my desk sat, there is now a cold metal modern drafting table. It’s expensive, and useful, and perfect, and pretentious all at the same time—and I’ve never hated anything more. I can’t help the tear that slides down my cheek, and I’m utterly speechless.

“Wha…when?” I ask, not sure if I’ll even be able to look Trevor in the eyes.

“I know how much you’ve been working at the drafting room at school, and I thought I’d make it more comfortable here for you. That old desk was falling apart, and you’re going to need something professional. I timed it for when you picked me up at the airport. I called Shelly, and she said she’d let the delivery people in,” he says, completely clueless to the hole he’s left in my heart.

I touch the surface, and the first thing that hits me is the coldness of the glass.

“You like that? Look, it lights up,” Trevor says, bending down and flipping a switch to illuminate my new workspace.

“And there’s storage,” he adds, flipping open a portion of the desktop.

I sit down at it and let my fingers roam over it now, instinctively searching for the dents and scratches. “What’d you do with the old one?” I manage to squeak out, still not looking at him, hiding my reaction, hoping I can find a way to appear grateful.

“The guys that delivered it took it. Isn’t that awesome? We don’t even have to deal with donating it now,” he says, bending back down to turn off the light.

Trevor heads into the bathroom to freshen up, and I use my few minutes alone to completely break down. I’m heartbroken, and I’m trying desperately to remember what it felt like the last time I sat at that table. If I knew it was my last time, I would have memorized it more, spent longer working on my drawings, and cherished it. I notice the stack of drafts on the dresser behind me. They’re my drawings of Cody’s shop—the last thing I did on my dad’s old desk, my last moments with something so important to me, was spent preserving something important to Cody.

When Trevor comes back out, I manage to hold onto that thought, and I hug the drawings tight to my body. “Thank you,” I say, but nothing more.

“You’re welcome, babe,” he says, pleased with himself and completely ignorant to the words I’m not saying.

He kisses me, and I fight to make it feel real, and then he retreats to the closet to change for dinner. I rush to my phone and fire off the only message I think will help.

Trevor gave away my desk. It’s gone. Forever.

I know Cody won’t see my text for a while, but I know he’ll see it eventually. And I know he’ll know how much I’m hurting when he does.

___________________________

“Something’s wrong,” Trevor’s saying through the bathroom door. I’m sitting on the toilet while the shower runs, pretending I’m still in there. I’m buying myself more time.

We went out for dinner after my gift last night. I hardly spoke, and I told Trevor I was tired on our drive home and a little nauseous from his driving. I held his hand in the car, but where I used to caress his fingers and squeeze his palm before, I now just let my hand lie in his, almost limp. I let him do all the work. I didn’t pull away when he kissed me, but I didn’t pursue him either. And in bed, when he pulled at my nightshirt and kissed along my neck, I rolled away and told him I didn’t feel well.

“Nothing’s wrong. I just haven’t been sleeping well. I think last night was the first time I’ve slept well since the last time you were here,” I say, not really saying anything untrue. I did sleep well, though I swallowed two sleeping pills to get there. That was the one benefit of the mandatory therapy after my father died—a lifetime prescription for just about anything I needed. I kept it limited to mild sleeping pills, knowing how Mac felt about narcotics in general.