But even my lies aren’t enough to comfort me. Because, deep down, I know I wanted him long before I became aware we’d be sharing a household and a father figure and a bedroom wall. Just as I know I’llkeepwanting him, despite all the very valid reasons I shouldn’t, until time eventually steals away my memories.
* * *
It’s late.
Beneath the covers in my darkened bedroom, I do my best to drift off to sleep but my mind refuses to power down, no matter how long I press my cry-swollen eyes closed. It doesn’t help that I can hear Carter moving on the other side of the wall: the low refrains of his music, his footsteps on the hardwood, the rush of water as he takes a shower. I try not to picture him under the torrent, his chiseled body glistening, steam fogging up the glass…
I fail.
Miserably.
Rolling over for the twentieth time, I punch my pillow into a more comfortable shape. Its ironic — I hated it when he was gone, but I think I like it even less now that he’s back, one inconsequential wall dividing my bed from his.
I wonder if he can hear me, too.
If he heard my tears.
If he felt my grief.
If I’m driving him as crazy as he is me.
The wall goes silent and I know he’s finally turned in for the night. It’s impossible not to think of him lying there in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, mere feet from me.
Is he thinking of me lying here, my legs tangled in the sheets, my thoughts tangled up in him? Or does he fantasize instead about his exploits with the three Swedish models he was so quick to throw in my face?
The low chime of my overhead speakers connecting to a new bluetooth device makes me sit straight up in bed, eyebrows arched to my hairline. A second later, my confusion compounds when music starts to drift into the dark room — a haunting, melancholic melody.
What the hell?
The song itself isn’t strange; I instantly recognize its familiar strains from an old playlist. What’s odd is the fact thatI’mnot the one playing it.
Utterly perplexed, I grab my tablet off the nightstand. The screen is dark, no songs queued. Same with my cellphone. It’s not until the lyrics start and my mind registers the song title —Don’t You Cry For Meby Cobi — that the pieces finally click into place. I know exactly what’s happening.
It’s Carter.
He’s doing this.
He’s playing me a song.
Somehow, he’s synced his phone to my speakers. I’m not entirely sure how, but as the words wash over me —oh, don’t you cry for me— I’m far more concerned with another question.
Why?
Why would he do this?
To comfort me? To torture me?
To let me know he heard my tears through the wall and felt…
Shame? Pity? Fear? Hope? Need? Sorrow?
I sit there in the pitch black, my body paralyzed as my mind tumbles in circles, and allow every lyric to embed itself in my heart like a piece of shrapnel.
I’m torn from the truth that holds my soul…
Vaguely, I realize there are tears tracking down my cheeks. I can’t summon the will to even wipe them away. Every ounce of my attention is fixed firmly on the music… and the man playing it for me.
For four full minutes, I listen.