Plus One

3: The science of soul mates

3: The science of soul mates

I had gotten the impression that Taylor was one of those people who never stopped talking—words came to him and moved through him like lofty breaths of air; he needed to release them. But as we walked down the block, I was introduced to the other side of his personality.

He wasn’t cold or rude; he was just quiet, as if fixated with his own daydreams. His eyes rose and fell as they passed over the colorful things and people of the city streets. I looked at him—looked at the defined contours of his face, the dark hair that fell in front of his eyes and over the back of his neck. I watched his thin arms sway like autumn leaves as he walked gracefully forward. He was so interesting. I felt plain.

“So,” I began eventually. My words seemed harsh against the silence. “How did you meet Dominic?”

His face lit up, the striking features coming to life with the glow of a good story. “We’ve been friends since grade school. We both used to live up north in the wine country. I moved there in second grade, and met Dom on the very first day of school by the swing set. He liked riding his bike and I liked drawing pictures, but we became inseparable. We went to high school together—got drunk, made mistakes, talked about girls and life and the future. We ended up at different colleges, but still made the hour long commute to visit each other every week to escape studying and stress. He was my best friend.”

He looked at me as we turned another corner. I smiled faintly, and he continued. “It was during our senior year of university. I’d convinced myself I failed a midterm—something stupid like chemistry or calculus. I was upset, and I drove through a thunderstorm at three in the morning because I couldn’t seem to handle being alone. Dom didn’t ask me why I’d turned up at that hour. He just let me in, fixed me homemade hot chocolate, and listened to me whine about my superficial problems until I couldn’t talk anymore. He didn’t tell me I was overreacting, or that I needed to go home. He took my hand and told me that everything was going to be fine. So then, without thinking much at all, I told him I loved him.”

Another long silence passed, and I swore I saw a sort of shadow pass through Taylor’s eyes: a dark secret. The pale blush that had dusted his cheeks peeled away to a color more ghostly than white, more empty than black. Then I blinked, and the moment was behind us—if it had ever existed at all. It had been a streak of lightning, and now all I was left with was the blinding imprint it left on the inside of my eyes.

A cable car screeched by us; Taylor went on. “He was confused. We’d both dated girls and slept with more than we remembered, both been in and out of love. But then, right before I was about to run away, he said he loved me too. The rest is history.”

“Damn,” I whistled. “If I ever have that good of a story to tell, my life will be complete.”

My tone was lighthearted, although the confession did nothing less than hurl rocks at my chest until my heart succumbed to the heavy misery. I was young, and I had my entire life stretching out before me. But while the road ahead was sprawling and sunny, lined with forests of potential and chance, a look over my shoulder revealed nothing but a black abyss. I’d lived for over two decades, and I’d accomplished nothing: were it not for gravity, I’d have nothing to yank me back to Earth whenever I began to drift away. I wanted a story like Taylor’s: a story that bound me to somebody—something. Anything.

Most friends I’d had would have commented on the self-pitying phrase, skimming over the truth with piercing stabs of humor and friendly ridicule. Taylor just looked at me for a second, his thin lips hovering on the edge of a word. His expression chased after empathy, but the tension in his jaw was reluctant: he seemed uncomfortable with voicing his compassion, as if he was unsure I deserved it.