Leaving Matt like that was one of the hardest things I'd ever done. His tears were my weakness, and even after three years together I couldn't bear to see him cry.
He cried easily, too, and having grown up in a household where a man would lose his man-card if he was caught with so much as a sparkle in the corner of his eye, it always took me by surprise. I was glad that Matt had no such hang-up.
He was secure in his own brand of masculinity, able to coo over babies and animals, bake adorable confections, and—yes—cry without any concern that it made him any less of a man. He knew how to be vulnerable and soft, and he didn't think those qualities were anything to be ashamed of.
I loved him for that.
I'd wanted to go to him, to take away his hurt and dry his tears, but I'd also known I couldn't do that this time—because this time, I was the cause.
Matt hadn't meant any harm—I knew that, too. Neither had I, and yet we'd managed to hurt each other anyway. Somehow, I'd led him to believe he couldn't trust me to tell him the truth, and he in turn had betrayed my trust in him.
We were both hurt, and I needed to put some distance between us before the hurt got any worse.
I drove out along the coastal highway, my mind in a kind of haze, and eventually pulled off and parked at a public beach. An hour of sitting on the sand and watching the waves come in did a lot to calm my mind and get me back to a state where I could process what had just happened to me.
I'd eaten a cupcake, and I'd lost my job.
Despite the fact that I'd given nearly ten years of my life to my career, it was the first half of that equation that really stung.
I'd never imagined Matt would have any motive besides love—love for the wonderful things he made, love for sharing them, and love for me.
And yet what had he said? I want to hear the truth for once. What had I done to make him think I wasn't being honest with him? And about what? What had he asked me after he'd given me the cupcake? Something like, Are you happy here, in this house, with me?
Of course I was happy. As I'd told my dad, I was happy as long as Matt was happy. And Matt—
Matt was obviously not happy, and I had failed to notice until right now—after he'd felt the only way to get me to be honest was to enchant me into telling the truth.
But why?
With the sun climbing higher and the answers yet to arrive, I decided I'd better find somewhere else to think before I got a bad sunburn on top of everything else.
The problem was, I realized as I started my car, I had nowhere to go.
Sure, I could go to a café, or the library, or wander a store. But in terms of a refuge—someplace I could feel at home and among friends—I was left with very few choices. Most of 'our' friends were really Matt's friends. I was merely tolerated by extension.
Matt made friends easily. People just liked him, and he could fit in with just about any crowd.
Once, we'd been on a trip and he'd seen a sign promising 'The Best Barbecue Around,' and forced me to pull over at a sketchy-looking road-side dive. We'd just sat down at the grimy little bar and been handed a pair of equally grimy menus, when a whole tribe of scary dudes on Harleys roared up and wandered in, loud, proud, and covered in leather and tattoos.
And then Matt had asked if he could sit on one of their bikes, because they were 'so pretty.'
I thought we were going to die.
Instead, Matt got to sit on a Harley.
It was like he was charmed somehow.
I was not. People liked me well-enough, most of the time, but not the way they loved Matt. Of all our friends, Ari was the only one I felt close enough with to ask for help, and he was always so busy now...
That left me one option.
My parents.
So, as one does when one has failed at some aspect of life or another, I went home to my mom and dad.
*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
I didn't call ahead.
My mom had often urged me to visit any time I could, and I'd been afraid to turn on my phone. I knew it would be full of texts from Matt, and I wasn't ready to see them yet.
My parents lived several hours' drive to the south, in a housing development with wide, curved streets and rows of closely packed, nearly identical houses.
Each had a little postage stamp of lawn, an attached garage, and a few meters of space between the neighbors on either side.
Though they'd been living there for several years now, if it wasn't for the numbers identifying their address, I might have pulled up to the wrong one.
As I approached the beige front door, I felt deeply grateful that my own home was so delightfully irregular by comparison. Matt had often proclaimed his love for its quirky charm, but I'd been more inclined to complain. The walls weren't well-insulated, the plumbing was ancient, and the wiring was—as Matt's adventure with the lightbulb had proved—not to be trusted. But at least it had personality, and it felt like home. My parent's house was very nice—modern and clean—but I wouldn't want to live there.
I resolved to tell Matt as much when I went home.
My mom answered the door, her mouth falling open in comic astonishment.
Tall and willowy, with a prominent nose, sharp brown eyes, and curly gray hair, she wore a colorful, flowy, flower-patterned dress and surprisingly bright red shoes. It was not at all her usual attire, and my own expression probably looked like a mirror of hers.
"Mom?"
"Benji? What on earth are you doing here?" She looked behind me and then up and down the street. "And where's Matty?"
I'd come up with a believable story on the drive—that I was on an unexpected business trip—but it seemed I hadn't yet learned my lesson and what came out was not quite what I meant to say.
"We had a fight," I said. "I was hoping I could crash here while I sort things out."
"Oh, honey—of course!" she wrapped me in a hug and then pulled me inside, shutting the door at my back. The inside was the same beige as the exterior and matched the carpets and the walls. "What happened?"
I kept my mouth clamped shut, afraid I would start blabbing about witchcraft and truth-inducing cupcakes, but when I opened it my own words surprised me.
"Matt's unhappy," I said, "and I don't know how to fix it, because I don't know why."
"Well did you ask him?" she demands, a manicured hand on my arm as she leads the way to the living room. Her nails, I noticed, were an unexpected shade of blue. I'd never seen her wear anything but neutrals before.
"No, I didn't. We were both too upset to have a proper talk. Mom—why are you dressed like that?" I asked, distracted.
"Do you like it?" she asked shyly.
"Yes, you look wonderful." Thank God that was the truth. "What's the occasion?"
"Nothing, I just thought, well—you and Matty inspired me, actually."
"Me and... How?"
"Darling, you know I love your father, but he's not the easiest man to live with sometimes. You remember how set he is in his ways."
Did I ever.
"What's that got to do with you wearing a pretty dress? Oh my God—are you having an affair?"
I felt a little sick and wondered if I'd actually turned green at the thought.
She laughed. "No, I'm not having an affair. I used to dress like this, when I met your father. After we married, I guess I adopted his palette. Seeing how colorful your life with Matt is, I thought that maybe after all this time there's room for a little color in my life too."
I was silent for a moment, thinking.
"Dad said...That is, when you two were over for dinner, Dad said something like he didn't 'let' you go back to school or have your own business. Is that...is that true?" I asked, hoping I was not wandering into a minefield.
My mom smiled. "He thinks so. It's more like I knew it would upset him, so I didn't push. I was studying medicine, and I wanted to do something adventurous—like Doctors Without Borders—something important and exciting. Your father was paralyzed with anxiety at the idea—it literally made him sick—so I gave it up. He's afraid of what he can't control."
"Mom, that's..." Awful. And alarmingly familiar.
"Where is Dad?" I asked.
"Where do you think? He's working, of course. You know how he is. Always working towards the big goals and forgetting to live along the way. You're a lot like him, Benji, in that respect."
I opened my mouth to object (being compared to my father was not a compliment in my mind) when I realized she was right. Matt was always asking me to take time off for this or that, and I usually said no. I had to work hard now so we could enjoy life later.
Then Matt would say, "What if we don't have a later? What if all we have is now?" And I'd laugh and brush him off.
"Will you be spending the night?" my mom asked, pulling me back to the present. "I'd love it if you did. You know how lonely I get, not being able to get out much this time of year." She had asthma, and smoggy summer air was her worst trigger.
"Why don't you get a dog, or a cat or something?" I asked, looking around. There was plenty of room for a small pet.
My mom laughed again. "Benji, have you forgotten who your father is?"
She was right. When I was a kid, I'd wanted a dog so badly, but he'd always said no. Even when I'd saved up my money and bought a leash and bowl, to prove I was responsible, he hadn't budged. Dogs were dirty and expensive, and they ruined the furniture, he'd said. Which is the same thing I always told Matt when he raised the topic of puppy-parenthood.
Christ. I was turning into my father. Talk about a midlife crisis. On the other hand, I was beginning to understand something that had eluded me until now.
Was it any wonder Matt didn't believe my words?
I told Matt I loved our house, but all I did was complain about it.
I told him I respected his interest in magick, but it scared me to death and I wanted no part of it.
I told Matt I loved him, but I locked myself in my office all day, almost every day, and prioritized my work over the chance to spend time with him.
Work that I didn't even like, and that I wouldn't miss at all.
"Actually, Mom, I think I have to go," I said, rising. "I just realized something, and I need to get home."
"Oh, no! But you just got here! Can't you at least stay until dinner? I'm making roast chicken."
She said the last bit in a sing-song voice that was clearly meant as bait, and it worked. I hadn't tasted my Mom's roast chicken in years. Maybe she'd give me the recipe to bring home to Matt.
"Okay, okay," I relented, smiling as she brightened and sitting back down. "Just until dinner, though."
What difference would a few more hours make, anyway, when I finally had the answers in hand?