Crimson Handoff

The first thing I noticed when I walked into the apartment was the smell. Not bad. Not good either. Just different. Like someone had burned a candle down to nothing and then tried to cover it up with a different candle. Vanilla over smoke. The second thing I noticed was that Rachel wasn't wearing pants.

She was standing in the kitchen with her back to me, pouring water into the coffee maker. Just a t-shirt and underwear. Blue cotton, the kind that rides up. Her hair was wet and tangled, dripping onto her shoulders. She didn't turn around when I closed the door.

"Hey," I said.

"Hey."

I dropped my keys on the counter. They slid across the granite and almost fell off the other side. I caught them. She still didn't turn around.

"Long day?"

"Mm." She pressed the button on the coffee maker and it started gurgling. "There's wine open. In the fridge."

I didn't want wine. I wanted to know why my girlfriend of four years was standing in our kitchen half-naked at seven o'clock on a Tuesday, staring at a coffee maker like it owed her money. But I got the wine. Because that's what you do. You get the wine and you wait.

The bottle was a cheap Cabernet we'd opened three nights ago. I poured a glass and leaned against the counter next to her. She finally looked at me. Her eyes were red. Not crying red. Tired red. The kind of red you get when you've been staring at a screen too long, or when you haven't slept, or when you've been thinking about something so hard your brain starts to hurt.

"You okay?" I asked.

She nodded. Then shook her head. Then shrugged. All three in about two seconds.

"Rachel."

"I'm fine." She said it too fast. "I'm just. I don't know. Tired."

"You've been tired for a week."

"I know."

"And you've been sleeping on the couch."

"I know."

"And you haven't let me touch you since last Thursday."

She flinched. Just a little. Just enough that I saw it.

"I know," she said again. Quieter this time.

I took a sip of wine. It tasted like the inside of a shoe. I put the glass down.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on? Or do I have to guess?"

She turned off the coffee maker before it finished brewing. The gurgling stopped. The apartment got very quiet. I could hear the neighbor's TV through the wall. Some kind of game show. Applause every few seconds.

"I need to tell you something," she said.

"Okay."

"And I need you to not freak out."

"I'm not going to freak out."

"You say that now."

"Rachel. Just tell me."

She took a breath. Then another one. Then she walked past me into the living room and sat down on the couch. The same couch she'd been sleeping on. She pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. The t-shirt stretched tight across her back. I could see the knobs of her spine.

I followed her. Sat down on the other end. Not too close. I was already doing the math in my head. The math of what could be wrong. She's sick. She's leaving. She's met someone else. She's pregnant. She's not pregnant. She wants to move. She wants me to move. She's been lying about something. Something small. Something big.

I ran through all of them in about four seconds. That's what anxiety does. It gives you the whole list at once and then makes you wait for the answer.

"I've been seeing someone," she said.

The words hit me in the chest. Not hard. Not like a punch. More like a shove. The kind that knocks you off balance but doesn't put you on the ground.

"Seeing someone," I repeated.

"Yes."

"Like. Seeing someone."

"Yes."

"You're cheating on me."

She shook her head. "No. That's not. That's not what this is."

"Then what is it?"

She looked at me. Her eyes were wet now. Not crying. Just wet. Like she was holding it back.

"It's a woman," she said.

I blinked. Whatever I'd been expecting, it wasn't that. I mean, I'd thought about it. Every guy thinks about it. The fantasy. The one where your girlfriend brings home a friend and everyone has a good time. But this wasn't that. This was something else. This was her sitting on the couch with her knees pulled up, telling me she'd been seeing someone. A woman. For how long? Where? Why?

"A woman," I said.

"Yes."

"Who?"

She looked away. At the window. At the streetlight outside. At anything but me.

"Her name is Dana."

Dana. The name landed somewhere in the back of my brain and sat there. Waiting. I didn't know a Dana. Rachel had never mentioned a Dana. Not once. Not in four years.

"How long?"

She didn't answer.

"Rachel. How long?"

"Three months."

Three months. Twelve weeks. Ninety days. I'd been kissing her goodnight for ninety days while she was thinking about someone else. I'd been making her coffee. Doing her laundry. Sitting next to her on this couch watching shows I didn't even like because she liked them. For ninety days.

"Three months," I said. My voice sounded flat. Like someone else was saying the words.

"Yes."

"And you didn't think to tell me."

"I didn't know how."

"You didn't know how to tell me you were cheating on me?"

"I'm not cheating on you."

"You just said you've been seeing someone."

"I have. But it's not. It's not like that."

"Then what's it like?"

She let go of her knees. Put her feet on the floor. Looked at me. Really looked at me. For the first time since I walked in the door.

"It's like I finally figured something out," she said. "Something about myself. Something I've been ignoring for a really long time."

I waited.

"I think I'm gay."

The words hung in the air between us. I could hear the game show through the wall. Someone had won something. The audience was going crazy.

"Gay," I said.

"Yes."

"You're gay."

"I think so."

"You think so."

"I know so."

"But you've been with me for four years."

"I know."

"And you slept with me. Last Thursday. You slept with me and then you slept on the couch."

"I know."

"So you're gay but you slept with me."

She closed her eyes. "It's not that simple."

"It seems pretty simple."

"It's not."

"Then explain it to me."

She opened her eyes. There were tears now. Real ones. Running down her cheeks. She didn't wipe them away.

"I love you," she said. "I do. I love you. But I'm not in love with you. I haven't been for a long time. And I didn't want to admit it because I didn't want to hurt you. And I didn't want to lose you. And I didn't want to be. This."

"Gay."

"Yes."

"You didn't want to be gay."

"Would you?"

I didn't have an answer for that.

"I met Dana at work," she said. "She's a consultant. She came in for a project in January. And we started talking. And then we started having lunch. And then. I don't know. It just happened."

"It just happened."

"Yes."

"Like rain. Like a car accident. It just happened."

"I'm not saying it's not my fault. I'm saying I didn't plan it."

"You didn't plan to fall for someone else."

"No."

"You just did."

"Yes."

"And now what?"

She wiped her face with the back of her hand. Sniffed. Looked at me with those red eyes.

"I don't know," she said. "I wanted to tell you. I've been trying to tell you for weeks. But every time I tried, I couldn't. Because I knew it would break your heart. And I didn't want to break your heart."

"But you did it anyway."

"I didn't do it. It happened."

"You let it happen."

She didn't argue. Which was worse. If she'd argued, I could've fought back. But she just sat there. Letting it land. Letting me feel it.

I stood up. Walked to the kitchen. Poured the wine down the sink. Watched it swirl and disappear. Then I stood there with my hands on the edge of the counter and stared at the wall.

"You could've told me," I said. "Three months ago. The first time you felt something. You could've told me."

"I know."

"I would've listened."

"I know."

"I would've tried to understand."

"I know."

"So why didn't you?"

She didn't answer. I turned around. She was standing in the doorway. Her underwear was riding up on one side. I noticed that. Even now. Even with everything. I noticed.

"Because I was scared," she said. "Because if I said it out loud, it would be real. And if it was real, I'd have to do something about it. And I didn't want to do anything about it. I wanted to keep you. And I wanted to keep her. And I wanted to keep pretending that everything was fine."

"But it wasn't fine."

"No."

"It hasn't been fine for a while."

"No."

"Then why did you stay?"

She looked at me like I'd asked her to solve a math problem. Like the answer was somewhere in the room but she couldn't find it.

"Because I love you," she said. "Just not the way you want me to."

I laughed. It came out wrong. Sharp and hollow and not really a laugh at all.

"That's the worst thing you could've said."

"I know."

"Because it doesn't help. It doesn't make it better. It just makes it worse."

"I know."

"Stop saying that."

"Okay."

"Stop agreeing with me."

"Okay."

"Stop."

She stopped. We stood there in the kitchen. Two people who'd been together for four years. Two people who'd built a life. A home. A routine. And now we were standing in the wreckage of it. Not fighting. Not yelling. Just standing. Waiting for something to happen.

The game show ended. The TV went quiet. The apartment was so still I could hear the refrigerator humming. The clock on the stove ticking. My own heartbeat.

"I need to go," I said.

"Where?"

"I don't know. Out. Somewhere."

"Please don't leave."

"I can't stay here."

"Please."

"Rachel. I can't. I can't stand here and look at you and pretend like this is okay. Because it's not okay. It's not even close to okay."

She stepped toward me. Reached for my hand. I pulled away.

"Don't," I said.

"Please."

"Don't touch me."

She stopped. Her hand hung in the air between us. Then she let it fall.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"I know."

"I never wanted to hurt you."

"I know."

"I do love you."

"I know."

"Then why does it feel like I'm losing everything?"

I looked at her. Standing there in the kitchen. In her t-shirt and underwear. Her face wet. Her hair dripping. Her eyes full of something I couldn't name. And I felt it. The thing I'd been holding back. The thing I'd been pushing down since the moment she said the words.

"I don't know," I said. "But you're not the one who's losing everything."

I grabbed my keys off the counter. Walked to the door. Opened it.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"I don't know."

"Will you come back?"

I didn't answer. I just walked out. Closed the door behind me. Stood in the hallway and listened to the silence on the other side.

Then I walked down the stairs. Out the front door. Into the night. The air was cold. The street was empty. I got in my car and sat there with my hands on the wheel and didn't start the engine.

Four years. Four years of my life. Four years of waking up next to her. Four years of planning a future. Four years of thinking I knew who I was and who she was and what we were together. And now. Nothing. Less than nothing. A lie. A long, slow, patient lie.

I started the car. Drove. Nowhere in particular. Just drove. Past the coffee shop where we had our first date. Past the park where we used to walk on Sundays. Past the restaurant where I was going to propose. I hadn't told her about that. I'd been saving up for the ring. Had it picked out. A simple band. Nothing flashy. She didn't like flashy. I'd been waiting for the right moment. The right time. And now there wasn't going to be a right time. There wasn't going to be a proposal. There wasn't going to be a wedding. There wasn't going to be anything.

I pulled over on a side street and turned off the car. Sat in the dark. Listened to the engine tick as it cooled. And then I cried. Not the way you cry in movies. Not the way you cry when you want someone to see. The other way. The ugly way. The way that hurts your throat and your chest and your whole body. I cried until I couldn't breathe. Until my face was wet and my nose was running and I had to wipe it on my sleeve like a child.

When I was done, I sat there. Empty. Hollowed out. And I thought about Dana. This woman I'd never met. This woman who'd taken my girlfriend without even knowing she was doing it. Or maybe she did know. Maybe she knew exactly what she was doing. Maybe she saw Rachel and wanted her and didn't care who got hurt.

I didn't know. I didn't know anything. That was the worst part. I didn't know who Rachel was anymore. I didn't know who I was. I didn't know what was real and what was a lie and what was somewhere in between.

My phone buzzed. A text from Rachel.

Are you okay?

I stared at it. The screen glowing in the dark. Lighting up my face. I didn't answer. I put the phone in the glove box and closed it. Then I started the car and drove home.

Not home. The apartment. It wasn't home anymore. It was just a place where I lived. A place where I'd lived with someone who didn't love me the way I thought she did. A place full of memories that were now poisoned. Every corner. Every surface. Every thing.

I parked on the street. Sat there for a minute. Then I went inside. Up the stairs. Down the hall. Opened the door.

Rachel was on the couch. Asleep. Curled up under a blanket. The coffee maker was off. The wine glass was in the sink. The apartment was clean. She'd cleaned up. While I was gone. She'd cleaned up the apartment like she was cleaning up the mess she'd made.

I stood there and looked at her. Sleeping. Peaceful. Like nothing had happened. Like she hadn't just blown up our entire life. Like she hadn't just told me that everything I thought was true was actually a lie.

I wanted to wake her up. I wanted to yell at her. I wanted to ask her every question I could think of. How long? How many times? Did you kiss her? Did you sleep with her? Did you love her? Do you love her? Did you ever love me? Really love me? Or was it all just. This. A performance. A role you played until you figured out who you really were.

But I didn't. I just walked past her. Into the bedroom. Closed the door. Lay down on the bed. Stared at the ceiling.

And then I thought about Dana. Again. This time differently. This time with curiosity. What did she look like? What did she say that made Rachel fall for her? What did she have that I didn't? Was it just that she was a woman? Or was it something else? Something more?

I didn't know. I didn't know anything. But I knew I couldn't just let it go. I couldn't just walk away. Not yet. Not without understanding. Not without seeing this woman for myself. Not without knowing what I was up against.

I closed my eyes. The ceiling disappeared. The room disappeared. Everything disappeared except the question. The one I couldn't answer. The one I couldn't stop asking.

Who is Dana?

I woke up at six. The alarm on my phone. I'd forgotten to turn it off. I reached for it. Remembered it was in the glove box. Got up. Walked to the living room. Rachel was still on the couch. Still asleep. Still curled up under the blanket. I looked at her for a minute. Then I got my phone out of the glove box. Came back inside. Made coffee. Sat at the kitchen table and drank it while the sun came up.

She woke up around seven. Sat up. Looked around. Saw me. Her face did something complicated. Relief. Fear. Guilt. All at once.

"You came back," she said.

"I live here."

"I know. I just. I didn't know if you would."

"I didn't know either."

She got up. Walked to the kitchen. Poured herself a cup of coffee. Stood across from me. Neither of us said anything. The silence was heavy. Thick. Like fog.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"You said that already."

"I know. But I am."

"I know you are."

"I don't know what else to say."

"Then don't say anything."

She nodded. Drank her coffee. I drank mine. We sat there like two strangers in a diner. Two people who'd never met. Two people who had nothing to say to each other.

"I want to meet her," I said.

She choked on her coffee. Coughed. Wiped her mouth.

"What?"

"I want to meet her. Dana. I want to meet her."

"Why?"

"Because I need to see her. I need to know who she is. I need to understand."

"Understand what?"

"Everything. Why this happened. Why you. Why her. Why not me."

She shook her head. "That's not. That's not a good idea."

"Why not?"

"Because it's not. It's not healthy. It's not. It's not going to help."

"How do you know?"

"Because I know you. And I know this is going to hurt you. More than it already hurts."

"I'm already hurt. I can't get more hurt."

"You can. You can always get more hurt."

"Rachel. I'm asking you. Please. Let me meet her."

She looked at me. For a long time. Then she sighed. Set down her coffee. Rubbed her eyes.

"I'll ask her," she said. "I don't know if she'll say yes."

"Ask her."

"I will."

"When?"

"Today. I'll ask her today."

"Thank you."

She nodded. Didn't say anything else. Just stood there. Looking at me. Like she was trying to figure out who I was. Like she'd never seen me before.

I finished my coffee. Stood up. Put my cup in the sink.

"I'm going to work," I said.

"Okay."

"I'll be back tonight."

"Okay."

"Are you going to be here?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

I walked to the door. Stopped. Turned around.

"Rachel."

"Yeah?"

"Did you ever love me? I mean. Really love me. The way I loved you."

She didn't answer right away. She looked at the floor. Then at the window. Then at me.

"I thought I did," she said. "For a long time. I thought I did."

"But you didn't."

"I don't know. I don't know what love is supposed to feel like. I don't know if what I felt was love or if it was just. Comfort. Safety. Habit."

"Habit."

"Yes."

"So I was a habit."

"No. You were. You were my best friend. You were the person I came home to. You were the person I told everything to. You were. You were everything. And I loved you. I still love you. Just not. Not the way you need me to."

I nodded. Opened the door. Walked out. Closed it behind me.

The hallway was quiet. The same hallway I'd stood in last night. The same hallway I'd stood in a thousand times before. But it felt different now. Smaller. Darker. Like the walls were closing in.

I walked down the stairs. Out the front door. Into the morning. The sun was up. The street was busy. People walking. Cars driving. Life going on. Like nothing had happened. Like my whole world hadn't just collapsed.

I got in my car. Started the engine. Drove to work. Sat at my desk. Stared at my computer. Did nothing. All day. Just sat there. Thinking. About Rachel. About Dana. About the life I thought I had and the life I actually had and the life I was going to have.

At lunch, I googled her. Dana. I didn't know her last name. Didn't know where she worked. Didn't know anything. So I just sat there. Staring at a blank search bar. Not knowing what to type.

I typed Rachel's name. Found her Facebook. Scrolled through her friends. Looked for a Dana. There were three. One was an old woman. One was a teenager. One was. Her. Dana. I clicked on her profile. Looked at her picture.

She was pretty. Not in a model way. Not in a movie star way. In a real way. Dark hair. Dark eyes. A smile that looked like it knew something you didn't. She was standing on a beach somewhere. The sun was setting behind her. She was wearing a white shirt and jeans. She looked happy. She looked free. She looked like everything I wasn't.

I stared at her picture for a long time. Then I closed the browser. Then I opened it again. Then I closed it. Then I opened it. I did this four times. Like a crazy person. Like someone who couldn't stop picking at a scab.

At the end of the day, I drove home. The apartment. Whatever it was. Rachel was there. On the couch. Waiting for me.

"She said yes," she said.

"Okay."

"She said she'll meet you. Tomorrow. At the coffee shop on Fifth. At seven."

"Okay."

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

"No."

"Then why are you doing it?"

"Because I have to."

She nodded. Didn't say anything else. I went to the bedroom. Closed the door. Lay down. Stared at the ceiling. And waited for tomorrow.