Go back and tell the truth

One afternoon in Texas James and I were having a talk near the river.  

I grabbed his hand, "You know why the Jews never pronounce the name of God?"  He didn't.  He gave me this look from the side of his eyes, his face turning into a wall ready to bounce whatever I had to say back.  Ready to keep himself from getting hit.

"To name something is to have power over it."  

I've stayed away from even the prospect of breaking down my ideas about Mike.  Tbh I've stayed away from him as a general rule.  Part of the story I've told myself is that it would hurt James, but there's something else going on.  I think I don't like what Mike does to me.  I'm done with not naming it.

When we got back from Texas Monday night I could feel some heavy shit brewing.  A lot had been felt and not enough had been said and James, James was sick of it.  I couldn't put my finger on it, but it was overwhelming me.  

Then on Tuesday after dinner James decided to talk to him.  Rebecca Jane came and sat with me by what seemed some sweet sort of instinct.  We inhabited James's room in silence like I imagine nervous fathers-to-be do the space outside a restroom where pregnancy tests are being taken.  After a while James appeared in the doorway smiling, "Yes, hello?" He wondered why we had taken residence in his room.  Rebecca left as smoothly as she had come.  I asked how it went with my face.  He kept smiling, "It didn't go well, I think."  That wasn't what I thought he'd say.

It'll be fine, I kept repeating.  It'll be ok.  

"Yes, eventually," he stared at a point I couldn't place on the ceiling.  

The next day everyone but James stayed home from work, and I went after Mike.

"I'm gonna ask you on a date today."

He pointed at his chest and his eyes widened.

"Me?"  

"Yeah."

"Bet."

He seemed pleased.

But somewhere between my shower and his change of wardrobe he got cold feet. 

"Next time," I shrugged at him, trying not to let him see how relieved I was. 

Later on I was writing in James's room and he came up and asked to talk.  We talked.  

He admitted he thought I'd bring up James and he didn't want that.  We talked some more.  He downloaded his thoughts about the retreat.  Talked and talked.  Great, I thought.  This'll help.  

Last night I learned something about their conversation that made me so angry.

"I don't think I can forgive him for this," I realized how extra that sounded, even in the moment.  

Even with the specifics left out, like the color was left out of Raging Bull, the heart of this still remains - dark and throbbing and ineffaceable.  

I'm pissed.