The Muse's Undoing

I pat his leg and get up. A few minutes later I’m back with some lemon ginger tea, water, and a few ibuprofen.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, slowly sipping and swallowing a little of everything. I have an urge to reach out and stroke his cheek, but just as I’m about to, I realize what a weird gesture that would be. Intimate. And I also wonder why it came over me.

Uncomfortable being so close to him suddenly, I stand back up. “Want me to close the blinds?” The sun is bright this morning.

“Okay.”

The urge comes back. Stronger this time. I turn away from him and adjust the lighting in the room. “Can I get you anything else?”

“I’m okay. Thank you again,” he says softly.

I don’t stroke his cheek, but I do press my hand to his forehead. He’s warm, but he’s always warm. I don’t think he has a fever, and I let him know my thoughts on it.

“Greta has a cold. I probably caught it from her.”

Greta. One of his co-workers. I’ve never met her, but I feel like I know her. And now I don’t like her for getting my brother sick. “She doesn’t know how to cover her sneeze or what?” I ask.

“She was coughing. And no.”

I pull my hand back before it does what it wants to do and glide itself through his thick hair.

Fuck.

He and I have been sharing this bed for months, and for the majority of those months we’ve gone to sleep curled up together one way or another. We spend every evening watching TV or chatting at the table while I write, and he sketches.

We have a routine, and it’s so easy. But maybe I’m getting too comfortable. Comfortable in that way that causes lines to blur and feelings to get confused.

I rarely leave the apartment. I haven’t had sex in nearly a year, and the last time was one in a series of one-night stands with various other American newspeople in Afghanistan. I haven’t thought about sex—in terms of missing it. I jerk off in the shower daily, but I’ve been doing that since I was a teenager.

This morning, however—nearly getting off on Matthew—was dangerous. It crossed a line, whether he’s aware of it or not. The choice in front of me is to get my ass back to work, fly off to Qatar, and keep chasing my goals, or stay. Here. Find another way to bring awareness to the world that exists outside this country.

The truth is, what happened to me is relatively rare. Bad luck. The odds of being injured again are slim, so that’s not what’s holding me back. I’m starting to think what’s making it hard to decide is that I like it here with Matthew.

But he’s so young. And unless he’s got something going on at work he’s hiding really, really well, then he’s put his life on hold for nine months. For me. I’m not sure how that makes me feel.

Uneasy might be the word I’d choose. I chew on my lip as I leave him alone to rest. I open up my laptop on the dining table and try to get some writing done, but my mind keeps wandering back to Matthew, and to what I was doing when I was twenty.

I was in college. I had a roommate in a shitty East Village apartment in a building that’s since been condemned. I was going out nearly every night, enjoying all Manhattan has to offer. I had girlfriends on a rotation because I was that asshole. I enjoyed dating, just not the same person all the time. My roommate Gibson told me it was all gonna blow up in my face one day, but it never did. I got away with everything. And I got off on getting away with it, too.

I understand that Matty’s not like me. I’m not shy, I don’t get stuck for something to say—ever—and I find change exciting. I love a new adventure, travel, trying new things. He’s a creature of habit, whether he realizes it or not. I suspect it’s a subconscious way he has of managing his ADHD, but how is he not dying to get laid?

I’d ask him, but again. Lines. Blurs. Boundaries. Brothers, but kind of also not brothers.

I think the right thing to do for me—for both of us—is to get on with my life and let him get on with his. Maybe I misunderstood Donna back when she expressed concern about Matty and me sharing a bed. Maybe she was more worried about him—hiding himself? Wasn’t that the way she put it at dinner the night Maggie introduced us to Stuart? That he’s hiding himself away?

He has a tendency to binge things—TV shows, his artwork—more than once I’ve had to remind him what time it is so he could get some sleep before work. When he doesn’t have to work, sometimes he’ll stay up until four in the morning and his hand is cramping because he can’t stop until he’s finished. Am I an object of his hyper focus, too?

I do something I rarely do and text Maggie.

Serious question: Do you think Matty would be going out more if it weren’t for me?

It takes about half an hour, but she finally reads the message and replies.

Maggie

short answer: yes. but I wouldn’t sweat it.

why not sweat it?