The Muse's Undoing

Anyone watching would think I’m coming off heroin. It’s hard to imagine even drug withdrawal could feel worse than this. I’m so fucking miserable. It’s a literal hour before I can even tap out a coherent text to him. And I don’t know why I do it. It’s not like he had words for me. And I don’t know why I can’t just tell him I love him, but I don’t.

I’m so sorry.

Fischer

I’m sorry too

I’m not sure what time it is—only that it’s dark when the knocking starts. I make it to the door solely on the power of my own belief that Fischer is on the other side of it. Unbolting the locks with shaky hands, my breath is shallow and inadequate. I’m shocked to see Gavin in the hallway holding a wet umbrella without a spot of rain besmirching his perfect outfit.

“I thought he might have been over-reacting, but I guess not,” Fischer’s assistant says, concern pinching his pretty features.

“What are you…?”

“He’s worried about you. I’m not saying he sent me because he technically didn’t, but I got worried too when I saw the state he’s in. Can I come in?”

“Is he okay?” I ask, my voice hoarse from coughing into the toilet.

“He’s alive.”

I let Gavin in, and he takes a cursory look around, eyes widening slightly when he sees the tree, but he doesn’t comment on it. My legs are too weak to hold me up much longer. I waver on my feet. “Come on,” he says, sliding an arm around my waist. “Let’s get you back in bed. I’ll make you some tea.”

“I don’t think I can keep it down.”

“We’ll work on that,” he says. “It’s gonna be okay.”

50

FISCHER

Ican’t do this.

I cannot fucking do this.

Not seeing Matthew is like having ants crawling underneath my skin. Not knowing how he’s doing is an agony on par with being nearly blown up.

I need to get to him, but I’m so fucking paranoid someone will follow me. Now that Nicole has gone as far as taking Vaughn from me, I wouldn’t put it past her to have hired a private detective to get proof of our relationship. Who the fuck knows? Maybe she already has it, and we’re suffering for no reason.

But I can’t let this turn into a scandal. Donna—in her email—made that clear. She implied that not only would I be sacrificing Vaughn but Maggie’s engagement as well. Evidently, the Marches are all up in this mess, which explains a lot about why Maggie’s being so awful.

Still, I need to figure out is how to speak to Matthew without making this situation any worse. I thought maybe we could meet up at the club, but then I thought about the glass-walled room—what we did together in plain sight—and I realize there are no safe places.

Other than work, I haven’t left the apartment because I need him to be able to find me if he comes looking. To be fair, I don’t expect him to. I’m the one who left. I’m the coward here, but my separation anxiety is intense and by far the worst part of all of this. By far. Hour to hour I give less and less of a shit about anything else but him.

I miss him. The pain is the same kind of searing pain that leads to trauma because of how much fear is wrapped inside it.

I’m scared for him, and I’m scared for myself. So scared that I’ve nearly called him so many times and haven’t been able to put more than one call through. And I’m scared that hearing his voice will be too much. That it will start the craving I can’t control. Will prolong the suffering of losing one more part of me.

I’m a wound that’s still bleeding. Waiting for the clot. The scab. The itch and the urge to pick at it because maybe I don’t want this one to heal. Maybe I don’t want to pick myself up and dust myself off this time. Maybe this time, it’s best to remember who I belong to. Who I’ve belonged to for almost a decade. He changed me, and I don’t want to change back. And I can’t hide from that anymore.

If loving him from a distance is the only way to love him, then I’ll do it the best I can, but I’m not going to try to convince myself that anyone else could make me whole.

His text was the worst thing I’ve ever read. The ambiguity of his apology ripped me apart. Sorry for what? Nicole finding out? For “dragging me into this” because that feels like something Matthew would blame himself for. Or was it—I’m sorry it’s over when neither one of us wants it to be.

And I can’t claim my response was well thought out. It was hurt. Hurting. Disappointed. Yearning and lost. Maybe pathetic. Maybe, even, a copout. Maybe another excuse. More ambiguity. Because I can’t admit to myself or to him that it’s over. That it will ever be over. If seven years without him didn’t do it, seven or seventy more years certainly won’t. Not now that I’ve finally allowed myself to picture a future with him in it. I can’t just unsee that.

After speaking with Gibson, it’s clear to me that this dark moment comes down to a choice: my child or Matthew. My career is hardly a factor. I can accept a smaller life. I’m a journalist. A writer. An expert full of strong opinions I can articulate well. I’ve changed my name once, and I can do it again. I’ve never given a shit about my name. On my birth certificate I was Baby Boy Alexander. No one at Riker’s even bothered to give me a name before they shipped me to the mainland into emergency foster care were I became Luke, briefly, and then soon, the Cannons got hold of me and named me Fischer Vaughn.

I’ve invested well, so I have the time and space to reestablish my career another way. And I certainly don’t need an apartment on the Upper East Side to tell me I’m worth something. It’s a nice neighborhood, end of story. I prefer the loft in the Bronx, but the price of having it, turns out, is far, far too high.