The Muse's Undoing

“How can we help?” Dick asks.

“You could start with telling Nicole the truth. You could take all this big, united front Cannon energy and aim it at the person who can actually do something about this. If she’s freaking out, you can calm her down. If she’s a homophobe, you can report back to me, and I’ll pass that on to my attorney.”

“What is the truth?” Donna asks.

I have half a mind to tell her that’s also none of her business, but I don’t. If she needs to hear it from my mouth, I’m happy to tell her. I’ve got nothing left to lose. “The truth is that Matthew was there for me during one of the most mentally and physically painful times in my life. That he never left my side. That he took care of me better than any doctor or nurse. That he loved me like a brother and like a friend, and he never complained. He held me together when every single day I thought I would fall apart.”

A tear slips down Donna’s cheek, and Dick clears his throat.

“I fell in love with him, and I let him go. I don’t regret it. We were close, but despite what any of you might think, we weren’t lovers. He was young. I felt like I still had something to prove with my work. I wanted to start a family. I did. It didn’t work out. And when I came home in January, Matthew was there to help me pick up the pieces again. Then, and only then, did we acknowledge what we have goes deeper than friendship. And you know what kills me?”

They stare silently back at me.

“He never thought for a second any one of you would be anything less than happy for us.”

“It’s not about that, Fischer—it’s about Vaughn,” Donna says.

“For you? Apparently it is. But have you checked on your son? Do you have any idea what knowing we’re all sitting here together would do to him? Because I do.” I press my palms to the table and take a deep breath. “I appreciate that you’ve taken care of Vaughn. That you love him, and you were there for him when I was gone. But you’ve got your own son to worry about. Let me worry about mine. If you’ll excuse me, I don’t want to be here anymore.”

“Fischer, wait—” Dick says. Maggie calls out, too, as I turn from the table and limp away from it.

Maggie catches up with me at the door. Her hand lands on my arm. I jerk away from her touch. She looks stung. “I’ll go see him. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want to know about it,” I tell her. “Just make sure he’s okay. That’s the only thing that matters.”

Guilt descends like a nuclear winter as I leave the Cannons behind.

Nothing is irreversible. Words can be taken back. But making the choice to leave Matthew is the worst thing I’ve ever experienced.

He might break, he might not.

I’ll live in hell on earth then die and rot in it eternally.

I’ve reached my limit. I’m no martyr. I’m a father. And I can only take so much before I call this what it is. A chance to prove I can do what my own biological parent couldn’t. Put my child’s needs before my own.

But I’m also just a man, and I know deep in my soul where my love for Matthew lives and breathes and beats like my own heart, that I will never forgive the people who forced me to abandon the one person in the world who would never in a hundred lifetimes have abandoned me.

51

MATTHEW

Thunder rolls outside, and my insides continue to gnaw away at themselves. I’m in an unbreakable cycle of sleeping, hydrating, and puking. Something has to give, and in the end, it’s my mind.

Gavin hasn’t left, but he’s a quiet presence who doesn’t do much to interfere with my grieving process. He’s keeping me alive. Feeding me electrolytes in the form of popsicles and helping me off the bathroom floor and back to bed.

While he quietly stirs soup in the kitchen, I curl into the fetal position and quit my job. I text Maggie that I’m not coming to the wedding, and then I block her number. I send an email to a realtor inquiring about listing my loft. And then I start reading articles about which European cities are the best places to live. Gavin suggests Amsterdam.

After another full day passes where I’m afraid to move for fear of the sickness cycle starting over, I get a call from my mom. I frown at the phone because I know Maggie is behind it—hell, it might even be her because she knows I always answer when Mom calls despite the shitty email that made me throw my laptop—she’s too old to ignore. Every time her or Dad’s name is on my phone screen, I find myself bracing for the worst.

Cautiously, and as mentally prepared as I can be, I answer the phone on speaker. “Hello?”

“Matty…honey…it’s so good to hear your voice.” She sounds relieved. I get the feeling the next step was a wellness check from the police.

“Hey, Mom.”

“I’d like to come see you for myself.”

“I’m okay,” I lie.