The Muse's Undoing

“I’m just busy, Fischer,” he says. “We’re good. I’m not going anywhere.”

But he has, hasn’t he?

I try not to let my fear of losing him come across in my voice. “Good, because I might be going through withdrawals. I’m not used to not seeing you. You need to widen your availability.”

He huffs a short laugh. “I miss you, too.”

“Yeah?”

“A little.”

I manage a smile. “Then maybe you’ll change your mind about sticking around in the morning?”

“Maybe.”

“Okay. I’ll let you go, then.” I feel marginally better. “See you when I get home. And I’ll expect a hug.”

“You got it. Bye.”

“Bye,” I say in a choked whisper as I hang up.

He opens the door for me when I get home, and even though two couples are waiting behind him at the elevator, he gives me a big hug.

A full body shudder overwhelms me, and fear I haven’t felt in months threatens a panic attack, the likes of which I haven’t had since I’ve been home. He scared the shit out of me, and it isn’t until this moment that I realize how fundamental the anxiety of losing him is. It’s part of my makeup. Cellular. “Jesus, Matty,” I manage to say, clutching shamelessly at his shoulder blades.

“Shh…” The sound he used to make when I had a nightmare to bring me back to reality.

“You have to let me make this okay,” I tell him.

“I told you, we’re fine.”

Why does this feel so fucking good? Why doesn’t he always hug me like this? Like he’s holding me together? Or just…holding me.

Is it okay to want that?

“Don’t flake on me in the morning,” I say.

“Why would you say that?” We’re still pressed tightly together, still whispering in each other’s ears.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’ve been…it’s not about you.”

“What’s it about?”

“I ended it with Valentine. I’ve just been…handling that.”

“You broke up?”

“We can talk about it in the morning.”

“Are you okay?” I ask him.

“I’m… Jesus.” He pulls away, hands on my shoulders, putting me at arm’s length. “You need to relax. Go do your thing. I’ll be here all night if you need me.”

I wish he weren’t working. I wish he could come up with me, and I wouldn’t be plagued with dark impulses to get wasted or have anonymous sex. I wish I could just go upstairs for an hour, have a drink or two and work on my book without it feeling like I’m the loneliest, most pathetic person on earth. The thought of how tonight will likely end has me frozen to the spot where I stand.

His brow furrows. “You need something now?”