Page 98 of Courtroom Drama
He nods once, and the gesture alone is like a punch to the gut as I silently say goodbye to that nod.
“Do you think that if... if we hadn’t been stuck together these last few weeks—eating every meal together, sitting next to each other in the jury box, sequestered—do you think we would have come together the way we did?”
He moves his right hand from his front jeans pocket to the back of his neck and looks down at the ground as he contemplates. “I’d like to think we would have,” he says, eyes casting back to mine. “But if I’m being honest, I don’t know.”
I know this is the probable answer, though still, I hoped it would be different.
“And just so you know, it’s not because I wouldn’t have been attracted to you orwantedto. It’s just... I wouldn’t trust myself not to hurt you. The fear that it might ruin one or both of us again always held me back. And then after Kara died... having you around, it would have brought a complication me and my family wouldn’t have been able to take.” He runs his right hand down his cheek to his chin.
But it’s been ten years,I want to tell him.We’re adults now.Logically, I know this. But it doesn’t stop me from agreeing.
I swallow around the sharp point in my throat. He’s armor and paint, just like the rest of us. Perhaps I just didn’t want to see it. Perhaps I would have known if I had a little more life under my nails. As I look into his eyes, I know his feelings are much more complicated than mine. He can’t think of us before without Kara. That time was her time, most of her life. I know he still holds anger toward my father. Kara died just a year later. And that last year of her life, as he told me, was largely consumed by the aftermath of the affair instead of making treasured memories with her.
“Right, well, thanks for being honest,” I say, curling my hand around the handle of my bag. “Besides, relationships that start under intense circumstances never last, right?”
He smirks, perhaps the biggest semblance of a smile his face has made on its own. “Isn’t that what Sandra Bullock says to Keanu Reeves inSpeed?”
The memory of us on his couch watching that movie together only adds to the preemptive loss I already feel about us leaving this parking garage, separately. “Yes,” I say. “But there’s gotta be some truth to it, right?”
He doesn’t respond. Perhaps our connectionissimply some intricate trauma bond.
“Let me,” he says, outstretching his hand when I reach to lift my bag.
I release, and he follows me to my car a few feet away.
I close the trunk, and we both rest a hand on the back of my car, lingering in uncertainty. As I look from him to the cracked concrete and back, there’s a strange dichotomy. I know him deeply, but also, I don’t. There’s so much I don’t actually know. His career progression and how he ended up as a transportation engineer. If he’s a fan of frozen chocolate-covered strawberries. How many kids he wants, if any.
But I do know other things about him. Intimate details.
I know how he takes his coffee, having stood next to him in the breakfast line for two weeks—a splash of creamer, no sugar. I know he makes origami animals because it reminds him of Kara. I know he cups the back of his neck when uncomfortable or thinking. I know every tattoo and its meaning. I know the one, directly over his heart, isus. I know that even as kids, he’s always been my quiet protector. I know his forehead kisses. And I know his glorious weight on top of me.
Which are the things that matter? I suppose none of it does now, because the decision has been made for us. He doesn’t know how to do this. And, I suppose, neither do I. We would have died a slow, meandering death. And that is the thought that keeps me from bringing it up again.
I tuck a pointer finger into the dent of each of his cheeks, gently pull them up as I had on the roof, this time with far less vigor. He allows his face to go limp in agreement.
“Goodbye, Damon,” I say, my voice quiet yet booming in the confinement of the garage walls. I don’t move right away. Instead, I stare into his eyes, wanting something from him—anything—but knowing equally I should just get in the damn car.
I let go of his face.
He looks for a moment like he may kiss me, like he’s strongly considering it, then instead swoops me to his chest, arms wrapped around my back in what truly feels like a bear hug. I close my eyes and inhale his worn saddle scent once more, knowing I’ll smell remnants of him in random moments in the days or perhaps even weeks to come. I have a flash of the idea of taking this sweater off and shoving it into a Ziploc bag to preserve his scent, or purchasing a bottle of his Trail cologne to spray on my pillow.
“I like big butts in a can of limes,” he says, and we share a knowing smile.
“A classic,” I say, arms still wrapped around his neck.
He leans back in. “Bye, Syd,” he says into the crown of my head, and I feel the reverberation of his voice in my neck and stomach. He presses his lips to my forehead, and I savor it.
I release first, knowing if not now, I might make a fool of myself begging this man to fall into something potentially toxic for us both, something neither of us is quite ready for. I give him a small, pathetic attempt at a smile and climb into my car. I catch him in the rearview mirror, and he looks almost distraught.If it’s the right decision, why is it so hard?I think on repeat as he steps aside when I start the engine. He gives the trunk two taps, and I pull backward slowly. I give him another errant half smile as I pull past him, shift, and leave him behind as I emerge into the darkening evening.
And then the tears come. I curse myself for them outright, angry at myself for allowing this level of emotion for someone I can’t have, who is perhaps even more unavailable than I am.
I drive slowly, perhaps a bit overcautiously, still feeling the remnants of the caged life I just came free from. I try to enjoy it. I do. I roll down the window and place my elbow against the door. I turn up the radio and then shift to a news station, taking in the details of the world I’ve reentered. But, I quickly find, it’s dishearteningly the same. So-and-so billionaire did such and such egomaniacal thing. Fingers pointed sideways instead of up. Two pop stars dead of overdoses. Violence. I turn the volume down, the noise rattling inside my head like a nail in a tin can. I’m still confined, just in a larger net with more potential perils.
As I exit the 101, turning onto Sunset Boulevard, now just a few miles from my apartment, my thoughts shift from Damon to Mel and how I might possibly relay any of the details of the last two weeks to her. No matter how I try, I know I won’t be able to accurately describe all the emotions and details and, perhaps most unexpected and yet undefined, how it all changed me.
48.
Post-Trial Disclosure (n., phrase)
