Chapter 2

“No. Everything is cool in my classes. In fact, I’m on track to make the dean’s list this quarter.” Not even a glimmer of a smile heralded this happy news. Kyle simply continued to appear distant and, yes, forlorn.

“So what then? Work? Trouble at home?”

Kyle snickered when Jonathan mentioned home—and Jonathan had no idea why. One of the mysteries with Kyle was that he had never been too forthcoming about his home life, only that he was from a small town in eastern Ohio, on the Ohio River, and that he was an only child. Jonathan still had no idea what his parents did for a living or how he even felt about his old hometown. Kyle shook his head. “No. And no.”

Jonathan didn’t want to entertain what the other possibility could be. He sank down onto his bed, nausea rising in his gut as he pondered being told Kyle had cheated on him (he was, at least in Jonathan’s mind, about the most handsome hunk on the campus of Hamilton University), or that he “wanted to see other people” or that he “needed a break” or that “it’s not you, it’s me” and he needed to end things between them.

But none of those scenarios could possibly be true, could they? After all, since they had met, shortly after the beginning of the school year last August, the two had been inseparable, best friends, lovers, the half that made the other whole. Jonathan knew it sounded corny, but he felt like, at age nineteen, he had found his soul mate and had never had any reason to believe Kyle didn’t feel exactly the same.

Until today.

Jonathan didn’t want to say the words, but a force stronger than his own desire to bury his head in the sand tore them from his throat. “Is it us? Did I do something?”

Kyle kept his head down, so far in fact, that Jonathan couldn’t see his eyes. Neither spoke for several seconds, a long period when Jonathan’s heart continued to race, now uncomfortable in his chest, his throat grew dry, and he felt a crawly trickle of sweat drip down from between his shoulder blades to the small of his back. He thought his feelings at this moment must be akin to those a person feels when his car is sliding around on an icy road while he waits, breathless, for the car to make impact.

When Kyle looked up at him, his eyes shone with unshed tears. His mouth was strained in a crooked little grin that had not a trace of happiness in it. Jonathan tried to swallow but again, there was no spit, so he simply croaked, “Tell me.”

Kyle sighed, looked out the window, and then back at Jonathan. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Jonathan knew what he meant. He knew, really, that there was no more need for any further words, at least not to clarify the definition of the simple declarative sentence. But a surge of hope, an irrational desire to be proven wrong welled up within him and he said, “What do you mean?”

Kyle’s wry grin was full of pity and that was when Jonathan felt his heart begin to break. “You know what I mean. This. Us. I just don’t want to do it anymore. It isn’t right for me. I just think a clean break, now, makes sense.” He reached out and squeezed Jonathan’s shoulder, meaning, Jonathan supposed, to offer comfort.

Jonathan angrily shrugged the hand away. His lips became set in a line. Rage leaked in to mix with the heartache. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Just last night, before you left, you told me how much you loved me. And how many times have you said we should be together forever, that you couldn’t imagine what you’d do without me? How can this not be “right” for you? I don’t understand.”

Emotionally, Jonathan didn’t. Emotionally, he knew nothing more than the simple fact that he wanted what he wanted: Kyle. His Kyle, whose smile could turn around a shitty day, whose touch could make everything all right again, who was there for him to listen to all of his news, good or bad. But intellectually, he also knew—and shied away from the fact—that sometimes there was no good explanation. He feared that Kyle simply no longer loved him and who knew why that happened? Who could explain the vagaries of a fickle heart? And even if they could find a reason to explain it, did it make the fact of losing someone any better? Did it make the fact you were no longer loved easier to accept? “You just need time to think, sweetheart. Maybe a day or two apart? You’ll see. I can give you that.” Jonathan now had a huge lump in his throat, fighting to keep his tears at bay as he thought of all he had done to prepare for this romantic three-day weekend. The plans and preparations now seemed superfluous, redundant, ridiculous. He wanted to stand up, take the bottle of wine from the fridge, and smash it against the wall.