This question is another one he isn’t interested in answering. It delves too deep, it cuts to the core of all of this and calls out what I know are his biggest insecurities. He doesn’t want to talk about what his life was supposed to be or what it could still be, because he doesn’t think he deserves any of it. He doesn’t get to dream or think about the future. He doesn’t get to have a functional relationship, but this is where talking about it will help. He’s built this wall around himself, acting like he doesn’t care, acting like he isn’t affected by any of this, but I know he’s dying inside.
“You know what my future looked like before…” He stalls out. Again we avoid calling it what it is.
Trauma.
“I wanted to take over the bar and bring it back to what my grandfather built, but it all failed. I failed,” he now says, biting out each word as he finally admits what he believes to be true.
“Fuck, finally!” I shout, slamming my fist into the water, letting up a spray that causes Caleb to turn away.
“What the fuck, Ruby?”
“You failed. You’re right, but that doesn’t have to be the end of it. Not everything happened because the bar failed. You didn’t get assaulted because the bar failed. Your dad didn’t die because the bar failed. You had no control over any of this, so you need to stop letting it control you.” My words are louder than necessary and even though I’m not his therapist or a doctor or anything but his girlfriend, someone needs to say it.
“What the fuck am I supposed to do, huh? Go out and buy a new bar? Start the fuck over? Does anyone really start over?” he asks, the rhetorical aspect of his question now settling between us.
“Yes, people do. They move on—”
Caleb cuts me off, letting out a humorless laugh. “Move on? You act like shit like this just fucking disappears because I moved away or I slept well one night. Fuck, Ruby, it doesn’t.”
These are the conversations he hopes push me away. He argues and fights back and gets defensive because he wants me to give up, but I won’t. Inside of Caleb is someone amazing and wonderful, and I saw him and I fell in love with him. Right now he’s not that person and that’s okay. He will get there again.
“You never even let me finish. I get that shit sucks so fucking bad. You were dealt an incredibly shitty hand and it feels like it just keeps getting worse. But how can you move on if you won’t even consider making some changes?”
“What changes?” he asks, pursing his lips and hitting me with an extremely pissed off glare. I love it though. I love that he’s being real and he’s angry and he’s talking. “Like starting a new relationship? Because I’m doing that and it’s going just great. Getting berated by my girlfriend is really fun.” The sarcasm drips from every word and it’s hard not to smirk at him when I realize he has no idea what’s happening here.
“You think I’m berating you? You think that’s what this is?”
“Sure the fuck feels like it.”
He starts to reach for his towel, climbing out of the hot tub as if he can’t stand to be around me. This is what he does when shit gets too real and things have gotten real.
“You don’t get to walk away from me because you don’t want to talk about this. Sit your ass back down!” I demand, standing up and reaching for him. “You’re finally talking to me. That’s what this is. I get that you’re angry. I get that you’re uncomfortable, but that’s when change finally starts to happen. You can’t live in this bubble forever, Caleb.”
My hand is wrapped around his wrist as we both stand in the hot tub staring at each other. He hasn’t pulled away which I take as a good thing. I take in a fortifying breath, my shoulders rising and falling with it as I wait for him to respond.
“Take a risk, damn it. Make a fucking change,” I add, my words quieter this time.
“A risk? Tried that. I beat the shit out of your professor and look where it got me.”
I step closer to him, resting my other hand on his bare chest. I can feel his heart racing under the weight of my hand, the stress now visible on his face.
“That wasn’t a risk. It was a decision controlled by fear, and while that fear came from a place of protecting me, it didn’t do anything for you.”
He shakes his head vehemently, looking away from me, but not moving away. I tighten my hold on his wrist, tugging him closer to me.
“Look at me,” I whisper, swallowing hard because if I start to cry this is all over.
“I can’t do this, Ruby. Not now.”
“Not ever,” I say, knowing that’s what he really means. “We’re doing this because otherwise everything that has happened in your life means nothing.”
“Maybe it does all mean nothing.”
I have no idea how to pull him out of this. I wish I had all the answers. I wish I knew the right things to say, but I’m just as lost as he is. A few semesters of counseling courses and a couple of research papers don’t make me an expert.
“That’s not true. Because if that were true, we would mean nothing. What’s happening between us would mean nothing and I can’t live with that. What we have is real and intense and it came at a time when you needed it, when I needed it. We need each other and I’m not going to let you act like—”
“I’m sorry,” he says, cutting in and wrapping his arms around me. “I don’t want to do this with you. I hate that it turns into an argument and I hate that I want to blame you for it.”
He’s rational at times; so rational he knows when he’s being a dick, which is why I stay. It’s this side of him that gives me hope he’s making progress.
“I love you, Ruby. You’re the one thing in my life that feels right. When everything else is falling apart I know I have you and sometimes I feel like I’m ruining that.”
“You aren’t ruining anything, but I’d love it if you talked to me. And if you won’t talk to me about what’s happening, you have to open up to your therapist.”
“I want to tell you everything, but when I try to, I feel like…” Trailing off, he struggles to get the words out. “I feel like… Like when you asked about my parents,” he starts and I sit back down, tugging his hand to join me, but instead of sitting next to him, I ease myself between his legs when he sits down.
“Talking about your parents is hard, I get that. Sie never wanted to talk about them either,” I say, hoping to encourage something out of him.
“It’s not just that it’s hard. I guess it’s more about the way I feel. I don’t want to be angry anymore, but that’s all I feel when I think about them. And after the anger subsides, I feel so fucking guilty.”
“I know you do and I can tell you not to feel guilty, but it doesn’t matter.”
I lean back into him, his arms slipping around my waist. Leaning down, he softly kisses my neck, the heat of his mouth mixing with the warmth of the tub.
“I don’t want to argue with you anymore. I don’t want to be in this cycle of arguing with you and then apologizing. We won’t last this way and it’s fucking dysfunctional.”
“It isn’t arguing and it isn’t dysfunctional. You’re getting help.”