I’m Sorry Too
Short Story
Julian and I are parked at the Main Place parking lot in Santa Ana. We are parked at the very edge of the lot, facing a freeway where cars speed by because people always have somewhere to be. Not us, though. We are killing summertime as if it were abundant, the way Orange County used to have endless orange trees decades ago. And so Julian sits in the back seat while I lie down next to him. My head resting on his lap. We are a bit cramped in the car, but that’s okay because this is all we have tonight. And as time dissolves, my phone starts playing a song I haven’t heard before, “Dawn Chorus” by Thom Yorke. It’s a soft song with maybe two instruments. One instrument seems to hum, and the other sounds like a sort of pinging, while a vocalist narrates something I can’t quite understand. And there’s something about tonight that feels strange, and it may have to do with our intimacy. Because intimacy is such a comforting feeling, but terrifying at the same time. Perhaps it’s because I have a disorganized attachment style. The style where I crave connection and yet fear it at the same time. My therapist says that I’m like this because of my mom. But that’s a story for another day.
Tonight, it’s just us two, a new song, and the distant sound of people going 60 or 70 miles per hour. And on my lap is my copy of The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel Van Der Kolk. One of my previous therapists recommended it to me some time ago. Kolk is a psychiatrist who researches trauma and PTSD. The book opens with survivors of war. People who were dispatched to Vietnam and experienced atrocities, or in some cases, committed atrocities. In the book, Kolk talks about how these people don’t come back as functional people. They often have difficulties, such as emotional outbursts, nightmares, or flashbacks. I’m not that far into the book yet, but I tell Julian about the book anyway because I find the content to be interesting.
“Trauma is stored in the body; it’s not just a memory,” I tell Julian.
Julian looks at me and then glances at the traffic across from us.
“People lose themselves after trauma; that’s what the author explains,” I add.
Julian remains quiet, but I convince myself that he’s still listening. After a moment, I sense a soft breeze whispering as it crawls from one side of the car’s open windows to the other.
“I think the body is just trying to survive at the end of the day,” I conclude.
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The breeze whispers again, and I begin to feel my fingers sting from the cool air. Despite this, Julian’s lap is warm, so I try to focus on that warmth. And after a moment, I look up at Julian and stare into his eyes. His eyes are dark brown, like all the men I’ve slept with. And behind my teal glasses are dark brown eyes, too.
Eventually, Julian says, “I’m going to miss you.”
“What do you mean?” I ask in confusion.
For a moment, he remains quiet as if he had already said too much.
“Nothing, never mind,” he responds.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
“It’s just that I don’t know when I will see you again,” he responds.
“We can meet again next weekend,” I answer.
He goes quiet again, and part of me begins to suspect that there might not be a next weekend after this. That I might not see him ever again because that’s just how some men are. They say mixed things. Where their words don’t match their intentions. But maybe I’m like that too. At some point, I’ve had to tell partners that they deserve someone better. Because I both care and don’t care about others. Because in the end, I want my partners to be happy. And if they stay with me too long, I will inevitably pull them down the way an ocean can pull people down and make them disappear.
“I’m sorry,” Julian finally says.
And I’m too scared to ask what he’s sorry about, so I say, “I’m sorry too.”
