Lines Crossed Chapter 3: Possibilities
The sun is filling up the room
And I can hear you dreaming
Do you feel the way I do, right now?
I wish we would just give up, coz the best part is falling
Call it anything but love
And I will make sure to keep my distance
Say I love you when you’re not listening
And how long can we keep this up?
-Distance, Christina Perri
Emma tried to call Charles but his number was unreachable, the network recording of ‘The subscriber cannot be reached. Please try again later,’ echoing in her head. She was worried, but she had already racked her brain of the places where she might find him, and she looked but he wasn’t there—the sports bar that they frequent to catch football and basketball games, his apartment, even at the sports complex where his team trains. She also called practically everyone she and Charles knew, but no one knew where Charles is.
Tired and weary (and gas-less, driving around the metro, looking for someone who wants help but doesn’t want to be found is not cost-efficient), and still no Charles, she went home to her loft apartment, one she inherited from her older brother, Paolo, just before he moved to an even better (and bigger) house. Saying Emma loves the loft is an understatement—it was everything she had ever wanted in a personal space she would consider as her home. She was partly thankful that she didn’t have to pay rent anymore—Paolo already paid for everything, buying the apartment right before passing it on to her.
Her apartment has two floors. The living room, kitchen, workspace and one of the two bathrooms were at the bottom floor, with virtually no dividers whatsoever (save for the bathrooms, of course). Her brother Paolo, who is a courtside reporter and sometimes analyst for the PBA, used to describe the loft’s size as ‘one halfcourt.’ Emma thinks its size is three-fourths of a full basketball court, but she doesn’t tell that to her brother.
White-washed walls covered most of the unit, and Emma had various ways of designing those walls. One wall was littered with framed covers of favorite books—Wuthering Heights, Harry Potter series, The Hunger Games, The Catcher in the Rye, One Day, the non-fiction The Tipping Point, among others. Another wall was dedicated solely to Florence’s works—her charcoal portrait of Emma, some of her abstract art, and her rare and most beautiful photos during their out-of-town trips. Three floor-to-ceiling windows covered the third wall, which she and Charles had covered with midnight blue blinds just to taper out the sunlight.
The last wall was everybody’s favorite—Paolo, Charles, Emma, Larissa, and Florence (okay, even Harry). It was the biggest and widest wall in the room, and it was close to where Emma had set up her workstation. Emma, Larissa and Florence spent one whole day painting that wall with black matte paint, immediately transforming it into a giant blackboard. They bought boxes of colored chalk and placed them in a basket just above one of the bookshelves Emma had next to her workstation. Anyone who comes in Emma’s home writes something on the wall, and sometimes they stand there, marveling at the inner workings of Emma’s mind, the product of her sleepless nights and Muses—poems, plotlines, article ideas—all written in various colors and sizes on her wall.
A steel staircase leads the way up to the second floor, a strong concrete structure reinforced by steel that seemed to be protruding at the space somewhere between the floor and the roof. It was closer to the roof though, with only about ten feet separating the second floor from the roof. The entire second floor was about a quarter of the size of the first floor, and it housed Emma’s bedroom. Five-foot steel grills rose from the concrete floor to avoid someone from falling down the first floor, and Emma placed a couple of small cabinets there to avoid accidents from happening. Like the setup downstairs, the second floor also has a wall covered with matte paint, one where Emma could write on when she couldn’t sleep.
Other than the set of grills, the loft was very open—you can stand at the middle of the first floor and see everything in the house.
Emma sighed heavily, tossing her keys atop her marble tabletop in the kitchen side of her loft. She tinkered with her phone on the way to her bed, checking her BBM, tweets or any other indications that Charles is still alive after the phone call. And then—
Emma found herself face first on the linoleum floor, tripping on something—check that, someone—who was lying on it. She inadvertently hit her head on the floor—not too hard, she hoped, but she was sure that it would leave a nasty bump or bruise—but the party who was lying on the floor had absorbed the brunt of her body’s weight. She also hit her right elbow on the floor, sending tiny electric shockwaves up her body.
She winced, struggling to gain her bearings. She felt very gentle hands wrap around her waist, and someone inhaling her scent, and she wanted to move away but black spots still dominated her eyesight. She waited for her eyesight to go back to normal and—
“You know, you actually feel good. You feel so… nice, Emmie. And you smell nice too! Like citrus… I think you smell like a melon… Or orange.”
Shit.
The voice and the very familiar chuckle jolted Emma back to reality. She rolled off Charles and lay on the floor next to him, cussing in her head over and over. When she recovered, she turned to Charles, trying to control her anger. “Did you know where I have been, looking for you?” she said through gritted teeth.
Charles gave her a misty smile, looking at her, his eyes red, a combination of both alcohol and crying. “Emmie, you know when I’m lost I always go where you are. You’re like—” Charles was about to finish, but a hiccup interrupted his monologue. He chuckled and then continued where he left off. “You’re like home. Or a compass. Like that song you made me listen to ages ago, Em—” He turned to her and reached out, touching Emma’s face, his fingers light on her cheek. She stopped herself from flinching—surprise getting the best of her.
“If my heart was a compass you’d be north… If my heart was a house you’d be home.”
Charles was a decent singer on a normal day, but since he was drunk, Emma relied on her memory of the song to figure out his lyrics to that Owl City song.
Emma rolled her eyes, knowing he probably doesn’t mean a single word he’s saying because of his alcohol-addled brain. She swerved before standing up—she might have hit her head harder than she thinks as the black spots are still dancing in front of her eyes. “Please tell me you have a very good reason why you’re on the floor instead of the bed—or the couch,” she said, correcting herself as a drunk Charles would have had difficulty going up the stairs. The couch is definitely the safer choice for a drunk man—not the floor. She was trying very hard not to sound cold or angry—she couldn’t really blame him for drinking.
Charles chuckled again, opening his eyes. “I couldn’t find the bed. Or the couch. And your floor is nice. Do you polish this every day?”
Emma smiled despite her rising irritation. She wasn’t sure if she liked the drunken version of Charles over his normal self. He’s being adorable, and unjustifiably sweet… when drunk.
“Either you pick yourself up from the floor or I’d let you stay there for the duration of the evening,” Emma warned, stepping over Charles. Charles groaned, mumbling something about Emma being a ‘killjoy.’
Slowly and albeit a bit wobbly, Charles followed Emma, stopping at the foot of the stairs. “I can’t really make it upstairs, Emmie,” he said, and Emma turned around to help him up. He draped his right arm over her shoulder while he braced the other arm on the railing, and slowly but surely, they trudged up the fifteen steps, with Emma carrying the bulk of Charles’s weight. Emma, breathless, released him when they reached the second floor, and Charles found her bed, leaning his knees against it. Despite being tall at six-foot-flat, Charles has difficulty climbing up Emma’s bed—it rose about four feet off the floor, all plump and soft in its king-sized glory. It had been her brother’s bed, but Emma liked the idea that she felt like she was floating with the height that the bed was lifted off the floor.
Emma sighed, pushing Charles so he landed on his back on the bed. She knelt down on the floor, fumbling with the shoelaces of Charles’s Nikes and she let them drop on the floor in a soft thump. She threw his socks in her laundry basket a couple of feet away. Charles has one small cabinet of his stuff in Emma’s house—a couple of shirts, shorts, socks, among others. She didn’t know when did the stocking of his things in her place started to happen, but it did—Charles was even the one who bought the cabinet with which he placed his things in. She heard Charles chuckle again, his glossed over eyes on the steel beams that hold up her roof in place, as the house was without ceiling (Paolo’s idea).
“Emmie…” Charles’s voice floated in the air as he kicked his feet like he was swimming underwater. “Emma, Emme, Emma… my Emmie.” He was whispering variations of her name in between chuckles and hiccups, and Emma hopped onto the bed, fumbling for Charles’s belt, aiming to remove his pants.
[Hold up: it’s not what you think.]
Charles stopped Emma when she found the clasp of the belt and was about to release it, his hands over hers. “I can do it,” Charles said smugly, and he tried, grappling, fingers getting tied up. After five tries and still no luck, Emma slapped his hands away and unlatched it herself. She got down the bed and pulled off Charles’s pants, and she thought she heard him cheer.
“Better!” he called out, and Emma sighed. Charles always liked sleeping in his boxers. She checked the pockets of his pants for valuables, retrieving his discharged phone, his car keys (did he really just manage to drive to her place from wherever he had been in his drunken state?), and his wallet. She tossed the clothes into her laundry basket, and wondered silently if she really had to play caregiver for Charles for the nth time.
She opted not to, turning to leave Charles who seemed to have dozed off to sleep. She picked up Charles’s shoes and carried them to her shoe rack, kicking off her sneakers as well, and then headed to the blackboard wall next to her bed. She needed an outlet. Too much has happened today.
She started to write—
Possibilities—
Endless.
In my dreams it was you and me
In an alternate world you loved me
as much as I love you
and in the same way that I do.
Reality—
Hopeless.
I was always the one
on the outside looking in.
The one waiting for a chance
to be noticed and cared for.
By you.
Memories—
Rare.
I treasure the times
when you run to me when in need,
when you call my name when you’re lost,
when you look at me as if
you were thinking what if.
Questions—
Thousands.
Have you ever wondered how different life is
if you chose me? If you loved me?
Have you ever wondered how bright
and crazy it would be
had your heart beat for me?
Truth—
Painful.
You stand at the corner,
Waiting for her.
I sit here,
Waiting for you.
Holding truths in my hand—
She wouldn’t come back,
she’s already too far gone,
the door’s closed, the chapter finished—
that I’d rather not say.
Emma brushed the chalk off her hands and stood up, heading to the bathroom to freshen up. She came out in her shorts and overused, oversized shirt (it was Charles’s jersey back when he was still playing for his college), and she lay on the bed, as far as she could from Charles. Her eight pillows were handy during occasions when Charles would sleep over—she never liked being this close to him because she would yearn for him even more. She arranged four of them into a barricade between her and Charles, and settled on the bed, turning on the lampshade and wanting to sleep.
An hour or two passed and she couldn’t get even a wink. She managed to tweet some lyrics to a Rihanna song: In this California King bed, we’re ten thousand miles apart. I’ve been California wishing on the stars, for your heart on me…, the song echoing in her head in some weird LSS. Emma faced Charles and gazed at him, taking in his round face, prominently pointed nose, and very nice cheekbones. He has thick lips that curve into a naughty smile whenever he greets Emma, as if when with her he is up to nothing but trouble, and large, thick ears that Emma loves to touch (she has a weird fetish for ears). His almond-shaped chocolate brown eyes were expressive to a fault, which Emma loved and hated.
She sighed, shaking her head, turning away from Charles. Gideon, Gideon, Gideon, she thought, closing her eyes and trying to think of the actor’s face instead—his lips, his eyes, his smile…
“Since Larissa and I broke up, you’re now my longest relationship.”
Emma’s eyes popped open in surprise. Charles was staring at her, his face and eyes void of emotion. He looked sober, and when he didn’t get any reaction from Emma, he repeated the statement, adding, “We’re almost seven years strong, Emmie.”
Emma smiled sadly, propping her head on her elbow. “You still want to be friends even with the demise of your relationship with Larissa?”
Charles’s eyes softened and his right hand searched the bed, finding her hand. He held her hand tightly. “Emmie,” he whispered, obviously in a struggle for the right words, “have you realized that in the past year, I spent and shared most of my life with you instead of her? And she’s supposed to be my girlfriend. She’s always so… busy.”
Emma shook her head. “Charles, Larissa tried her best—”
“Not enough,” he said gruffly. “And then she gives me the bullshit that she isn’t happy anymore. If there was anyone who wasn’t happy, it should have been me.” He sighed heavily, shaking his head. “There were times when I wondered why she was okay with us being close. I mean, we sleep in each other’s places, we go out on out-of-towners just by ourselves, we can complete each other’s sentences… you’re my best friend, Emmie. You’re not supposed to do most of those things with me. You’ve been more of a girlfriend to me than she was.”
Emma didn’t speak, letting Charles continue to ramble, almost amused he was calm and collected the entire time he was speaking. She was screening out the words, not wanting them to get to her. She didn’t want to fall into the trap that was Charles.
“You were with her today, right?” Charles asked, and Emma nodded, still not speaking. No point in lying—Charles knew what Thursdays mean for Larissa, Emma and Florence.
“When I called—”
“I was with her,” Emma confirmed what Charles already knows.
“And she let you come to me?” He wasn’t able to mask the pain in his voice this time around.
“She said you need me more than she does.”
Charles tsked. “She moved on, you know? Before our relationship was even over, she started to move on. It was over for her before it was over for me. And I was there, holding on to her like I was hoping we’re gonna get married next year or something. I love her, Em, so much, and she does this to me. I don’t know if I was blindsided or I was just stupid not to see the signs.”
Emma took a deep breath. “Larissa told us about… not being happy anymore and—”
“You didn’t even bother telling me? Or giving me a sign?”
“I don’t think I’m in the position to do that, Charles. It’s your relationship with her, and I don’t want to come in between you guys.”
“But you’re my best friend.”
Emma smirked. “She’s my best friend too. And I’ve known her my entire life—”
“Emmie—”
“Charles, please don’t make this a question of my loyalty, because I assure you, I won’t side with anyone here,” Emma said, tired.
“You should have at least warned me—”
“So that what?” Emma asked, sitting up and feeling her pent up rage unleash. “So that you would have stopped her from breaking up with you? So that you’ll patch up whatever’s broken and try so hard in the only way that you do to fix things? Don’t you get it, Charles? It was dead before she called it. Your relationship wasn’t breathing anymore. There wasn’t anything to revive,” she spat.
Charles didn’t look at her, but she could see from the muted light of the lampshade that tears were already streaming from his eyes, his lips quivering. “I love her, Em. I love her so much,” he whispered, and Emma nodded, and she scooted over to him and he rose just as she pulled him into a tight hug. He clung onto her, sobbing. She held him, wanting to keep him whole.
When his sobs subsided he pulled her back down on the bed with him, her head on his chest, his heart’s slow thump thump beating in her ears. He held her as she held him, their bodies in a tangle, as Emma reached down and pulled the covers over their bodies. She could feel the sleep rounding down the corner, their next stop. Charles tucked her closer to him, and she allowed him. Her eyes were drooping to a close and she was about to give in to sleep when Charles spoke words that left her dumbfounded:
“There are days, Emmie, that I wish that I just fell in love with you and not with Larissa.”
