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Eddie’s not sure what to expect when he checks his phone in the morning. He left it charging in the living room as he stumbled to bed last night, too many wine bottles stacked on the coffee table and Scrabble pieces scattered on the floor.
(“You’re cheating,” Chimney slurs, throwing a ‘Q’ at Karen.
“I’m not cheating, you’re bad at Scrabble.”
“‘Qi’ isn’t a word.”
“It’s in the Scrabble dictionary.”
“That’s not a real thing. We’re using Merriam-Webster, and I don’t think—”)
His head throbs slightly, but not enough to keep him in bed all day. However bad he feels, Buck most certainly feels worse. A wine night with Karen and Chimney is nothing compared to a nightclub with Maddie and Hen in a desperate attempt to distract Buck for the night.
Buck broke up with Taylor. He promised Eddie he was okay, but his eyes were a little too red for someone who feels just fine. He claimed that really, their relationship was over a long time ago, that it was never going to go anywhere but down, but still, Eddie could tell he was hurting. Maybe she wasn’t a good girlfriend, but at some point she was a friend, and now she’s gone.
Eddie can’t say he ever liked her, but he knows Buck did. They talked about it, but not for long. If they talked too long, it would go too far, and confessions would be made that should be left unsaid.
Most of what they say, these days, is left unsaid. There’s a burning image of his blood on Buck’s hands, face, mouth, that he can’t get out of his head, but he keeps quiet. It’s better left unsaid. He broke up with Ana, he never mentioned her again. It’s better left unsaid. A gun to his head in the back of an ambulance, Buck’s voice, raw and wretched, screaming Eddie’s name. It’s better left unsaid.
Maybe it’s killing him, or maybe he agrees, but Buck has left it that way too, unsaid. Until now.
You have 13 new voicemails.
Turns out tequila is one hell of a truth serum.
And Eddie, he really shouldn’t hit play. Buck went out with Hen and Maddie and there was most definitely too much alcohol involved. He probably talked too much and acted a little too stupid and Eddie really shouldn’t hit play. He really—
One:
“Hey Eddie... Eddie... Eddie?” There’s an odd silence, a silent worry. He should delete the message before it even starts, but worry and curiosity blend into a confusing cocktail in his head. Buck’s voice slurs as he returns to the phone. “Oh shit this is a voicemail. I thought you answered. I wasn’t even—hang on, I’ll try again.”
Two:
There’s a second message about two minutes later.
“This—” a loud crash “— ow—this is a voicemail. I heard the message this time. When’s the last time you changed your voicemail message because it sounded weird. I don’t know how to explain it, but it was like—”
Three:
“Hi it’s me again. It’s Buck,” he clarifies for no sensible reason. “I didn’t mean to hang up. I don’t really remember what I was saying, but I called because I like talking to you. Even if you’re not talking. I just—” there’s rustling on the other end of the line, distant chatter carrying through.
“Who is he talking to?”
“Who do you think?”
“Okay, give me the phone—”
“—guys stop, I’m talking to Eddie, it’s Eddie—Hi Eddie. What were we talking about?” He sighs through the phone, drunk thoughts taking over his next words. “I wish you were here too. Hen, she’s calling you lame. She’s—hey, I’m not a snitch—Hen thinks you’re lame. Maddie agrees, but she’s too nice to say it. She—what? I’m not wrong. You think he’s—”
Four:
“We should have a Margarita night because I just remembered how good tequila is. Not like, not the blended ones, those are gross. We could, oh my god, I could bring my blender over. Your blender sucks Eddie I should—” there’s fumbling on the other side “—I should just buy you a new blender because you’ll never buy one for yourself.”
He’s tempted to say yes. To the Margaritas, not the new blender, though Buck really would buy him a new blender. He’d renovate the whole damn kitchen if Eddie asked, right down to the mess of a Tupperware cabinet, and he can’t tell if it’s sweet or sad, the way he’d hand himself over so easily. He has enough. Just Buck is enough.
“Hey Eddie, how mad would you be if I got a ‘smart blender’? Be honest. Like, super high tech, automatic blender.”
Five:
“I’m so stupid. I’m so stupid. Maybe. Maybe it’s a good thing you’re not here because you can’t tell me how stupid I am.”
Buck never elaborates.
You’re not stupid, he would say if he was there in that bar, eight hours back. There’s a lot he would say if he were there in that bar, especially if the drinks kept flowing. You are not stupid or thank you for doing my dishes last week when I couldn’t bring myself to do it or I love you so much it hurts. Do you know how much it hurts?
It’s better left unsaid.
“Anyway. My head kinda hurts but also it’s a little numb and fuzzy. Nuzzy—okay, no, that’s awful. I’ll call you in twenty minutes.”
Six:
Another message, not twenty minutes later, more like forty-five.
“We should get a family pass for the zoo. It’s been months since I’ve gone with Chris and I think there’s a new butterfly exhibit. We used to go all the time. I miss that,” he says. Buck goes quiet. “Sometimes when it’s just me and Chris, they tell us, they—the people who work there I mean—they tell me that I have a cute son and I never really know what to say. It’s true but it’s not true and I want it to be true.”
And how could he reassure Buck that it’s true without saying so much? It’s a truth that can’t be told without a confession.
Seven:
He’s not even talking to Eddie, shouting over the music, trying to reason with Hen or Maddie or even the bartender. Buck mumbles into the phone, clinging to it like a lifeline.
“I’m not drunk, guys. I only did—” there’s a harsh crash as the phone hits the table, or the floor “—this many shots. Wait, no, it was like. I don’t have enough hands to show you. I could keep going, probably. Does anyone know where the bottle—”
Eight:
“Hen took my phone but I got it back. I’m taller than her so I can just hold it over my head really high and it’ll be fine. I’ll—oh she’s standing on the table. I’ll call you ba—”
Nine:
“I miss you,” he confesses, all sorts of dejected. “I know we just spent an entire 24 hour shift together, but you weren’t really there and I wasn’t really there and I just miss you.”
He’s quick to play the next message.
Ten:
This time it’s not Buck’s voice he hears first.
“Buck, just tell him,” Maddie begs, soft and quiet. It’s an accidental message, and he tries to pretend It’s not about him.
“I can’t,” Buck says, “He’s being weird and I’m being weird and we’re both being weird and not talking.”
“You broke up with your girlfriend because of him, I think he’d like to know that.”
It can’t be about him.
“I can’t talk to him. It’s different.”
“Why?”
“Because his blood is so metallic and I’m not supposed to know that. And he doesn’t know that I know that, but he won’t talk about it.”
It’s about him. He broke up with Taylor for him, drowning his last, aching thoughts in tequila because of him.
Hen’s voice cuts through this time. “Healing takes time,” she tries to reason, but it’s a little jumbled, none of them are sober enough to be truly helpful.
“But he wants to forget it. I want—I want to get past it, y’know?”
Eddie’s left alone in the silence between messages.
Eleven:
Buck writes his next confessional over the phone, under the bar table, mutters it to the bartender and anyone who cares to listen.
“I don’t ever wanna leave, Eddie,” he groans. “If I leave I have to go back to the loft. And the loft is cool. But it’s not really mine. It doesn’t—it just doesn’t feel like mine. It’s like a sad hotel, or like I’m crashing on a friend's couch. Even when I crash on your couch, it’s a better couch than my bed.”
He mumbles something unintelligible over the phone.
“That doesn’t make sense. I’m not making sense. You’re very homey. Your couch, I mean. And you. I like being a guest at your place more than I like living at mine.”
Twelve:
He can track the shifts in Buck’s mood, from giddy and tipsy to sad and drunk, back to drunk and giggly. The message plays and at first, he doesn’t speak. He laughs, a true deep-lunged laugh like he’ll never get another chance. Eddie can feel it, he can feel the smile through the speakers, the one that always leaves him a little unsteady.
“Okay, here’s the thing,” he starts, which is just a recipe for disaster. “Here’s the thing. Taylor was great. She still is great, I think. She’s smart and stubborn and she has really pretty hair.”
Eddie pauses the message, considers if a drunken rambling about Taylor’s hair is worth the time. But he checks the phone, sees that the message goes on for quite some time, and decides to continue on.
“But I didn’t love her. I had fun. And I really liked her. But I didn’t love her. I don’t think I’ve loved very many people. Romantically, I mean. I love a lot of people in other ways.”
Buck laughs again, less free, more nervous.
“I shouldn’t tell you this. Not now. But I’m going to. You can be mad at me later. Or we could not talk about it. We’ve gotten pretty good at that,” he says, farther away from the phone.
Eddie can hear his breath on the other side, uneven and dry. His own breath matches. There’s no preparing him for what comes next.
“I love you, ” he confesses. Buck’s breath steadies, he’s at ease. “And I know I’m drunk, but it’s true. I really mean it. I love you, I love you, I love—”
Eddie replays the message until the words no longer sound like words and the laughter leaves his mouth dry. Love is tricky when you want it to be easy, but it’s easy when you’re drunk and you want it to mean nothing. Of course, it means something.
But that’s better left unsaid.
Thirteen:
“Maybe you shouldn’t listen to that last voicemail. Or, honestly, you shouldn’t listen to any of them. You’ll make fun of me,” he says. “But not in a mean way,” he quickly adds. “Being made fun of shouldn’t make me so happy, but when you do it it’s different. I don’t know. You never really mean it. I know—I know you love me when you tell me I’m bad at math. I’m not actually bad at math, I can—hey Maddie is there a piece of paper somewhere, I’m gonna do some long division for Eddie—”
Maddie’s voice echoes just before the call drops, something along the lines of I swear to God, give me that phone.
He reaches the end of his voicemails. He continues to scroll, looking for more. There has to be more, some greater explanation because Buck loves him and maybe there’s more.
Instead there’s a flash from his notifications, a new text rolling through. He finds several more in his messages.
Buck (1:32am): maddie told me to sotp callling yuo but she diddn’t say anythign about texting
Buck (1:32am): hahahahhha i win
Buck (1:33am): wait my phone’s dyign
Buck (1:33am): ok have a goodngith i hope u sleep well
Buck (1:35am): goodbye :)
Then, there’s a break in the messages.
Buck (8:25am): oh my god
Buck (8:25am): sorry for calling you so much last night
What is there to say, really? It was amusing or I didn’t notice or did you really mean it?
Eddie (8:27am): Don’t worry about it
It’s not enough, but it will suffice. He wanders around the living room picking up bits and pieces of a night gone too long. Fold the blankets, move the pillows, recycle the empty bottles. The blinds, he leaves those shut. He’s dizzy from the weight of Buck’s words and the mild hangover that’s starting to settle in.
His phone vibrates in his hand, Buck’s contact pops up on the screen. It’s a selfie of him and Chris while Eddie was in another room. Chris took more photos than he could count, claiming it was a fun prank and Buck, of course he went along. Eddie kept every last picture. There’s a printed copy somewhere on his nightstand.
“I think I’m dying,” Buck groans as he answers the call.
“Good morning to you too.”
“I think my headache has a headache,” he says. “A loft with floor to ceiling windows is fun until you have a hangover. Then it’s a death sentence.”
“There’s this thing, you might have heard of them, called curtains. You drape them between—”
“—I think I actually hate you.”
(“Being made fun of shouldn’t make me so happy,” he recalls, “but when you do it it’s different. I don’t know. You never really mean it. I know—I know you love me when you tell me I’m bad at math.”)
He laughs, breathy and forced. “So I’ve heard.”
Eddie rubs his forehead with his freehand, smoothing out the creases that seem to have formed, itching the hours of heavy sleep out of his eyes.
He can still hear that message in his head. The nerves, the laughter, the distant rumble of a bass played too loud, too long. The whisper of a private moment, as private as a bar can get in the middle of the night after too many drinks. Maybe the bartender heard it too, another piece of evidence that the message and all it’s words were real.
“Eddie?” he asks, gruff and quiet, breaking the shaky beat of his heart.
“Yeah?”
“I’m… sorry about all the calls. I broke the first rule of being drunk and stupid,” he sighs. “Turn off your phone.”
“You were warned,” Eddie says, but that says too much. “Seriously, don’t worry about it.”
“Did you listen to those voicemails? Because honestly, I don’t remember what I said, and if I said something stupid—”
“I deleted them,” he lies, an instant reaction. It’s easy to pretend. It hurts but it’s easy. “Figured it was something you didn’t want me to hear.”
“Right. Yeah.” There’s the distinct sound of shuffling blankets on the other side of the call. “Thanks.”
“Yeah,” he forces himself to say, because that’s just how it is now. Forced and quiet and something out of place. “Get some water, go back to bed.”
“Yeah, that’s smart. I’ll talk to you later.”
He forces a smile for no one but himself. “Goodnight, Buck.”
And I know I’m drunk, but it’s true. I really mean it. I love you, I love you, I love—
You have 0 new voicemails.
It’s better left unsaid.