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April 5th 2024.
My eyes fly open, pain blooming sharp and sudden within the cavity of my heart. City lights crawl across the ceiling, bleeding in through the open window; the wind rustles the curtains. The sound of passing cars and distant construction seeps into my bones.
I sit up, pressing my face into my palms, stricken with that familiar, suffocating weight. When morning comes, I’ll be hauled from my bed and thrust mercilessly onto a stage.
Acting out every day the same.
The same script.
The same performance.
I can’t remember when it began to feel this way. Maybe it always has. Even on what is described as one’s happiest day, it was big, forced smiles and exaggerated movements. I still remember how hopeless I felt. How heavy the world felt on my shoulders as I said, ‘I do’.
I roll onto my side, the ruffle of the duvet piercing through the ache of the silence that accompanies night. I watch the rise and fall of her chest; the delicate swirls that the ends of her hair curl into where they meet her pillow. Winnie was beautiful, unquestionably so. And yet, somehow, never enough.
Her hair that of chocolate, and her eyes enchanting and gentle; spring green scattered across an autumn floor. Her face soft, but defined, sculpted by the glow of moonlight that streams in through our window.
Everything about her is so… right. So perfect. Yet a longing settles deep in my bones, stirring me from sleep each night. I am nothing more than her husband, and she is nothing more than my wife.
It’s far too late now, anyway. What am I—fifty-two? You don’t unmake a life at this age. I couldn’t change my mind if I wanted to. This is the path I’d paved for myself. Surrounded by love that appears whole to onlookers, yet can’t reach the rot at the centre of my heart.
I shuffle to my other side with a quiet sigh and tap my phone. I squint as the light flares to life, illuminating the outline of my bedside table and the lamp positioned neatly on top of it. 11:23 PM.
I sit up with a stretch, my back cracking in 4 places. I wiggle my toes in an attempt to regain feeling and let my feet meet the cool tile. Behind me, Winnie stirs. I look over my shoulder, holding my breath until her light snoring can be heard again.
I wonder if she feels the same. Like our marriage is some kind of play, and we’re the lead actors. Tortured for eternity; sentenced to perform forever.
Probably not.
I yawn, tempted to sink back into the comfort of the sheets and covers. To pretend sleep might save me. But I know better. Winnie is beautiful and everything I could ever want in a woman. But I am not wholly hers.
I slide my phone into my pocket and curl my fingers tightly around my keys, careful not to let them jingle.
I retrace the same steps I take every night: Every night for the past twenty years. I stumble into the kitchen for a glass of cold water, and leave it half-finished on the counter. I fumble putting on my socks and shoes, and I don’t bother with a jacket. Down the hallway, into the elevator, and straight to the car park.
I climb into the seat of my car and finally exhale. Here, I am safe and alone. Untouched by opinions or expectations. The only one left to judge me is myself.
The car starts up with a sputter, and I place both of my hands on the wheel. I sit for a while, car unmoving, knowing that once I start driving, I will inevitably have to return home: to bed, to morning, and repeat every day all over again.
An overly animated voice cuts through the quiet hum of the engine.
“—Chappell Roans’ new single!”
My fingers reach for the volume knob, faltering when they brush against it.
“You’ve probably heard it a million times today, but we’re playing it again just in case you missed it. And if you didn’t, well, we’re sure you’ll want to hear it again anyway! It’s such a banger, and we are OBSESSED!”
I smile fondly, remembering a few months back. It was raining outside, and I was sprawled over Will’s couch. Will and Lucas were hunched over Will’s dining table, with Dustin on FaceTime. He couldn’t make it on account of it being his daughter’s twelfth birthday. It felt a little bit silly; four grown men. Four separate devices. All of us anxiously queued for Chappell Roan tickets.
It had felt ridiculous. And yet Will had been so hopeful, eyes bright, hands restless. I remember teasing him about being the oldest person in the crowd.
“Don’t jinx it,” he’d shot back, nerves sharp under the joke. “We might not even get tickets.” He’d always had such a deep, prevalent love for music, and always had so much nervous energy.
He hugged us all so tightly when the order went through. “Thanks so much, guys. I know it seems so silly, but concerts give me something to look forward to!”
“—And here we go, folks! Chappell Roan’s Good Luck Babe, we hope you’ve got it on repeat because we know we sure have!”
That overly eager voice dissipates the memory into mist. I lower my hand from the volume button and let the song play. I hadn’t seen Will in a while now, and somehow this feels like sitting beside him, sharing something small and familiar.
A catchy pop beat starts up, and the corners of my lips tug into a smile. It really was adorable that Will could listen to anything, from Taylor Swift to The Cure, and love it all with the same unguarded sincerity. There was something so beautifully unpredictable about him.
It's fine, it’s cool. You can say that we are nothing, but you know the truth.
And guess I’m the fool, with her arms out like an angel through the car sunroof.
I pull out of the car park and onto a long stretch of road, heavily illuminated.
Cars blur past me, headlights streaking like comets. I find myself thoughtlessly tapping my finger on the wheel, keeping time with the beat. I make a right, muscle memory guiding me on a route I’ve taken more times than I care to admit.
I don’t wanna call it off, but you don’t wanna call it love
You only wanna be the one that I call “Baby”
I cringe. Every time I’ve ever called a woman baby flashes through my mind. How the word always felt foreign, stiff on my tongue, like a line I’d memorised but never understood.
You can kiss a hundred boys in bars
Shoot another shot, try to stop the feeling
I laugh humourlessly at the irony. Of course, this would come on now; on my way to a bar, hoping alcohol might bury the familiar ache before it swallowed me whole. I turn the volume up a notch, absurdly convinced Chappell Roan wrote this song just to spite me.
You can say it’s just the way you are
Make a new excuse, another stupid reason
I choke on my own spit and clench the wheel. I’d never really thought about it before, but every dinner, every movie night, every “you free this weekend?”, it was always me. Always reaching. Always suggesting.
The day it finally dawned on me that Will didn’t need me anymore had felt like grief. Like trying to grab hold of something already slipping through my fingers. Sometimes I wonder if the way I cling to Winnie is just me projecting how badly I miss him.
Good luck, babe!
Well, good luck, babe!
You’d have to stop the world just to stop the feeling.
My fingers start to shake. I don’t even realise I’m pulling over until the tyres crunch onto grass. My stomach churns violently, my heart hammering like it’s trying to break free of my ribs.
Good luck, babe!
Well, good luck, babe!
You’d have to stop the world just to stop the feeling
I screw my eyes shut, face twisting as tears spill over. I know, logically, that she didn’t write this for me, Mike Wheeler, specifically. But it feels personal. Mocking. Like the universe has finally grown tired of my denial.
I clench and unclench my fist before slamming the car into park and yanking my phone from my pocket.
I’m cliché, who cares?
It’s a sexually explicit kind of love affair
And I cry, it’s not fair
I just need a little lovin’, I just need a little air
My contact list stares back at me. Will is lonesome pinned at the top, like he’s been waiting there all along. The song keeps blaring, unforgiving, but I can’t bring myself to turn it off. My breathing is shallow and fast, and I feel reckless. I want to call Will and ask him if her music makes him feel this much.
I want to call Will all the time.
Ooh, yeah
Ooh
And when you wake up next to him in the middle of the night
With your head in your hands, you’re nothing more than his wife
Something inside of me finally caves.
I don’t cry. I fracture. My breath stutters and then gives out entirely, a ruined sound clawing its way from my chest as my body caves inward. My head falls into my hands, and I’m shaking like a wilting leaf. I live with my wife, but I will always be alone.
I swallow hard and tap his name. My hands are shaking so badly that I nearly miss it. I’m barely breathing now, silently begging him to pick up.
And when you think about me all of those years ago
I don’t hear the dial tone, the music drowning it out. But I see it when he answers. I can barely make out Will’s voice, even with it on speaker.
You’re standing face-to-face with “I told you so”
“Mike, it’s nearly 12. Are you okay?”
You know I hate to say it, “I told you so”
“Hi Will.” My voice is barely a whisper.
You know, I hate to say, but “I told you so”
Tears pour from my eyes as Chappell spells it out in a language I’ve spent decades pretending I don’t speak.
“What is that loud mus—is that Chappell Roan? Are you okay? Why are you calling me so late, and why is that music so loud? Could you turn it down?”
You can kiss a hundred boys in bars
Shoot another shot, try to stop the feeling
I’m completely silent, the words lodged deep in my throat. I can’t seem to cough them up and spit them out.
“Mike. Seriously, can you turn that down?”
I shut off the engine; the sound collapses into silence. The only thing that can be heard is my desperate crying and gasping. I clutch my phone to my chest in desperation. My only consolation is knowing that Will understands. He always understands.
It's silent for a few beats. He doesn't know what to do, aside from listening to me sob.
"How did you know?" My voice breaks at the end.
"What's wrong?" Will's voice has that same nurture and tenderness it always has.
"How did you know?" I repeat myself, begging for an answer.
"What are you asking me, Mike?" He's always been so unsure and hesitant. Never wanting to assume.
"How did you know- How did you know you didn't like girls, Will?" The words spill out, raw. "And how do I make it stop?" My voice comes out begging.
Silence stretches. I grip the phone tighter with every second. It feels like it's going to snap under the pressure.
"Okay, Mike," Will murmurs, calm and sure. "It's okay. I've got you. I can talk you through this. That pit in your stomach, it's normal. But this isn't the end. You're going to be okay, I promise." Always so comforting and loving; it steals the air from my lungs. I almost laugh at the urge to kiss my phone, to thank him for existing at all. Somehow, after all of these years, he still knows how to ease the weight; How to hold it with me. "I just- I just need to say. Someone who... Likes girls, wouldn't be unraveling like this."
"How did you do it alone, Will? How did you do it alone... in a time and place that wasn't as kind?"
"It was hard. My dad didn't make matters easier, either." His voice goes quiet, like he's caught in a memory from long ago. "But I had you." My heart flutters at the revelation that I brought any comfort to Will. "Did Chappell Roan do this?" I can hear in his voice that he's smiling. It still doesn't feel very funny. My world is crumbling around me.
"I don't like her." I retort. I hear him stifle a giggle.
"It will be okay, though, seriously, Mike. You're going to have it a lot easier than when I came out." My heart aches. "My advice would be not to push it down, because there's no doubt that that's what you've been doing for a long, long time now. And if you ever have any questions or need advice, I'm like a veteran." He laughs, trying to ease the pain. "In saying that, it's taken you a long time to realise this. And you're going to have to have a lot of uncomfortable conversations, including with your wife. You can take your time, but just not with her; don't lie to her, Mike."
I nod, as if he can see me, before blurting out a quick "-of course."
"How have you been holding onto this for so long?" Will whispers.
"I've always been... Confused. Especially around you-"
"Around me?" He sounds startled and hopeful.
"Around you... Yes." My voice is laced with hesitance.
"Mike..." His voice trails off.
"I know." I rush. "I know. You're happy being independent."
"Mike, that's all bullshit," Will says quietly. "I've been in love with you forever." My heart misses a beat, and I snap my head down to my phone, expecting to see Will. I'm met with my face reflecting on a black screen. "I had to distance myself as the years went past, because you had a wife. It was too overwhelming to be around you, and knowing I couldn't have you; that someone else got to call you theirs."
"I think..." I mumble, "I've always been yours, Will." Silence falls within the car, and all that can be heard is the static emitting from the other end of the phone call. I've never felt relief like this in my life. I've never felt seen like this, never felt understood like this.
"Where are you, Mike?"
"I'm near that bar by your house. I'm parked on the strip off Oxley Street."
"Can you get to mine? We can figure out what you're going to do in the morning, but for now, I've been wanting this for more than forty years and would really like to see you before you change your mind." It feels like I'm floating. After a lifetime of hiding in the dark, everything is so clear.
"I'm on my way." I breathe. "And Will?"
"Mhmm?"
"I won't change my mind. This is what's been eating me whole my entire life."