Trigger Warning: Discussion of past thoughts of suicide

Justin’s entrance was totally casual, like nothing at all was amiss and he hadn’t just been completely out-of-touch for two hours, and I had to fight my impulse to immediately start making demands or sounding like Debbie Novotny, asking where the hell he’d been and what the fuck he was doing and if he had any idea how goddamn worried I was. But I didn’t confront him, and he kept right on acting like everything was normal. The only thing unusual that happened after Justin came home was that he didn’t eat, but he told me he’d ordered a late lunch at the studio, so I was willing to excuse that.

But even among all the normalcy, I still felt like something was off -- like there was something underneath Justin’s behavior that I couldn’t quite identify. Now, I know exactly why I felt that way -- because the whole damn thing was a ruse -- but at the time, I was just so thankful that Justin was home safe that I didn’t really want to ask any questions.

I should have asked questions -- a lot of questions -- but I didn’t. Maybe because I was a little afraid of the answers, as my old demons continued to stir at the back of my mind, pushing me farther away from realizing what was really going on. The rest of the evening only bolstered my ability to continue ignoring whatever problem was at hand, because it was spent doing our regular thing, watching television together in the living room -- at least, for as long as my foot was willing to allow me to stay upright, which wasn’t nearly as long as I would have liked it to be. I enjoyed what I could, though, until the pins-and-needles sensation in my legs started to become constant, and I had to relinquish my position on the sofa with my arm around Justin. He still seemed distracted, but I was willing to overlook that in favor of being able to feel his body against mine, probably because, somewhere deep in my subconscious, I was afraid if I questioned him, he would pull away again -- physically and mentally.

I’d hoped he would come to bed with me, but he didn’t. Instead, he elected to stay in the living room, slowly nursing a beer as he absently watched TV, his mind clearly elsewhere. He did at least give me a goodnight kiss and tell me he loved me, but the sense of absence was still there, and that did nothing to mitigate the doubts that lingered deep down in the furthest recesses of my brain. I know now that those doubts were ridiculous and completely off-base, but at the time, I didn’t know what to think.

I didn’t remember Justin coming to bed that night because I’d drugged myself up and fallen into a deep sleep fairly quickly, but I did know that he slept until almost noon -- not even stirring when I slid out of bed to take care of the more vital aspects of my morning routine and make myself a smoothie, then continuing to sleep soundly while I got back in bed and tried to find various ways to amuse myself as I settled in for another day of forced rest.

Once Justin did wake up, he acted like he’d overslept, and he was up and out of the apartment in a rush, after taking the fastest shower I’d seen him take since his days of being late for class at PIFA following a late night of fucking. I tried to question him and get him to slow down, but he hardly acknowledged that I’d spoken and continued to rush around the apartment. He barely even paused for a few seconds to tell me goodbye, but he did, complete with a deep, long kiss on the lips that only added to my confusion about what the fuck was going on with him, or with us. For the next few days, we repeated that process -- Justin staying late at his studio, coming home and giving me just enough “normal” to allow me to push my concerns aside, going to bed long after I did, then sleeping in until lunchtime and rushing back to the studio. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Come Monday morning, I was completely bored out of my skull and more than ready to go back to work, and also not at all surprised that Justin was still in bed when I left for the office. That alone wasn’t particularly worrisome because Justin had never been a morning person. He’d always been a bit of a night owl, unless something else forced him to be on an earlier schedule, so the early mornings that he’d been spending at the studio were what was unusual for him, not the later schedule he’d recently adopted. Honestly, I wasn’t a morning person either -- I’d just been in the business world for nearly thirty years at that point, so I was used to the “nine to five” schedule and wasn’t really into staying up until the wee hours of the morning anymore unless I had a reason to. Justin, however, got to make up his own schedule -- lucky fucker -- which meant that if he wanted to work from noon until well after dinner, he could. I would miss him, but if it meant that he was doing what he loved, it would be worth it.

If only I’d realized that wasn’t what was going on at all.

Monday was a busy day at the office for me, playing catch up after being gone for most of the previous week, without having had an opportunity to plan for it the way I usually did. I sent Justin a quick text message around lunchtime to remind him that we were supposed to have dinner at Rob and Adam’s that night. I remember hoping that spending the evening with Esme and Sophia might help pull Justin out of his strange mood, because he always loved being around them, and honestly, I was looking forward to a meal that I wouldn’t be eating alone, especially after doing a hell of a lot of that in the last week.

However, the universe had other plans for me. I’m not typically one to buy into any of that intuition or divine intervention or whatever-the-fuck crap, but now, I have to wonder if there was something at play that made sure everything went exactly as it needed to go to force me to wake the fuck up and take a good, hard look at what was happening with my husband and just how deep it went. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Justin replied back fairly quickly -- and I hated that I was surprised by that, but I was -- letting me know he’d meet Rob and me at the office around five. At 4:45, my phone rang, and I halfway expected it to be Justin with some sort of an excuse for why he couldn’t come to dinner, but it was that motherfucker Solomon from Remsen, with some “emergency” that wasn’t really an emergency, but when it’s a billion-dollar account, you have to do whatever the fuck they want -- even if it means upending all of your plans to work on something totally ridiculous. I was just wrapping up the phone call, rolling my eyes and waiting for the idiot to stop droning on when Rob came in, followed by Justin.

They were talking quietly when they came in -- apparently having run into each other in the hallway or the elevator -- but stopped their conversation once they realized I was on the phone. As Solomon droned on in my ear about shit I already knew, I had a chance to observe Justin -- who, at first glance, seemed fine. Or at least no different than he had been for weeks. Perhaps it was his “new normal” that masked what I now feel I should have seen in that moment -- we’ll never know and it doesn’t matter at this point.

“Yes, sir,” I said, internally cringing at my forced use of that word to address the ableist motherfucker that had been doubting me at every possible opportunity since Remsen signed a new contract with us back in the spring. “I’ll make sure it gets done by tomorrow.”

I sighed as I hung up the phone, knowing I was in for a long night that probably wasn’t going to do my foot any good, and there was no way in hell I was going to be able to go to dinner at Rob and Adam’s.

“Bad news?” Rob asked, as he repositioned his bag on his lap.

I recounted the story for the two of them as Rob nodded in understanding and Justin stood awkwardly near the door, staring out my office window, his expression unreadable, verging on totally blank.

“So, looks like no dinner for me,” I said, keeping my eyes on Justin, looking for any discernible change in his face -- maybe subconsciously searching for a hint that he was disappointed or that he would miss me, as lesbionic as that sounds -- but there was nothing. “You should still go though,” I added.

“The girls would love to see you,” Rob agreed, looking toward Justin, who still just stood there, not reacting at all. “It’s been too long.”

Justin left with Rob easily enough, but there was still something unsettling about his body language when they left that I had a hard time pushing out of my mind. Normally, Justin would have been excited about going and seeing the girls, but I hadn’t seen any indication of that at all. Instead, he was preoccupied -- distracted and distant, just like he had been with me for far too long. And now that I look back, knowing what happened next, I see what I couldn’t at the time -- he was lost and confused, desperate for comfort and afraid to ask for it.

I couldn’t go down that road, though, because I had work to do that required my full attention, and if I wanted to get home at a decent hour, I had to get started. So I told myself that Justin was in good hands with Rob and Adam, and everything would be fine. Hopefully he’d have a good time, and he and Esme would paint or draw while Sophia tried to throw in her seven-year-old perspective, and he’d come back home talking a mile a minute about whatever they’d worked on. And “my” Justin -- the one I recognized, the one I missed -- would be back.

But that wasn’t what happened at all.

When I got home, a little after nine, Justin was already in bed, sound asleep, with the blackout curtains pulled, blocking out the glow of the city that was a constant outside our window. His migraine medication was on the nightstand alongside a bottle of water, allowing me to easily put two-and-two together that Justin’s night had not ended in a positive way. I hadn’t heard anything from Rob though, so I figured it must have hit Justin hard after he came home. That wasn’t unusual for him, although it happened far more often than either he or I would like.

I needed to get horizontal myself, as my legs were hurting like a motherfucker by that point, so I tried to be as quiet as possible while I showered and got ready to join my husband in bed. He was down for the count, as was typical when he took that particular medication, and didn’t stir at all as I hoisted my body over to the bed and carefully brought my legs up to join me. It took me a few minutes to get my stack of pillows arranged so that my legs were propped up, but not so much that it made my lower back ache -- it was a delicate balance, as I’d found out in the previous days -- but I finally got it, and settled back into the pillows to try to relax and let go of my day, eventually allowing the sweet bliss of unconsciousness to carry me away.

Justin was still asleep when I woke up, and, as had become usual, stayed asleep while I got ready for work. He was still snoring when it was time for me to go, and he didn’t even move a muscle when I went into the bedroom to kiss his cheek and tell him I loved him before I left for work. I wondered if he’d been up in the middle of the night and taken more of his meds, because sleeping for ten-plus hours straight was a bit unusual, even for Justin. But if the headache wasn’t gone, that was probably what had happened, so I wasn’t too worried about it.

The worry came later, after I got to the office.

I’d only been at my desk for a few minutes, enjoying the last of the quiet in the office before the majority of the staff arrived at nine, when Rob knocked on the door frame.

“Hey,” I said, surprised to see Rob that early, since most of his staff didn’t come in until 10. “What brings you up here at this hour?”

I expected to hear him say that he was out of coffee or just wanted to shoot the shit for a few minutes, but the look on his face was serious, and he didn’t have his coffee cup.

“We need to talk,” he said, as he pushed himself into the room, pausing to close the door behind him before turning to face me. “I’m worried about Justin.”

“He’s fine,” I said. “He was asleep when I left for work. Looked like he might have gotten a headache last night after he came home. Was he okay when he left your place?”

“Cut the bullshit, Brian. You have to know this isn’t about a headache.” Rob was staring intensely at me, his piercing blue eyes boring into mine.

I had to look away, because I did know -- I just hadn’t wanted to admit it. And Rob was calling me right out onto the carpet, in the way that he always does.

“I was surprised to hear Justin’s taking a break from art for a while,” he said.

“What?” I looked up to meet his eyes again, because I couldn’t not look at him after he’d just delivered news like that.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Rob came closer, then ran a hand through his hair as he let out a breath. “Adam kept trying to tell me I was overreacting, but I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

“What?” I repeated, still trying to process what Rob had just told me and what it meant. “What are you talking about? He’s been at his studio every day, working on something.”

“How long has it been since you’ve been to the studio?”

“More than a month. It was before I went to Pittsburgh… But it seemed like he didn’t want me there, so I’ve stayed away. Trying to give him some privacy.”

Rob nodded and bit his lower lip, looking like he was trying to put the pieces of something together. “Well, Adam went last week, since I never could get Justin to answer his phone. Justin didn’t answer the door, but it was unlocked, so Adam went in, and he found Justin asleep on the couch.”

“He’s been pretty tired lately.”

“I think there’s a lot more to it than that. And I’ve been there before. I know you have too. And that’s why I can’t figure out why you’re not seeing it.”

I had to look away again, because I was seeing it, and I'd been seeing it for awhile. But I'd kept telling myself there was nothing to worry about, or otherwise making excuses for Justin in my head. And then, there I was, making excuses to Rob too, for reasons I couldn't even explain.

"Or maybe you do know," Rob said, probably noting the guilt I was sure was written all over my face. "But why, Brian? It's not like you to just stick your head in the sand and not tackle a problem head on."

I continued looking down at my desk, because I really didn't have an answer for him, and I didn't have a good excuse.

"Justin needs help." Rob's voice was much softer and more gentle as he said those three words -- three words that hit me square in the chest so hard it physically hurt. "He needs you to hear what he isn't saying, so he doesn't have to say it."

I let silence settle between us for a few moments, trying to let Rob’s words sink in, but eventually my urge to argue overpowered my good intentions. "He can tell me anything, though. He knows that," I said, realizing the moment the words left my lips that I'd said the same thing to Michael over a month before, but Justin had yet to open up to me about anything, even when I'd asked. Of course, I hadn’t pushed very hard either.

“Did you know he dropped out of the art show?”

“What?”

“I thought not. But he did. Yesterday. He told us that, too. Listen, I’m not sure he can figure out how to articulate what he needs at this point. But I can tell you what I saw last night. I saw someone who looked a hell of a lot like I did a long time ago, when I felt like there was no hope and only one way out.”

I knew exactly what Rob was alluding to there, and my initial impulse was to refuse to entertain that thought and tell him that he was wrong, before I realized that would only be doing more of exactly what Rob was accusing me of doing in the first place -- burying my head in the sand, sweeping things under the rug, or any other number of cliched euphemisms for being totally blind to what was happening around me.

“When you’re in that kind of mindset, it doesn’t matter who you have or how much they love you,” Rob continued. I could hear the emotion in his voice, and I knew he wasn’t just talking about Justin. “You’re not thinking about them. You’re only thinking about your pain, and you’re so deep in it that you can’t see anything else. That’s where Justin is right now, I think. He has a lot of things he needs to say, but he can’t figure out how. He’s confused, and his brain is telling him lies. He needs you to make it to where he doesn’t have to say anything. He needs you to help him, before it’s too late.” He paused and took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “I hope for both of your sakes that Adam is right, and I’m overreacting, but I don’t think I am. After what I saw last night… He wasn’t eating, he was hardly talking to any of us, not even the girls, then he left suddenly, saying he had a headache and blatantly refused to let me go with him to be sure he got home okay. After he told us that he was taking a break from art for a while, Adam asked him what he was going to do, trying to be positive and encouraging -- you know, just being Adam -- and the answer he got was a vague, ‘Nothing.’ I couldn’t let it go. It’s been eating at me all night. I wanted to call you last night, but Adam convinced me not to. He texted Justin to be sure he made it home, and Justin replied pretty quickly, so that was enough to make Adam feel like Justin wasn’t isolating, but now I’m not so sure. What I saw last night felt like he was isolating himself. I’m just not sure he sees a way out. But that’s what depression does.”

The word echoed in my head: depression. Something I should have seen, but didn't. Somewhere I'd been before myself. Someplace I'd seen Justin before and somehow failed to recognize this time. I had absolutely nothing to say to Rob in response, because there was no excuse. But I knew I couldn’t plead ignorance anymore -- mostly because I didn’t want to think about what might happen if I did.

“Where is Justin right now?” Rob asked, his voice still bearing the kind and compassionate tone that was his trademark when he wasn’t calling me out on my bullshit. It was a big change from the way he had been when he first came into my office, and it made me wonder what sort of aura I was projecting that made him decide to take a gentler approach.

“He was asleep when I left. He’s probably still asleep.”

“Check on him,” Rob said softly. “Make sure he’s okay. Then later, when you get home, talk to him. Tell him that you know, and you understand, and you’re going to make sure he gets the help he needs. He needs you right now. He needs you to take control of the situation, because I don’t think he feels like he can. I know I didn’t. Just promise me you won’t wait.”

I looked down at my phone on my desk and nodded, not sure what to say and feeling like anything I could say would be inadequate in the face of what had just been said to me.

“Like I said, I hope I’m wrong,” Rob said. “But I don’t think I am. I just couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t say something, and…” He stopped speaking and let his sentence trail off, but I didn’t need him to complete it. I knew what came next, and I knew it was something neither of us wanted to think about. “Anyway, just call him.” Rob came closer and pulled me into a hug that I hadn’t realized I needed until it was happening. “I love you both. I wouldn’t be saying any of this if I didn’t. And if there’s anything at all I can do to help, just tell me, and consider it done.” Rob let me go and turned to leave, pausing for a moment at the door to my office to add, “I mean that. You guys are family, and family takes care of family. I’m just sorry I didn’t put it together sooner.”

Truthfully, I wished I had as well. I still do.

Rob was gone seconds later, leaving me staring at my phone, trying to digest all that had been said, before I picked it up and, with a trembling hand, made a call to Justin. I had no idea what I was going to say when he picked up, but I guessed it didn’t matter -- I just needed to know he was okay. But the phone never rang. It went straight to Justin’s voicemail greeting, modeled after my own from so many years ago: “It’s Justin. You know what to do.”

I hung up and tried again, but got the same result -- no ring, just voicemail. Everything Rob had just said was echoing in my head on an endless loop, only serving to ratchet up my fear as I tried a third time -- hoping for the phone to at least ring, so I could tell myself he was just asleep or in the bathroom or the shower and hadn't heard the phone -- but I was again met with Justin’s prerecorded voice immediately after the call connected. His phone was off. But why?

Was I already too late?

As I stuck my phone in my pocket and hurriedly grabbed my jacket, I silently recited the only sincere prayer I’d ever made in my life for the fourth time.

Please don’t let anything happen to him.