So I set down the drink and pull out my phone, not to call Devi again, although I want to, but to watch the video I took of her in my pool a few weeks ago. And I watch her swimming over and over again, her hair and her body and the water, and I fall asleep on my couch that way.
Alone. With my phone in my hand and my heart in my throat.
I wake up, not hung over, not exhausted, but dazed all the same. There’s that weird, floating moment between my eyes opening and me remembering, a moment where I feel like something bad has happened but I can’t remember what. When I finally recall Devi’s tears and her terrible, untrue (does she even realize how untrue?) words, I do love you, more than you love me, and that’s why I have to go, I’m destroyed all over again.
I call her several more times, I text her pages and pages of texts, because how could she think that she loves me more than I love her? But also how could she think about leaving porn? I text her long, stream-of-consciousness threads of thoughts, about how much I love her, how much I already miss her, all the things I would do to prove it to her, but she never answers me back.
I don’t have any scenes booked for today, thankfully, so I drive all the way down to El Segundo to see her. I shouldn’t be surprised when she’s not there, but I’m devastated all the same, and I wait on her porch step for her to come home. The autumn sun rises high and hot, and I get sweaty and uncomfortable but I don’t care. I want to suffer. I want to suffer for her.
She never comes home, though. It’s just me and my wretched thoughts until the sun sets over the ocean, and the sky fades into oranges and pinks.
And that’s when the ancient Volvo rattles into the driveway. A stocky older man with a black mustache and a full head of thick black hair gets out and then walks around the front to open the door for the woman inside. I recognize her immediately.
It’s Devi’s mother.
The couple comes up to the door and I stand, wiping my sweaty hands on my jeans and extending a hand to Mrs. Jones-Daryani to shake. She ignores it and pulls me straight into a hug, a tight one. For some reason that makes me want to cry again, but I manage to keep it together.
“Hi, Logan,” she says as she pulls away. “It’s so good to see you again. This is my husband, Davud Daryani.”
“Hi, Mrs. Jones-Daryani. Nice to meet you Mr. Daryani,” I greet them back. I look at the car hopefully, even though I already know it’s empty. “Is Devi coming or…?”
Sue gives me a pitying smile. “We came to get some clothes for her. She’s going to be staying with us for a while.”
I want to ask where they live, if I can come back with them, but even in my desperate state, I know that would be crossing a line. So I don’t. I just look at the ground and try not to cry in front of Devi’s parents.
“Davud,” Sue says softly, “why don’t you go inside and pack up some things for our boombalee? I want to talk with Logan for a minute.”
Davud nods, and before he walks in, he places a heavy hand on my shoulder. It should feel weird, the father of the girl who just dumped me touching me like this, but it doesn’t. Instead, I feel just a little bit stronger, just a little bit more clear-headed, as if he’s transmitted perspective and wisdom through my skin. And then he pats my shoulder and unlocks the apartment door, walking inside and leaving Sue and me on the porch.
And then it hits me, hits me hard.
This is real life. This is Devi’s parents gathering up her things and this is Devi not answering her phone, and this is me left broken-hearted for the second time this year, except this time it’s so much fucking worse.
Devi and I are really over.
I sit back down on the porch and put my head in my hands, and I feel Sue sit next me, a musical chiming coming from all her anklets and bracelets as she does.
“Logan,” she says, laying a hand on my back. And again, it should feel weird being comforted by my ex-girlfriend’s parents but it’s not for some reason. “It’s going to be okay.”
“I fucked up,” I say miserably. “I fucked everything up.”
“Devi made a point to tell us that you didn’t do anything wrong,” Sue soothes me. “Porn just isn’t right for her. There’s a difference.”
“I thought I was doing the right thing,” I say, still staring at the ground. “The right thing for both of us. I was trying to be more like her—more logical and careful—and I thought we could make it work. Have each other and have porn at the same time.”
“Let me ask you something,” Sue says. “Deep down, is that what you really want? To have both?”
“Porn is my entire life,” I say defensively. “It paid for that car and for my house and my 401k. It’s the only thing I know.”
“That’s not what I asked,” Sue counters gently. “I asked what you wanted. Pretend that Devi would have been willing to stay, willing to continue doing porn. Is that what would have made you truly happy in the end?”
Yes, of course, I want to snap back, but the response is automatic and rehearsed. Because porn was my entire life, until I met Devi, and now I want my life to be more than just my job, no matter how amazing my job is. And I also know the reason I’m defensive right now is because I finally have to look all those haunting questions in the face after avoiding them for weeks, look at those questions and then look at the answers I already know deep down. The answers that I started to comprehend the first time Devi and I made love without the camera.
That I might only want Devi.