Chapter 17
“F*ck!”
I spend the thirty minutes after Dee walks out cursing and pacing and kicking shit around my apartment—generally pissed off at the entire world.
“Shit!”
I’m angry at myself for letting things get as far as they did—for losing my patience and my temper—and for even falling for Dee in the first place. My self-flagellation is hot and varied and doesn’t make a whole lot of sense—even to me.
I’m furious with Delores—for not trusting me, for not even f*cking trying. For not thinking what we have is worth the risk. For thinking I’m a goddamn risk at all, when I’ve done everything possible to show her I’m not.
And I’m beyond irritated with Drew—but I’m not sure what the f*ck for yet. Maybe he cut Kate down just like Dee claimed. And if he did, it was an a*shole move. One that’s unjustly blown back on me. And I’m kind of pissed that he even screwed Kate at all—breaking his precious, stupid f*cking rule that was there for a reason. This reason. Because—like a goddamn suicide bomber—his actions have had painful consequences for everyone around him.
But most of all, I’m infuriated that Drew won’t pick up his f*cking phone so I can find out what the hell happened.
“Goddamn it!”
Guys aren’t chatty. The telephone is not a necessity for us—unless it’s to find out where we’re meeting up or what the latest baseball scores are. But this is one time I actually need to talk to him—and he’s MIA. I call Erin, Drew’s secretary, who’s still at the office. She informs me that he went home sick this afternoon—that he probably has the flu.
F*cking perfect.
Screw it. I drop my phone, grab my keys, and head over to Drew’s apartment—to get the story straight from the ass’s mouth.
But when I get to his place, he doesn’t answer.
I bang on the door for the third—or thirtieth—time. “Drew! Open the f*cking door! What the hell happened today? Drew!”
Nothing. I stop and listen for any sign of life inside the apartment, but all I hear is silence. Not even the rustle of footsteps or the squeak of couch springs. There’s an excellent chance he’s not even home. Which means, for now, I’m shit out of luck.
Breathing hard, I leave the building. I get on my bike and ride—fast and sharp. Probably not the best idea at the moment, but I do it anyway. I get through the tunnel, onto the turnpike, where traffic is thankfully scarce.
And I really open her up. The wind blows so cold and harsh, my face goes numb. But it’s a good thing. Because feeling nothing is so much better than feeling the loss. Of what Dee and I had—of everything we could’ve had.
I ride for hours. Trying to let go. Trying to forget today . . . and the entire four weeks that came before it.
I park my bike in the garage and climb off—stiff and frozen from the ride. I didn’t think I was hoping that Delores would be here, waiting. That she’d realize she made a terrible mistake and show up at my door to beg and apologize. Especially the begging part.
But I realize it’s exactly what I was hoping for . . . when I reach my apartment door and she’s not there.
And the disappointment is crushing.
The letdown intensifies when I scroll through the missed calls on my phone and see that none of them are from Dee.
But I’m not tempted to call her.
I’m frustrated, and I miss her—but I’m not calling. I’m not chasing her. Not this time. Not ever again, if it comes to that.
Drew hasn’t returned my calls either. I’m looking forward to work tomorrow, where I’ll see him, get the story . . . and most likely punch him in his stupid face. That’ll make me feel better.
Don’t worry—I won’t actually do any damage. Even though he doesn’t box as often as I do, Drew’s no wuss. He can take care of himself. And unlike Delores’s and my relationship, our friendship will survive. A few punches, between friends, really isn’t that big of a deal.
I have no appetite, so I skip dinner. I just take a shower and collapse—naked and wet—into my bed. But when my face burrows into the pillow, I smell her. The scent of her skin, her hair—it’s sweet and spicy, apples and cinnamon, distinct.
And it makes my chest ache.
Instead of getting up and sleeping on the couch, like I probably should, I pull the pillow closer and wrap the sheets tighter—surrounding myself in Dee’s memory—until I fall asleep.
Kind of pathetic, right?
Yeah, I f*cking think so too.
Tuesday morning, I drag my ass into work—grumpy, disheveled, and feeling shitty—even though I slept like a rock. There, I hear all about the show Billy Warren put on for Kate in the lobby, and I wonder if they got back together. As far as grand gestures go, you don’t get much grander than a public serenade and a lobby full of flowers. But if Kate is back with Billy, why would she give two shits about what Drew thinks or feels about her?
Throughout the rotten day, I check to see if Drew shows up. He doesn’t. And I wonder if he really is sick. Or if whatever happened between him and Kate—and the possibility that she went back to her ex right after—busted him up more than he let on.
I spend my time wondering about that . . . so I don’t have time to think about Dee. But, of course, my mind finds a way to squeeze thoughts of her in.
Plentiful, pain-bringing thoughts.
About where she is—what she’s feeling. If there’s any way she’s doing as badly as I am.
Erin gathers Steven, Jack O’Shay, and me together and asks us to cover for Drew while he’s out. Like the man himself, his clients are f*cking spoiled, and they tend to freak out if he isn’t close by to hold their hands. I take a couple of his files because, even though I think he’s a shithead at the moment, I’m not gonna let his career tank over it.
The extra work makes the day go faster, and before I know it, it’s quitting time. I go to the gym—even though I’m feeling craptastic—and undergo a brutal workout and sparring session.
Because this is what most guys do when they’re hurting. Punish themselves or—like the barking boss in desperate need to get laid—everyone around them.
After the gym, I stop by Drew’s apartment again, significantly calmer than last night. He still doesn’t answer the door, but this time, I hear the television on inside. Sounds like he’s watching Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy.
I pound on the door. “Open up, jerk-off.”
The only response I hear is the growl of Sex Panther—a punch line from the movie. I knock again. “Come on, douche bag. You’re not the only one with problems, you know.”
When he still doesn’t answer, I genuinely start to worry. “Drew, you seriously need to give me a sign here. If not, I’m going to assume you’re actually dying and call nine-one-one.”
A minute goes by. Then another. And just as I’m about to pull out my phone, something bangs against the inside of the door. Like it was purposely thrown against it. A baseball maybe.
Bam.
“Drew? Was that you?”
Bam.
“Do you need me to bust the door down?”
Bam . . . Bam.
I think for a moment. Then, to make sure I’m right, I ask, “So it’s once for yes, twice for no?”
Bam.
Guess it’ll frigging have to do for now. I sit on the floor and lean my back up against Drew’s door. And I start to talk, ask yes and no questions—feeling kind of like an idiot. Like some teenager in a horror movie, communicating with the other side through a Ouiji Board, who’s too much of a moron to remember those interactions never end well.
“Erin said you texted her. Do you really have the flu?”
Bam.
“Did you and Kate hook up last weekend?”
Bam.
“Was it as good as you imagined?”
Bam . . . Bam.
You might be confused by his answer. I’m not.
“Was it even better?”
There’s a meaningful pause. And then . . . Bam.
“Were you a dick to her afterwards?”
Bam . . . Bam.
No. So Dee did have it wrong. But then, Drew elaborates. Sort of.
Bam.
No and yes. Drew was a dick to Kate . . . but he seems to think he had a reason to be. I move on.
“Delores broke up with me. Because of the way you treated Kate. And I was really into her, man. I . . . I fell in love with her.” My voice gets stronger. Irritated. “Do you even care? Are you f*cking sorry at all?”
There’s another meaningful pause. Then . . . Bam.
Although his remorse is nice to hear, it doesn’t help me at all. And, the bottom line is, it wasn’t really Drew that ended Dee and I. That was all on us. Her refusal to trust me . . . my refusal to keep trying to earn it.
Whatever Drew said to Kate, he’s obviously suffering because of it. So, I let him off the hook. “The truth is, it’s not all on you. We had . . . issues. Problems I thought I could get us through . . . but . . . she didn’t want it as much as I did. You know how that goes.”
Bam.
“You plan on staying in there forever?”
Bam . . . Bam.
“Do you need anything? Is there anything I can do?”
Bam . . . Bam.
I nod, even though it’s only to myself. “Do you want me to come back tomorrow?”
There’s a moment of silence, when I assume he’s thinking it over. Then he answers.
Bam.
I go back to my apartment and do nothing but watch TV the rest of the night. My face has one expression the whole time—grim. As I flick through the stations, one of those long-as-hell commercials comes on, advertising the ultimate soft rock eighties collection. And “One More Night” by Phil Collins plays loud and clear. It’s the part of the song where he’s wondering about calling the girl.
And it’s like a freaky science fiction movie—like the television is reading my f*cking mind. I stare at my cell phone. Contemplating.
Trying to Jedi Mind Trick it.
Ring, you bastard. Ring.
I pick it up, brushing my fingers over the numbers. And I punch in nine of Dee’s ten digits . . .
Until the next lyric out of the TV reminds me that maybe she’s not alone.
I toss my phone away, like a scorching Hot Pocket fresh from the microwave. Then I plant my face in the couch cushion and yell into it.
“F*ck me!”
The music on the infomercial changes. And now it’s “Against All Odds”—a song about a guy who has so much to say to a girl, but she just won’t turn around and let him.
You know, somebody must’ve really screwed Phil Collins over. Big-time.
I sing a few of the lyrics ’cause it’s just you and me here. And for an eighties song, it’s pretty good.
And—oh look—“Total Eclipse of the Heart” just came on. Completing the trifecta of spirit-crushing, why-don’t-you-just-kill-yourself eighties tunes.
Yay.
Excuse me while I go slit my wrists in the bathroom.