I listen to angry gangster rap on the drive home. I’m too upset to sit around, so I decide to do something productive. A jog seems like a smart way to burn off some of this negative energy and get perspective. The first sign my idea is flawed occurs when it takes me forty-five minutes to find my damn running shoes. Armed with more angry beats, I adjust my earbuds, and hit the sidewalk.
It’s cold out, so I start with a light jog. Two minutes in, I’m already winded but also determined to make this work. I need to do something beyond crying or calling Alex. I push on, and by the time I’ve gone a block, I have a stitch in my side and I’m wheezing like an asthmatic. On the positive side, I can see the fast food sign glowing in the distance. I check all my pockets and find a magical ten dollar bill in the little one meant for a lip balm or keys. The Arches of Indigestion aren’t too far away. I can make it. More than this jog, I need a milkshake.
I’m panting and huffing by the time I reach the door. The familiar smell of fried food greets me as I step inside. It’s like coming home except I don’t have to cook anything for myself. I order fries and a milkshake and hole myself up in the corner. Prying off the lid, I carefully coat each fry in frozen vanilla-flavored mock-dairy product. Fucking Alex, literally, is the reason I’m stuffing my face with this crap. Tomorrow I’ll end up with the moops thanks to the fake dairy and grease.
The mild sugar and trans-fat high is destroyed by the cold walk home. I avoid checking my emails or phone messages. I don’t want to talk to Alex tonight. I don’t know him well enough to discern whether or not he’s hosing me. Talking to him may confirm his lying bastard status, and I’ll be crushed. It’s too much to manage. Nyquil is my sleep aid of choice otherwise I’ll never shut my mind off.
The Waters beaver stares at me from my pillow. I shove him off the bed and get under the covers. I must go in search of him in the middle of the night because I wake up clutching him.
Charlene is sitting on my desk when I arrive at work the next morning. She’s becoming a fixture there.
“You haven’t called him yet, have you?”
“Good morning to you, too.”
She passes me a folder. “You need to look at this.”
“What is it?” I flip it open; there are endless pictures of Alex with the same blonde woman. The sheer volume of them is disturbing.
“She’s his sister.”
“Say what, now?” I have a vague recollection of Alex mentioning a younger sister while we were on our date.
“Her name is Sunny. She’s twenty-one. According to this article”—she holds up a gossip rag—“he flew her out to a game in LA last week because it’s colder than a snowman’s balls up there in Canada.”
“I had no idea.”
“He called me to explain. Apparently they’re close.” She produces her phone and shows me Alex’s cell number.
“How did he get your number?”
“Good question. Maybe you should return one of his calls and find out.”
I ignore the jab. “What did he explain, exactly?”
“About the photos. He was worried. He couldn’t get in touch with you and figured it might be the reason. You could have avoided all this if you’d called him or done some research.”
I’m too embarrassed to admit I’ve scoured images like a junkie looking for smack, but I didn’t perform a search for this vital information last night. I’ve made a horribly ignorant assumption based on personal expectations.
He really is a good guy. He took the time to seek out my best friend and relay a message through her, which tells me more about him than the flowers or the gifts.
I check my phone to find my voice mailbox full, and I have twenty texts. I fear their content. The first two voice mails from Alex simply ask me to return his call. The third one is several minutes long and the reason my voice mail is full. I feel awful. He’s tried so hard to explain the situation and I’ve ignored him.
I text him immediately. I don’t hear from him all day. He has a game tonight, so he’s likely at practice or he doesn’t have his phone with him.
Karma dictates I put myself in the same shoes he’s been wearing for the past twenty-four hours. After work, I change into comfy clothes, grab a bag of pretzels from the pantry and a couple of beers from the fridge, and make the trek across the driveway to my parents’ house. The massive television in the living room is the best place to catch the game.
The teams are evenly matched for skill. I watch with rapt attention as Alex scores a goal and manages two assists in the third period, leaving the other team unable to recover. Afterward, the sportscasters interview Alex. He’s riding the high of the win; I worry my late response is going to result in a self-fulfilling prophesy.
I’m buzzed by the time the highlight reel is finished. The game has been over for an hour, and still no message from Alex. I return to the pool house and get ready for bed. Clutching the Waters beaver to my chest, I drift into a fitful sleep.
I’m woken some time later by the sound of my phone ringing. I reach for it in frantic confusion, pressing wrong buttons until I finally answer the call.
“Hi. Hello?” I’m so disoriented. I’ve been having Alex boob-fondling dreams.