Push

chapter Thirty-Six

I stare down at the numbers on David’s phone, and I can feel the blood rush into my head. My heart is pounding in my ears, and my skin is starting to bristle and burn. I suck air in through my nose, trying to keep myself from going ballistic, but I can feel the anger and confusion filling every muscle in my body. I can feel myself losing control. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my reflection in the bedroom mirror? and I nearly toss the phone into my own face, shattering it into a million shards of glass. But instead, I close my eyes and breathe, trying to think of a reason why David would spend six minutes on a phone call to a dead man’s house while I slept. I am trying to regain my composure. Trying to placate my enraged mind with a reason.
It isn’t working. I need a release. I need a way to make it stop. I can’t bring myself to think of a reason until I find a way to tamp down my anger. Then I can be rational.
I look around the room searching for my release. A split second later I have found an aggressive end to my fury. David’s phone drops to the floor, and a box of my childhood discards flies through my bedroom window, breaking the glass and scattering it across the bed and floor. I scream out a low, hollow noise as the box hits the window, and then I ball my hands into fists. I strike myself, landing two stiff blows on my thighs. I feel the surge of anger pushing its way into the muscles there. And then I am still. I am lighter now. Now I can think.
I reach down to pick up David’s phone, and before I can stop myself, my finger presses the call log list. I scroll through the entries, looking at all the phone calls David has made over the past few weeks. I see lots of numbers that I don’t recognize, along with several familiar names. Matt, Saz, John, Brad, Carl, Jake from the tattoo shop, and a handful of others are listed there. And then I see Michael’s number again. David called him a few weeks ago. On a Tuesday afternoon. It was the same day that David took me to poker. The same day that Matt held my hair over the toilet. And it was the day before Michael’s head met a baseball bat.
I notice that before that four-minute call to Michael, David made a call to 411 information. And after the call to Michael, another 241 number is listed. I recognize it immediately—Ricky’s cell. I can see David calling Michael to rip him a new one about sending me the dog tags, but why the f*ck would he call Ricky? And how did he get Ricky’s number? From Michael? Maybe that’s why he called Michael—not to chew him out, but rather to get in touch with Ricky. But why? I don’t get it.
I walk out to the living room as I am sorting through the muddle of thoughts in my head. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I should say to David, and I panic when the thought rushes into my head that somehow David was involved in Michael’s death. If that’s the case, how the f*ck am I supposed to feel? What am I supposed to do?
I need David to be here. I need him to tell me what the hell is going on. I can’t call him, because his phone is in my hand. I look down at it, and the screen has gone black. My time is up. I don’t know the code to get back into the phone. So I sit down on the sofa and wait.
Fifteen minutes pass before I hear David’s key slide into the lock. He is holding the handles of a plastic bag and a large bottle of Maker’s Mark 46 in his left hand. He does not look happy.
“What happened?” he says. “You didn’t call in the order.” He pauses, waiting for me to say something. But I can only stand here, holding his phone at my side and thinking about what I am going to do next. “I forgot my phone here, and I couldn’t remember your cell number,” he says. “I had to wait for them to make us something. What happened, Emma?” He puts the bag and the bottle down on the table and walks toward me. He must see something in my face. He must see that something isn’t right. He lifts his hand to touch me, but he drops it and steps back just before he makes contact.
I stare at his face. My eyes narrow, and I hold out his phone. My arm is rigid, and when the phone is right in front of his face, I speak.
“Tell me why the f*ck you called Michael’s house last night.”
“Shit,” he says softly. He brushes his hair back off his forehead and then rests his hand on the back of his neck. “Jesus, Emma.”
“For f*ck’s sake, David, do not bullshit me.”
David turns his back to me and walks over to the table, dropping his hand and turning back to look at me. “Shit,” he says again. This time it sounds sharp and loud. “You shouldn’t have looked at my phone, Emma.” My head draws back, and I shake it in disbelief. Seriously? He is going to chastise me for looking at his goddamned phone? F*ck that.
He rubs his fingers over his eyes, and then he picks up the whisky. He peels off the wax and pulls out the cork with his teeth. And then he drinks from it. Long, rough swallows. When he stops to take a breath, his eyes move back to mine. “F*ck. No. It’s my fault, Emma. I shouldn’t have left my phone here. I should have erased the number. F*ck me. F*ck,” he says briskly.
I walk over to him, throw his phone down on the table, and take the bottle out of his hand. I carry it into the kitchen and pour a hefty dose into a glass. For a second I consider smashing the rest of the bottle on the floor, but I know that won’t get me what I want. I have to keep myself straight. I walk back out of the kitchen and over to David. He has picked up his phone and is looking down at the backlit screen. I hand him the bottle and hold my glass up.
“A toast,” I say, looking straight into his eyes as he looks up from his phone, “to Michael—the man who just keeps on f*cking me over.” My voice is loud and pointed and resolute. David does not raise his arm, so I clink my glass against the bottle. Then I drink the whole damned thing in a series of a dozen or so rapid, burning swallows. When it’s empty, I hold the glass out in front of me and raise my eyebrows. David lifts the bottle and pours more Maker’s into the glass, filling it nearly to the top. He doesn’t say a word, but as I begin to drink, he swallows straight from the bottle, sip for sip. Once my glass is empty, I toss it down on to the table. It skitters across the top and rolls off the edge, landing on the carpet with a soft thud.
“Talk, David,” I snap at him, grabbing the bottle from his hand. My face is hot, and I am about sink into a rage. I am losing control again. There is no stopping it. “I will keep drinking like a goddamned fish until you tell me what the f*ck is going on.” I lift the rim of the bottle up to my mouth and take another deep swig. The bottle is half empty. I feel like a runaway freight train.
“Emma, don’t,” he says. “Don’t do this.”
“F*ck you, David,” I spit at him, the alcohol and emotion surging through my veins. He looks at me as if I am completely insane. It is infuriating. I want to castigate him. I want to make him pay for both the way he is belittling my anger and whatever the f*ck it is he’s hiding. “This is your fault, David. It’s your fault that I am acting like an out-of-control circus freak right now. And this time, you’ll be the one holding my f*cking hair when I’m retching my guts out. You hate not being in control? Well, f*ck that shit. Things are gonna get way outta control tonight, my friend, unless you make the decision to man up and tell me the f*cking truth about why you made that phone call.” I lift the bottle to my mouth again, and when I drink from it, a small trickle of whisky runs down my chin. I am getting sloppy already—but I am not stopping until he f*cking talks. I am on fire.
David reaches up and runs his index finger across my chin, wiping the stream of whisky away. He puts his finger into his mouth and cocks his head. His eyes are narrow, and he looks more bemused and entertained than angry. It makes me want to punch him in the f*cking face.
“F*ck you, David Calgaro,” I scream at him, lifting the bottle to my lips again and taking another series of sips. “Talk!”
David is still regarding me as if I am utterly nuts, and I know that the crazy current is there, pushing through his body and thrilling him. “You’re drunk already, Emma,” he laughs, “and it will not be my fault if you spend the night retching your guts out. This is your choice—and it is not a very mature one at that. I am not explaining anything to you when I can see that you are clearly not behaving rationally.” Oh. My. F*cking. God. Who the hell does he think he is?
“You’re a jackass,” I sneer at him. “What f*cking high horse did you ride in on?”
“The one that gives a flying f*ck about your pretty little ass,” he says smartly as I am sloshing down more whisky. “I’m not watching this, and I’m not holding your f*cking hair either. You have completely lost it, Emma. And, the crazy thing is, you don’t even know why.” David walks to the door. His hand is on the knob as he turns to look back at me. “Eat that food, Emma, and call me tomorrow. When you’re done retching.” And then he is gone. And I am lifting the whisky bottle to my lips again.
* * *

I wake up in my bed on Monday morning with the alarm buzzing full blast into my ear. I don’t even remember setting it. Come to think of it, I don’t remember getting into bed either. The last thing I recall was lying down on the couch and closing my eyes. And before that, I was drinking. A lot. I don’t remember puking either, but the taste in my mouth suggests that was part of my evening, too. I sit up in the bed and put my hands on my head, trying to squeeze out the monumental headache raging inside of it. I am wearing a T-shirt and panties and nothing else. The clothes I was wearing yesterday are draped neatly over the end of the bed. I glance over at the clock as I switch it off, thankful that I have time for a quick shower before I have to leave for work. It is going to be a long day.
As I climb out of bed, I am struck by how dark the room is. It is then that I notice a large piece of plywood nestled into what was one of my bedroom windows. It is duct-taped into the opening, and all the glass has been cleaned up off the floor. I carefully run my hand across the top of my comforter, and there is not a single shard of glass there either.
Why did he come back here? I had every right to be pissed off at him last night for contacting my family and not telling me why, but I feel ridiculous for sinking into such a livid rage over it. The idea of him returning to close up the broken window and put me to bed confuses the f*ck out of me. I sink to the floor and drop my face into my hands.
* * *

Despite my hangover, I manage to make it to the bus stop on time. The ride is blissfully quiet, and I spend the entire trip thinking about what I should say to David about last night. I am still furious at him for keeping the phone call’s reason a secret. Why didn’t he just answer me? This whole screwed-up situation could have been avoided if he had just told me the damn reason in the first place. And I never even had the chance to ask about the earlier calls—my own ridiculous insanity kept me from that. I am upset with myself for getting so out of hand. Still, the thing that confuses me the most is the fact that David came back. He didn’t have to come back to check on me. He didn’t have to put me to bed or set my alarm or clean up the broken window. But he did, and I can only imagine what went through his mind when he saw the mess.
As I ride the elevator up to my office, I flip open my phone, hoping that David might have sent me a message last night or this morning. There’s no message waiting for me, but my fingers begin to type one of their own. I stop them, though, because I have no idea what to say. I have no idea where to go from here. I close the phone and slip it back into my purse.
At lunchtime I check my phone again. There is still no message from David. Part of me wants to extend an olive branch to him, to apologize for being so belligerent, to start the conversation all over again and ask him nicely why he made those phone calls. But the rest of me, the stubborn part, wants him to take the first step. I want him to apologize for opening that damned bottle of whisky instead of answering my question. I want him to apologize for walking out on me when I challenged him to man up. And then I want to thank him for cleaning up my mess and for sealing the broken window and for putting me to bed and probably for holding my hair while I retched.
By the time six o’clock rolls around, I am absolutely exhausted. This morning Matt asked me about what David and I ended up doing on Friday afternoon. I told him about the tattoo, and he laughed and said that he thinks I got off pretty easy. I smiled at him and said that he hasn’t seen how big the damn thing is. He could tell that I wasn’t myself today and asked me twice if I was feeling under the weather. I told him that I was just tired because it was a busy weekend. I am glad the day is over.
Matt and I ride the elevator down together. I haven’t heard from David all day, nor have I contacted him. As the numbers on the elevator display drop closer to the bottom floor, I start to feel my heart rise up in my throat. By the time we reach the lobby, I think I might cry. I close my eyes briefly as the door opens and take a deep breath before stepping out. Matt pulls me aside just before we get to the exit door.
“Are you all right?” he says. “And don’t tell me again that you’re just tired.”
I smile softly at him, willing my stupid self not to cry. “I’ve been hungover all day and I’m exhausted, and David and I had a fight last night, and I’m mad at myself and I’m furious at him. I don’t know what to do next.”
“Ahhh,” he says, tipping his head back. “A lover’s quarrel and a hangover. That’s a bad combination right there.”
“Yep,” I say sadly.
“You guys will figure it out. David can get a little rough when he drinks, but he’ll apologize. He always does. He’s more than familiar with drunk a*sholes because of his father, but thankfully, he can recognize when he’s been one. He’s a good guy. Just forgive him. He can’t help it. It’s genetic.” Matt smiles and shrugs when he says the last two words. Everything he said is ringing in my ears.
“F*ck me,” I say quietly to myself, and then I look up at Matt. “He wasn’t the drunk a*shole. I was. And he walked out on me because I was angry about something, and I couldn’t stop myself from wanting to punish him for it. I didn’t remember about his father.”
Matt purses his lips and nods, letting out a small, understanding grunt. “I’m sure everything will be all right.” He pauses for a moment, then straightens the bag on his shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Emma. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say, giving him a small smile.
Matt goes out the door, and I follow a few steps behind. I am nearly at the bus shelter when I see David’s car. He is double-parked in his favorite spot, leaning against the front fender. When he sees me, he lifts his hand in a small wave, and I stop in my tracks. I reach into my purse and pull out my phone. We are only thirty paces away from each other, but instead of waking over to him, I send him a text.


Hi.


I watch him put his hand into his pocket and pull out his phone.


Hi back.


Thanks for the ride.


Does that mean you’ll accept it?


Yes.


Then why r u all the way over there?


Because I’m embarrassed.


About?


Last night.


Me too.


Thanks for coming back.


Yep.


Did you have to hold my hair?


Yep.


I’ll bet it was quite a sight.


Yep.


Are you mad?


No. R u?


Not anymore. But we have to talk.


I know. And I’m ready.


Okay.


Do u still love me?


When I read his question, I lift my head immediately and look over at him. His face is smothered with worry. He is holding his phone with both hands. Staring at it. Waiting for my reply.


Like an outta control circus freak.


His face lightens, and he looks up at me, smiling one big-ass smile. I close my phone and run to him, wrapping my arms around his neck and pressing my body to his.
* * *

We ride back to the apartment building in silence, I think because neither of us knows how to start the conversation. We walk up to my apartment holding hands.
“I’ll be out in a second,” I tell him as I walk to my bedroom. “I just want to change. You can help yourself to something from the fridge, if you want.”
“Okay.” It is the first thing he’s said out loud to me since last night.
In my bedroom, there is a brand-new window where the plywood was, and I smile when I see it. After I change, I walk back out to the living room. David is sitting on the couch with one leg crossed over the other, drinking a can of Coke. There is another one on the coffee table.
“Thanks for fixing my window,” I say as I sit down next to him and reach for the can.
“Yep.” Then, after a few seconds, he asks, “When did you do that?”
“Right after I saw Michael’s number on your phone. I wasn’t snooping, David. I went to call the Chinese place, and the number was right there.”
“Oh.”
“But after I threw the box out the window, I did snoop. I scrolled through your call log, and I saw that you called Michael before. And Ricky. The day that you took me to poker with you. And I just lost it. My mind was racing with reasons why you would call them, and I couldn’t rein myself in.” As soon as I mention David’s previous calls to Michael and Ricky, his face changes. His eyes start searching the room as his hand rubs his chin. It’s as if he is scrambling for the right thing to say. He closes his eyes and tilts back his head. A few seconds pass before he flips his head back down and looks at me again.
“I’m going to tell you why I called them, Emma, but I need you to promise me something first,” he says.
“What?”
“Promise me you won’t freak out until you listen to everything that I have to say. Don’t fly off like you did last night. Okay? Can you promise me that?”
“Yes,” I say. My ears feel hot, and a boatload of anxiety sits on my chest like an enormous f*cking anvil. David shifts in his seat and rests his elbow on the back of the sofa. His eyes look ignited.
“The moment I saw you sitting on the floor holding your dad’s cut-up dog tags I knew I had to do something about Michael. I went from being so f*cking happy that you had just agreed to be my girlfriend, to a seething, bitter mess over that man and his motherf*cking stunt. And then, hearing you tell me all the things that Michael did to you—it made me want to hunt him down. You spent your whole life on some kind of roller coaster, and I wanted to make it stop. I told him to stay the f*ck away from you, and he didn’t. And so, while you slept that night and worked the next day, I found a way to punish him.”
“Jesus, David. What did you do?” I say quietly.
“I looked at the boxes in your closet, and I copied down his name and address. I went online to find out about him. And that’s when I saw an article about TruTimber Imports and the trial. I called Michael up and pretended to be from a collection agency. I told him that I was looking for his stepson, Richard Searfoss, and that this was the most recent number the agency had for him. He gave me Ricky’s cell number without so much as a second thought. And then I called Ricky.” David shrugs. He looks as if he wants to stop talking. As if I am not going to like what he has to say next.
“I made up a bullshit story. I told Ricky that I was involved in his stepfather’s illicit business dealings and that he and I had something in common—we both stood to benefit greatly if Michael was no longer in the picture. I said that if word got out about my dealings with the company, it would cause my family a lot of embarrassment and probably incite criminal charges against me. Ricky asked me what all of this had to do with him and why he should even care. I told him that if Michael was removed from the equation, he and his siblings would inherit a whole lot of money, but if Michael’s case were to go to trial, I would be exposed, and if he was found guilty, there would be nothing left for his stepchildren to inherit.”
“What did you do, David?” I am starting to feel sick to my stomach.
“I told Ricky that I would pay him to get rid of Michael, either by doing it himself or by hiring someone.” There is a complete lack of remorse on David’s face.
“What?” There is panic in my voice.
“He asked me why I came to him instead of just hiring someone else. I told him that he was my insurance policy simply because he had the most to gain from Michael’s death. If the crime was traced back to Ricky, he would never see his inheritance, so, essentially, it was my way of ensuring that it would be done cleanly and anonymously. If Ricky made a mistake, he would lose everything—but if he did it right, he would be set for a long, long time. Paying him to get rid of his stepfather made perfect sense.”
“Are you f*cking crazy?” I shout at him, my panic morphing into a full-blown conniption. “I understand wanting to protect me, David, but what the f*ck were you thinking? What if this comes back to you? And me? What if the police find out about all this? Jesus Christ.”
“You promised,” he says softly. “You promised that you wouldn’t freak out. I’m telling you the truth, and I’m not finished.”
“Yeah, well, I had no idea it was going to be this f*cking messed up when I made that promise.” I slouch back on the couch and cross my arms over my chest. I can’t even look at him.
“Please. Just let me finish.”
“Fine,” I snap at him, “but you are completely out of your mind.”
“I know that’s what you think, Emma, and I probably am, but then something happened that I didn’t expect. Ricky told me that he had to think about it. He said he wanted to see if he could access Michael’s will. He needed to make sure you three would actually be the ones to inherit all of Michael’s money. He said he would let me know by Monday night.” David runs his hand through his hair and then drops it back down on to the arm of the couch. “But then we came back here on Monday, and that letter was in your mailbox. Evan had beaten us to it, taken Michael down with a baseball bat the day after I made my offer to Ricky. Only at that point no one knew it was Evan. But I knew that Ricky wouldn’t have gone through with the plan unless he had his money first. I had no clue what the f*ck was happening, and I don’t think Ricky did either.”
“So then, you had nothing to do with Michael’s death? You didn’t end up paying Ricky to do anything?” I ask.
“Well, not exactly. It turns out that Ricky is smarter than I thought.” His eyebrows raise, and his mouth presses shut.
“How? What happened?”
“He showed up here on Tuesday morning.”
“What?” I snap. “Ricky was here last week?” My mind is racing, and my eyes are darting around the room. “He must have found my address at Michael’s house. F*ck. Why would he come to see me?” I am blabbering now, thinking out loud.
“Actually, he wasn’t looking for you. He was looking for me. He used my cell number to find me. I came back home after dropping you off at work, and Ricky was sitting on the steps of the building.”
I give him a what-the-f*ck-were-you-thinking face.
“I know,” he says quietly. “It was stupid of me to use my cell phone. It wasn’t my finest moment. I don’t make mistakes like that, Emma. Ever. I was just so desperate to fix this. To get Michael out of your life. And I had a very small time frame in which to do it.”
“Jesus.” I am disgusted with all of it.
He takes a deep breath and continues.
“Ricky had no idea who beat Michael in that parking garage but said it had nothing to do with him. He assumed I found someone else to take care of it, but I assured him that that was not the case. Then he told me he wanted forty grand to keep his mouth shut about our potential arrangement.”
“What?”
“I told him he was f*cking nuts. And then he smiled at me, and I knew instantly that he knew more than he was letting on.” David stops and takes another deep breath. He rests his elbows on his knees and his head is in his hands, looking at the floor. “Ricky said he knew that I had no involvement with TruTimber Imports and that I was trying to get rid of Michael for a very different reason. He said he came here wanting twenty grand to keep his mouth shut, but then he saw you and me get into my car together that morning. Everything clicked, and when he realized why I really wanted Michael gone, he decided to double his money. You said your brothers were a*sholes, Emma, but I had no idea.”
“That f*cking cocksucker.” I stand up and start pacing the living room.
“I told him that you didn’t know anything about all this and that if he ever so much as looked at you again, I would take him down. I was so f*cking pissed off at myself for underestimating him, and I needed it all to go away, Emma, and so I told him that I would get him the money.”
“Was he here when I called him on Tuesday night to confirm that Michael was really dead?” I am repulsed by the thought of Ricky being so close to me. And with the idea that David was the one who made it happen.
“Yeah,” he says, looking intensely ashamed. “And he was upstairs on Wednesday night when you came home from work.” He flinches when he says it because he knows what is about to happen.
I stop pacing and turn toward David. “He was in your apartment? Jesus f*cking Christ, David! Is that why you were counting that money? To give it to Ricky?” I press my fingers into my eyes. I am boiling with anger. I pull my hands away from my hot skin and stab my finger at him as I talk. “You mean while we were down here f*cking on my couch, my motherf*cking brother was upstairs in your apartment waiting for you to pay him off?” I didn’t think it was possible for me to be as angry with David as I was yesterday, but right now, I am about to explode.
“Brad and a couple of other guys were up there with him. Ricky left with twenty grand that night. And then on Saturday night, when he called to tell you about Evan’s involvement, I knew it was really meant as a reminder to me. A reminder that I still owed him money and that he was still in control. That’s why I made that phone call to Michael’s house after you fell asleep. Ricky is living there now, and I called to tell him to leave you the f*ck alone and to find out where and when he wanted me to deliver the rest of the money. He insisted I take it to him that night. He was worried that by Sunday morning, the cops would be all over him because they had just arrested Evan. I left to take him the money right after he and I hung up, knowing that I wouldn’t be here when you woke up.” He pauses for a second and draws in a long, steady breath. “I’m sorry, Emma.”
“You’ll be even more sorry when Ricky comes back asking for more money. Because he will do that, you know. He’ll be back for more.” I am livid, and my voice is crackling with sarcasm aimed right at David’s stupidity.
“No, he won’t. I made it completely clear to him that if he ever contacts you or me again, I will shoot him in the goddamned head.” He says it with so much force that I can’t help but believe him.
I am furious that David did all this behind my back and that he let my dickhead of a brother blackmail him out of forty grand. How could he be so stupid?
“You were never going to tell me about this, were you?” I say bitterly.
“No. I didn’t want you involved. I should have deleted those phone calls, and I am mad as hell at myself for not. But I did all of it to protect you, Emma. And I would do it again.”
I sit down at one of the chairs around my little table. We are quiet for a long time.
“Why didn’t you tell me all this last night when I asked you?” I sound calmer now, even though inside I am still seething.
“Because I needed time to think,” he answers.
“You were going to lie to me about it, weren’t you?”
“Yes, but again, I was only trying to protect you. But then tonight, when you mentioned the earlier phone calls, I knew you wouldn’t settle for the lie I had conjured to cover my ass.”
“I want you to leave now, David. I want you to go home.”
I watch his chest fill up with air. When he exhales, his head snaps around, and his eyes meet mine. His face looks worn. He stares at me for a few minutes without moving.
“I mean it, David,” I say. “I need some time to think about this. Just give me till Wednesday. You have poker tomorrow night anyway.” His expression drops even farther, and his eyes close for a brief second. “Just let me breathe, David. Give me till Wednesday. Please,” I add.
“Okay,” he says, standing up and wiping his palms down the front of his thighs. “But all this is over, Emma. I just wanted you to stop hurting.” He walks to the door and puts his hand on the knob. “Call me if you need anything, and I’ll be here in a heartbeat. You know that.”
Part of me doesn’t want him to go. Part of me wants to say thank you and tell him that what he did was the craziest and most amazing thing anyone has ever done for me. But the rest of me is angry that he risked so much to get Michael out of my life.
“Can I pay you back for the new window?” I ask as he is walking out the door.
“No f*cking way,” he says. And then the door closes quietly behind him.
* * *

By the next morning I feel better. After David left last night, I tried hard not to think about the whole situation. I tried to distract myself by making a decent dinner, ironing some work clothes, and paying some bills. It worked until I went to sleep. It was then that thoughts of David’s idiocy rocketed around in my head. What a fool he was to use his own cell phone to make those calls. I’m left hoping that Evan’s confession will be enough to keep the police from digging further into Michael’s death. Even though David wasn’t involved in Evan’s eventual attack, he could still go to jail for merely discussing the idea with Ricky. It terrifies me to know that the only thing stopping Ricky from taking the details of David’s offer straight to the police is a threat from David. I hope it’s a big enough reason for Ricky to keep his f*cking mouth shut.
I spend Tuesday morning at work trying once again to distract myself. But no matter how deeply I immerse myself in my design work, my thoughts continue to drip back to David and last night. I won’t see him all day, and I’m left wondering if I’ll wake up tomorrow morning with him in my bed, smelling of whisky and smoke and money.
Just before I leave my desk for lunch, Matt peeks his head around the corner of my cubicle. He was in meetings all morning, so it’s the first time I’ve seen him all day.
“Hey, Emma,” he says, looking guarded. “Sorry to interrupt, but I just wanted to ask you if everything is okay. Did you and David manage to figure everything out last night?”
“Yeah, we’re okay,” I say, trying to muster a small smile. He doesn’t look convinced.
“Okay, well, I know it’s none of my business, but I just got a text from David asking me to check in on you and make sure you’re all right. It made me wonder why he just didn’t text you directly.”
I sigh and roll my eyes. “He thinks I’m still mad at him. Which I am. But don’t worry about it. I’m not nearly as angry as I was yesterday, and it’s not for the same reason. I asked him to give me some space for a day or two.”
“Okay. Hey, at least he’s doing what you asked,” he says with understanding. “I’ll text him to let him know you’re all right.”
“No, don’t,” I say. “I’ll text him myself. I didn’t think he’d be worried.”
Matt nods and puts his hands into his pockets. “So, does that mean I’ll see you at the game tonight?”
“Nah,” I say. “I don’t think so.”
“Can I at least convince you to join me and Brent for lunch in the cafeteria?”
“Sure,” I say, standing up to grab my purse. “I’ll be down in a second. Let me text David first.” Matt heads down the hallway, calling for Brent as he passes his cubicle.
I flip open my phone.


Hi.


His reply is instantaneous.


Hi back.


Wanted to let u know I’m ok. Matt said u asked.


Douche bag wasn’t supposed to say anything to u.


Well he did.


Glad u r ok.


Yep.


Will you come tonight?


I don’t think so.


Do you hate me?


His words hit me hard. I think he made a really f*cking bad choice, but I don’t hate him for it.


It’s lying I hate. Not u. Don’t do it again.


I won’t.


Good.


Two minutes pass with no reply, so I flip my phone closed and head to the cafeteria. On my way it buzzes with a new message.


I would do it again, though, if it meant u were safe.


I know. Because u r insane.


Like an outta control circus freak.


I smile at his duplication of my own texted words of reassurance from yesterday afternoon. When I read it, I know that we are going to be all right. I know because each of us consists of half lunacy and half absurdity—and neither one of us is fit to be with anyone else.


Two of the same.


After I press send, I enter the cafeteria to let Matt know that everything is just fine.
* * *

At the end of the work day, I head home and make myself dinner. I finish washing the dishes and watch some television. I put my feet up on the coffee table and lay back into the sofa. In one hand, I have the remote. And in the other, a big glass of white wine. It is sweet and crisp and the perfect Tuesday night companion. I am watching an old episode of The Big Bang Theory and laughing at Sheldon as he swims around in a ball pit organizing the colored balls into molecules. Then there is a knock on my apartment door.