What a pair we make.
I want so badly to tell her the truth, but I also know that the truth won’t make things any better between us than they are now. The truth makes less sense than the lie, and I don’t even know which one I should go with anymore.
The only thing I do know is that, whether she’s mad or happy or sad or excited, she has this calming energy that radiates from her. Every day of my life it feels as if I’m fighting my way up an escalator that only goes down. And no matter how fast or how hard I run to try to reach the top, I stay in the same place, sprinting, getting nowhere. But when I’m with her it doesn’t feel like I’m on that escalator. It feels as if I’m on a moving walkway, and I’m effortlessly just carried along. Like I can finally relax and take a breath and not feel the constant pressure to sprint in order to prevent hitting rock bottom.
Her presence calms me, relaxes me, makes me feel as though maybe things aren’t as hard as they appear to be when she isn’t around. So no matter how pathetic we may seem right now, sitting on the floor of the women’s restroom, there isn’t anywhere else I would rather be at this moment.
“OMG,” she says, leaning forward to pull at my hair. Her entire face contorts into a frown and I can’t understand how my hair is displeasing her so much right now. “We need to fix this shit,” she mutters.
She puts one hand on the wall and one on my shoulder and she pushes herself up. When she’s standing, she reaches for my hand. “Come on, Owen. I’m gonna fix your shit.”
I don’t know that she’s sober enough to fix anything, really. But that’s okay, because I’m still on my moving walkway, so I’ll effortlessly follow her anywhere she wants to go.
“Let’s wash our hands, Owen. The floor is gross.” She walks to the sink and squirts soap on my palm. She glances at me in the mirror and looks down at my hand. “Here’s you some soap,” she says, wiping the soap across my hand.
I can’t tell with her. I don’t know how much she’s had to drink, but this interaction isn’t what I was expecting tonight. Especially after reading her confession.
We wash our hands in silence. She pulls two paper towels out and hands one to me. “Dry your hands, Owen.”
I take the paper towels from her and do as she says. She’s confident and in charge right now and I think it’s best to leave it that way. Until I figure out her level of sobriety, I don’t want to do anything to trigger any type of reaction from her other than what I’m getting right now.
I walk to the door and open it. She steps away from the sink and I watch her stumble slightly, but she catches herself on the wall. She immediately looks down at her shoes and glares at them.
“Fucking heels,” she mumbles. Only she isn’t wearing heels. She’s wearing black flats, but she blames them, anyway.
We make our way back out into the bar and Harrison has already closed up and shut off some of the lights. He raises a brow as we pass by him.
“Harrison?” she says to him, pointing a finger in his direction.
“Auburn,” he says flatly.
She wags her finger and I can tell Harrison wants to laugh, but he keeps it in check. “You put those wonderful drinks on my tab, okay?”
He shakes his head. “We close out all tabs at the end of the night.”
She places her hands on her hips and pouts. “But I don’t have any money. I lost my purse.”
Harrison leans over and grabs a purse from behind the bar. “You didn’t lose it.” He shoves it across the bar and she stares at the purse like she’s upset she didn’t lose it.
“Well, shit. Now I have to pay you.” She steps forward and opens her purse. “I’m only paying you for one drink because I don’t even think you put alcohol in that second one.”
Harrison looks at me and rolls his eyes, then pushes her money away. “It’s on the house. Happy birthday,” he says. “And for the record, you had three drinks. All with alcohol.”
She throws her purse over her shoulder. “Thank you. You’re the only person in the entire state of Texas to tell me happy birthday today.”
Is it possible to hate myself more than I did three weeks ago? Yes, it absolutely is.
She turns to me and tucks her chin in when she sees the look on my face. “Why do you look so sad, Owen? We’re going to fix your shit, remember?” She takes a step toward me and grabs my hand. “Bye, Harrison. I hate you for calling Owen.”
Harrison smiles and gives me a nervous look as if he’s silently saying, “Good luck.” I shrug and allow her to pull me behind her as we walk toward the exit.
“I got presents from Portland today,” she says as we near the exit. “People love me in Portland. My mom and dad. My brother and sisters.”
I push the door open and wait for her to walk outside first. It’s the first day of September—happy birthday—and the night has an unseasonable chill to it for Texas.
“But how many people who claim to love me from Texas got me a present? Take a wild guess.”
I really don’t want to guess. The answer is obvious, and I want to rectify the fact that no one from Texas got her a present today. I would say we should go get one right now, but not while she’s drunk and angry.
I watch her rub her hands up the bare skin of her arms and look up at the sky. “I hate your Texas weather, Owen. It’s dumb. It’s hot during the day and cold at night and unreliable the rest of the time.”
I want to point out that the inclusion of both day and night leaves little room for a “rest of the time.” But I don’t think now is a good time to get into specifics. She continues to pull me in a direction that isn’t across the street to my studio, nor is it in the direction of her apartment.