So instead of committing an emotional murder/suicide at the hands of some * I had no interest or desire for, I worked. And I worked. The pace was pure insanity, and Shawn spent the whole of Sunday actually wishing he was home with his wife for the first time in years. He glared at me as we knocked out the rest of the hardwoods, and when I instantly stood after laying the last piece of flooring, grabbed my tape measure, and started taking my first measurements for trim, he groaned.
“I’m paying you, aren’t I?” I barked at him, and then I worked halfway through the night, ignoring Shawn when he stumbled exhaustedly out the front door at midnight. Instead, I focused my attention on the miter saw in front of me and kept on working straight into the night.
When I collapsed on the floor at three-thirty in the morning, I fell asleep. My body didn’t seem to care that the hardwoods were as hard as their name implied. But then, I’d worked myself ragged, not leaving enough strength for my limbs to do anything about it anyway. I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. It was so dreamless, that when I woke a few hours later, I stared around the room, wondering where the hell I was, what day it was, and why the hell I was sprawled out on the floor.
And then I remembered how much I hated my life, despised myself, and had convinced the only woman I’d ever loved to despise me too. I spent the next hour patching the hole my fist put in the wall at that realization, and when Shawn came in looking haggard and old, he stared at the patch I was putting the second coat of drywall mud on.
“Someone have a rough morning?” he grunted.
I ignored him, and by lunchtime the kitchen counters were being installed, and I was able to shut my brain off for a while. The second the counter installers left, I started in on the light fixtures I’d purchased just that morning, and Shawn sighed. He followed me around, sighing again and again and again, and by the time ten o’clock rolled around that night, the house had all new light fixtures, the bathroom sink faucet was installed, I’d completely hidden the drywall patch with my mad impressive mudding skills and paint job, and Shawn was fishing his keys from his pocket as he prepared to leave.
Shawn was like that friend you simply always had. He was neither the best friend you’d had nor the worse. He was just there. Shawn tended to push my buttons, largely because he’d only ever seen me as a troublemaking asshole—he’d only ever wanted to see me that way. In high school that had been fine. Now? Now it just annoyed the shit out of me. But I owed him. I owed him a lot, even if he didn’t understand what for and even if I had no intention of confiding in him. I was surviving by staying busy and by staying accompanied. Alone, unoccupied—I had no idea what I might do.
“Thanks for all your help Shawn. I really do appreciate it.”
Shawn instantly glanced at me, scoffed uncomfortably at my show of kindness, and muttered, “Whatever.”
My lips actually tried to pull up for the first time in days. But then he left, and the barely-there smile I’d had for a moment was gone. I wasn’t tired enough to pass out the way I had the night before, and I paced around the living room, fighting the urge to think about her, because I knew when I did, it would be a downward spiral that would spit me out somewhere I didn’t want to be.
But fighting the urge wasn’t enough, and after pacing for nearly forty minutes, the need to see her face, hear her voice, and remember her touch overpowered me. I sank to the floor, and I closed my eyes, letting my imagination give me the sight, the sound, the feel that I was so desperate for. It wasn’t enough, and before I had time to stop myself, I walked out the front door, slamming it behind me.
I headed toward town, and I barely let my brain function as I drove. I was afraid to admit what I was doing. I was also afraid I might talk myself out of it. So I ran on autopilot, seeing but not seeing the roads, turning here and there but not knowing why, and pulling to a stop without really registering why I was there.
Big Dog’s Billiards. The neon sign on the roof blinked as it tried to stay lit, and I sat there staring at it. Two months ago, I’d have walked in, drank until whatever loose inhibitions I had were gone, and then spent the rest of the night fucking. I was usually looking for a fight or a fuck and since the latter tended to keep me out of cuffs, it was nearly always my preference.
Now all I could seem to do was think about the repercussions, the consequences, the hurt, pain, and suffering my every action could bring to another—one particular other who didn’t want anything to do with me because she’d made the mistake of falling in love with a man she later discovered didn’t deserve her love. Hadn’t I said that would happen once—that she’d find out before the end just how much I didn’t deserve her? I’m sure I had.