EMMA
Have you ever said something you wish you could take back the moment it comes out of your mouth? I’m sure you have. I’m sure there has been a time in your life where you say something stupid, something that changes the course of a relationship, something so out of character that you start sweating. And not just underarm kind of sweat, but the type of sweat that coats the back of your neck, your upper lip, and every crevice of your body.
Regret immediately hits you hard in the chest and all you can do is sit back and chastise yourself while apologizing profusely to whomever you offended. And they can say it’s fine, they can act like everything is hunky-dory, that life is still the same, but it’s not. Do you know why? Because those words you uttered are out there in the universe, sitting there like a giant purple set of man balls, unshaven, in the room. This isn’t pink-elephant-in-the-room status. We’re talking nasty, uneven, purple, hairy man balls, tickling you under the chin with its pubes. It’s there, exposed, reminding you every day of the one sentence you should have kept to yourself.
You just weren’t right for her.
Those . . . how many words are there . . . four, five, six. Those six little words changed everything in my living arrangement. It’s been a week and I can count on one hand the amount of words Tucker’s said to me despite trying to reach him. I’ve tried. I try every damn day to include him in conversation but he’s short, terse, and uninterested. Somber. Hiding.
Note to self: he doesn’t like to talk about Sadie. Got it.
And you know what? Even though I regret saying those words out loud, I still believe them. I actually didn’t like them together at all, because even though they had some really good times, their bad times outweighed the good . . . easily. Their relationship was volatile. I can remember some of the arguments they would get into at parties, how they would scream at each other, and verbally hurt one another. Some nights they ended on a good note, some nights I wound up driving Sadie back to my place.
Unfortunately for me, I was privy to all their fights and most often, what soured between them on that particular occasion. They were two broken kids, seeking comfort from the wrong outlet. I can’t even recall how often I sat with Sadie in my arms, crying over the boy, wishing he could move past his troubled relationship with his mom and stop projecting that relationship onto theirs. Granted, they were in high school, and it seems Tucker has done some growing since then, but never once did I sit back and think, these two were meant to be with each other. In some respects, it felt like a small-town relationship of convenience. You know, too hard to break up because you’ll see them every day.
I always thought they were pulling each other down rather than lifting each other up.
But I guess my opinion on the matter doesn’t count. What do I know? I was only there for Sadie through the trials and tribulations of the Tucker and Sadie melodrama. I know nothing.
Absolutely nothing . . .
Do you hear the sarcasm? Gah! So frustrating.
I’m shaking with irritation now. He really shouldn’t be mad at me. It’s not fair. I was just being a friend, telling him like it is, and I even tried to do it in a sensitive way. Last time I do that.
Yes, that’s my bratty thirteen-year-old self popping in for a visit. Just let her fester for a few seconds.
“Stupid men,” I mutter as I wrap my robe around my waist and head to the kitchen for some coffee, no longer feeling sorry, more in the mood to kick some crotches.
I’m not surprised when I enter the kitchen and see Tucker hovering over the stove making himself eggs. Unlike our previous mornings when we had breakfast together, he only makes eggs for one now. Typical spiteful man. I get it. You’re giving me the cold shoulder. No need to rub your fluffy scrambled eggs and crispy bacon in my face.
Prick.
My sorrys are long gone now; forget the regret. I’m a girl without coffee and yummy eggs and with a roommate who is acting like a dick. Beware of what’s going to happen next.
I reach for a mug in the cabinet but come up empty. I look over at the sink and see the one I used yesterday morning . . . dirty. Brain is starting to boil.
Honestly. Who only has two fucking mugs?
On the verge of losing it, I slam the cabinet shut with more force than necessary and huff toward the sink. “You should really get more mugs. Two is ridiculous; you’re a grown-up, Tucker; it’s called owning things,” I snap at him. And the mature award goes to me, the girl with the morning hair and ragey eyes.
I turn on the faucet and start washing my mug. It’s not even a pretty mug. It’s from his construction company. It’s your basic white mug with a blue logo on it. Hideous. Where’s the Disney Princess mugs? The Boob mugs? The lick-my-dick mugs?
“Ugly construction company mug,” I mutter as I rinse it out.