“When the time is right.” Well, that was an answer I wasn’t expecting. I’m beginning to wonder if she gets off on tormenting me.
“The time is right.” And it is. Nothing she tells me is gonna make me push her away. I don’t care if she has head issues that make her faint and give her migraines. I’m a walking fuckup. Just because I don’t fall out in grocery stores or wake up vomiting doesn’t mean I don’t have my own issues. I’m almost convinced that she is gonna argue or just not answer me, when she speaks.
“When I was a kid, I was in a bad wreck.” She has my undivided attention. I watch as she busies herself around the kitchen while she finds the right words to say. I pull out a smoke and lean back, waiting patiently for her to continue.
“I had a pretty serious head injury. Migraines and fainting are a part of my life. I’ll have them as long as I live. I don’t take meds daily because I don’t like how they make me feel. I’ve had the fainting spells for so long that I’ve grown accustomed to them.” She stops and points to the fading knot on her head, but never looks at me.
“This is nothing. I’ve had worse. It’s the first time I’ve fainted in a long time.” She avoids my eyes and I’m sure it’s because she is afraid of what she will find. She knows I’m a busy man. She knows her issues could potentially make me look at her differently. All I can think is that if she really knows me, then she knows I couldn’t give a shit less about her issues. I could tell her this. I could reassure her that it doesn’t bother me. But who needs words when you have a mouth like mine.
I grab her arm, pulling her away from the counter that she has mindlessly been cleaning, and into my chest. And I kiss her. It’s my thank-you because she told me. It’s my reassurance because she needs it. And it’s my promise that I still want her. When she melts into me, I know she gets it.
I break the kiss, just so I can look at her. Precious. Pretty. Cute. Beautiful. All those words that were once so foreign to me are now words that frequent my mind, and they are all directed toward her. I’m looking in her eyes, and guilt is swimming in them. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because she feels guilty for placing this burden on me. Maybe she feels guilty because she can’t offer me a life without worry. Maybe if I open my mouth and speak to her, her guilt will vanish.
“You’re perfect.” I want to tell her that I think I might love her. I want her to know how much. I want her to tell me back, but I’m too scared to say the words. I don’t know what it will mean if I do because I’ve never said them in all of my life.
“Do you love me, Dirk?” Fucking mind reader.
Now or never, Dirk. Redeem yourself now or never. I’m trying to speak, but my mouth just opens and closes over and over. I look like a fucking idiot—much like I feel.
“You don’t have to tell me.” Her voice is low. Her eyes are pleading. She needs this and I need to get my shit together and give it to her. Straight.
“I don’t really know what love is because I’ve never felt it.” Her face falls and I know they’re not the words she wanted to hear. But I don’t want to lie to her. I can’t give her something that I don’t have. Then I see the pity in her eyes.
“You’ve felt it; you have just chosen to ignore it. There are people in this world that love you, Dirk, you just have to let them.” She smiles sadly at me before pulling out of my arms and heading to the bathroom.
I should probably help her. I should probably just say those three fucking words that will make her smile and put her in a better mood. But I don’t think those are words you can just say. They’re something you have to feel, which I do, and something you have to prove, which I haven’t. And something I don’t want to think about right now.
I walk outside, knowing my bike in the wind will give me the answers I need. I’m not even out of the driveway before I realize that answers are not something I want. What I want is to forget. I want to forget about her questions, her assumptions, love, and every fucking thing it entails, so I ride. And forget is exactly what I do.
13
SAYLOR HAS FUCKED me in every room of my newly renovated house, in every position, on every piece of furniture, every day since she asked me if I loved her. That was a week ago. I’m wondering if she is trying to fuck the words out of me. If she keeps it up, it might even work.
Every room in my house is a different color. Every room looks totally different, and every day I find the old memories fading and being replaced with new ones of me and her.