by Kat Pace
“You’re fucking cute!” He matches my tone, pinching my nose.
“God, Brooks. I’m surprised you even found your way to my apartment.” I roll my eyes.
He steps into me again. His hands are back on my butt and in my hair and I can smell the Jack on his breath. My body buzzes when he takes my lip between his teeth.
I’m still pissed at him. Pissed for no call. No warning. Pissed he’s been in Seattle for an entire mf day! But as he leans into me and rests his weight on me, I suddenly forget about it all. Forget I’m pissed.
“Come on.” I urge him toward the bed.
If he passes out in the kitchen then that’s where he’ll be sleeping.
It takes a lot of strength to heave him onto my bed and even more to walk away from him in it. But I have a class to teach. He passes out in two minutes. By the time I drop off a glass of water on the bedside table he’s already snoring. I can’t help but smile at his cute lil face nuzzled into my pillow.
My eyes sweep the loft for my tote and I close the door quietly behind me when I leave for the studio.
6:39 PM
I turn my key in the lock, worried about what I’ll find waiting for me. It’s only been two hours. Will Brooks be awake? Still sleeping? Mad? Will he still be here?
My heart stops. The alternative hurts to even think about. He wouldn’t come all the way here to leave. Who does that?
I push open the door.
He’s still here.
Still asleep on my bed. He makes my entire bed look better just by being on it. I roll my eyes.
The shower is hot and steamy and I try to be quick so I don’t wake him. I think part of me takes too long because I’m hoping I do wake him. I’m hoping I’ll feel his hand slide around my waist and draw me into him.
Hoping the steam will wrap us both in a warm blanket until our bodies are indecipherable from each other’s.
Chill, bitch. I breathe heavy in the steam.
Relax. Relax. Relax.
You got this.
I flip my hair into a bun and slide on his T-shirt –the one he left here over Thanksgiving –the one I definitely and 100% did not sleep in for weeks straight.
When I finally edge to my bed, he’s starting to move. It’s almost 7:00 and pitch dark outside. The streetlamps outside our loft turn on, flooding the floor with artificial yellow rays. They mimic the light specks in his eyes.
“Hey.” He smiles sideways. “And sorry.”
“Sorry for?” I low key panic. Did he say something that I missed?
“Might have puked on a pillow or two,” he says, embarrassed. Phew.
“At least you didn’t puke on me,” I laugh.
“Did you just get back?” Brooks asks, taking in my ridiculous wet hair and T-shirt.
“Had classes. I left Zoë solo for the last one. You’ve been asleep for like two hours.” I say, sitting on the bed. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving, actually. Want to get dinner?” Brooks stands from my bed.
“There’s a food truck block party thing going on. Passed it on my way back from the studio. Interested?” I ask him.
“A food truck block party? Are you sure?” He laughs.
“Yea I’m sure. I saw it on the banner ad thing. Some festival shit,” I say.
“Not are you sure it’s going on,” he laughs at me. “Are you sure that’s what you want to do for dinner?”
“Low quality high price food cooked in the back of a moving trashcan? Course I’m sure.” I shrug.
“Food truck block party on Valentine’s Day,” he laughs. “Cheap date.”
“Hey!” I shout, nudging him. “You’re welcome.”
“Yea, yea. I’ll thank you later,” Brooks smirks.
“You better be talking about dessert,” I tease.
“Something like that.”
The food truck extravaganza is in a vacant lot two blocks from my loft to the studio. Sort of a pop-up food truck strip mall. Some of the best food trucks in Seattle are here. Some I’ve tried and some I’ve only heard of by name.
Lazy Licker (all food served on a stick)
Candied Pig (everything has bacon, literally)
Taco Bout It (duh)
Nola in a Bowla (New Orleans inspired bowls)
The list continues.
The trucks are arranged along the vacant lot perimeter with a bunch of picnic tables in the center. There’re some hanging lights that crisscross above connecting the food trucks. It’s surprisingly packed.
“Is this Seattle’s idea of a romantic date night?” Brooks questions the food truck festival.
“No,” I nudge him. “That’s why I brought you here.“
“Touché.” He pretends to be stabbed in the heart.
“So where do you want to start?” I ask, looking at the food truck lines in front of us.
“Start?” He asks.
“Yes, start. We’re obviously trying them all tonight,” I say like duh.
“They don’t look vegan friendly,” he says, shaking his head.
“I’ll make an exception.”
We start with Taco Bout It because well it is Valentine’s Day after all and who doesn’t love tacos? Brooks sits down next to me at the picnic table. We unwrap our sriracha tacos.
“Want to race?” He smirks.
“Want to lose?” I laugh.
“Wait! I want proof I got you to eat a taco.”
He picks my phone up from the table and leans in to take a selfie. Half the lettuce in my taco falls out when he smooshes it against my face.
Two minutes later our tacos are gone.
We shared fried Oreo lollipops and an apple pie baked with maple bacon. The entire time I just kept thinking how different the food truck block party was from the last party we went to –how different it was from New Years. I didn’t care. I didn’t even care anymore that he was in Seattle for a whole day and didn’t call me. He showed up today. Valentine’s Day.
OK, no flowers or chocolates or $8 greeting card. But that’s because he knows I despise all that stuff –all the traditional trappings of V Day.
As he sat across from me trying to pick all the bacon crumbles out of the pie, I wanted nothing more than to jump on him –to transport us back to my studio –transport us back to my bed.
The whole way back to the loft Brooks was staring at me sideways. He had this look on his face that was almost like he was trying to remember something he had to tell me.
We’re back from dinner. And he’s already peeling the clothes from my body before I’ve shut my door behind us. There’s an urgency in him tonight. Like he’s been waiting too long to do this –or he’s not sure he’ll get to do this again.
“Em,” he breathes.
“Jay,” I smile beneath our lips. I know he hates when I first-name him.
“I love you.”
HOLY FUCK.
HOLY.
ACTUAL.
FUCK.
The words flow from his lips like honey dripping from a hive. Flawless. Organic. Pure. My entire body tenses in his arms and my mind just goes black for a minute before visions of barn proposal pics and white dresses dance in my head. All I see is us standing there, 18 years old, and breaking up. Crying. Then all the sudden we are two wrinkly old people making out in some back woods diner, surrounded by snow, and popping champagne.
There are no words. Not only because 1. I do not know what to say, 2. He’s in clear violation of our agreement, or 3. My mouth is currently competing with parchment for driest thing ever. BUT because 4. No words I could possibly string together into an even semi-coherent sentiment would begin to describe the mix of elation, fear, and guilt currently churning in my gut *heart* right now.
“Judging from your silence you either didn’t hear me or want to pretend you didn’t hear me.” Brooks's low voice brings me back to the bed.
“Brooks,” I whisper. So close I can feel my own breath between our skins.
FFS. Why now? Seriously, I assumed
one of us would eventually cave and try to ruin a good thing, but WHY?
“You happen to decide you love me on Valentine’s Day? The fear of being eternally alone finally got to you?” I try to tease.
“Must be it. But the fear is quickly subsiding.”
“Ha-ha. See, you’ve already changed your mind.” I tease.
“Is that what you believe? That I’ll just change my mind?”
“You haven’t shown any sign of wanting anything different. Anything more. These past few months…” I let my voice die because I know this isn’t true.
“You miss a lot, huh?” Brooks’s words sound like venom.
I think of Thanksgiving when he ditched his family to visit me. Thanksgiving! Arguably the most family-ish holiday. I think of the Benefit and the way his eyes turned all red and blotchy when I found him in the garden. I think of disappearing. Then there’s NYE and his raging jealously that anyone else should ever want me.
“Six months.” Brooks nods. “We aren’t just –you know –playing around anymore. At least I didn’t think so!”
“Brooks,” I begin again.
“I want the fucking fence, Ems. I want the house and the marriage and all that shit we hate –I want it with you.”
Fucker.
“Excuse me for thinking you felt the same way.” Brooks turns away from me.
I sigh. Hard. What else can I do?
“You don’t …feel the same way, do you?” He asks, like a light bulb is finally clicking.
Goddamn Brooks’s face looks so sad and puppy-doggish. Like I’m taking his boy toys away on Christmas morning. It seems genuine. Why won’t I let myself believe him? Oh yea, because I’ve recently set up shop as a masochistic fuck.
“It’s not that I don’t want it to –or that I don’t even feel the same way maybe –it’s just that… You just sprung this on me, Jay! This isn’t what we were doing.” I begin.
“Right.” Brooks sighs. “I forgot what we were doing. Which is whatever YOU want!”
“Oh you’re fucking kidding me, right? Don’t act like I do whatever–” He cuts me off.
“You’ll just let yourself fuck me. Text me. Call me. Fuck me some more. But that’s it. As long as you can sleep at night.” He’s almost screaming at me, his voice crackling.
“That’s not fucking fair.” I argue. Shit.
“You’re right. It’s not. It’s fucking not.”
“Where was this Brooks years ago? Where was he when I wanted all these things then? WHERE?!” I shout.
“NOT AROUND!” Brooks shouts at me. “OK? Is that what you want me to say? Is it what you need to hear? I was a kid, a fucking idiot. I needed these last ten years to GROW UP. AND I DID!”
“YOU LEFT. I grew up too! WITHOUT YOU!” I shout back.
“WE BOTH GREW UP, EM!” Brooks shakes his head. “We both did. And the last ten years happened. Everything in them. And I wouldn’t take it back because it’s led us here. TOGETHER NOW!”
Brooks runs his fingers through his hair. I watch the tattoos move under his muscles. I admire the darkness in his eyes, the depth. Watching him is like watching perfection.
“But we aren’t together now,” I say, shaking my head.
He sits up and moves from the bed. I watch him start collecting his clothes, his bag.
“Are you leaving? Now?!” I can’t keep my voice calm. I sit upright in my bed, the flamingo lights smacking against the headboard as I do so.
“I can’t stay here, Em.”
“What are you talking about? It’s 1 AM!” I say, exasperated.
“I can’t be here. With you,” he says, avoiding my eyes. “Not right now.”
“So you’re just going to leave? Walk out just like that?” I ask.
“Yes. I am,” Brooks shrugs. He has flipped a switch, as volatile as the weather.
“Brooks, you’re being ridiculous. I didn’t mean for this to ruin our night,” I sigh, rolling my eyes.
“Don’t worry, it hasn’t ruined the night. It’s ruined it ALL.” He tears at the zipper on his duffle.
His words cut like a knife deep into my skin. I’m going to bleed everywhere. All over him. My heart races as I start to panic. I’m watching him collect his shit from my studio. I’m watching him dress. Soon I’ll be watching him leave. And I don’t want that.
But I don’t stop him.
I move to the edge of the bed, his baggy T-shirt hanging loosely off my shoulder. His eyes are alive with fire again. But it’s a different fire than the one I saw in the nightclub on New Years.
“Jay,” I barely whisper. It’s all I can manage.
He looks at me one last time before turning for the door. I watch him walk across the room, shirtless. The twitching muscle in his back will be the last thing I see.
The door slams shut. It’s a loud sound followed by a static silence. And I know. I know I just ruined everything. Whatever it was or could have been I ruined it.
I’m left with myself, who to be honest I don’t really care for much right now, and my questions.
Why? Why didn’t you tell him you felt the same, you dumb bitch? Are you an idiot? Yes. Why aren’t you up off your ass already running after him? Legit what is wrong with you, Em?
It dawns on me. This whole time I’ve been preoccupied with my feelings and making sure I’m not hurt that I didn’t even once consider what this all meant to him.
Nothing, I think. But I know that’s not true.
Suddenly the years apart are indistinguishable from the months we just spent together. The years of only checking in on his life via social media –the countless times I’ve pored over his pictures –the amount of sanity I’ve lost to the nights I spent falling asleep thinking about him. It’s all unreal. It’s like we broke up two days ago.
He isn’t the tough lax bro incapable of serious feelings that his façade would lead you to believe. He’s more.
Before I can help it, I find myself crying.
I bring my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around my legs. My fingers play with the hem of the T-shirt. His T-shirt.
I pull it over my head and bring it close to my chest. It smells like salt and the sun.
It smells like him.
ONE
MONTH
LATER
March 12th
Valentine’s weekend, henceforth to be called Weekend from a Heaven-Hell Hybrid, came and went. It’s been one month. Four weeks.
Four Brooks-free weeks.
It’s been raining a lot. Almost like the weather is mimicking my soul-mood. Vance Joy’s Mess is Mine seems to be my go-to lately. Great mixtape material.
It’s another typical gray morning. Zoë is opening Go Zen today so I get to sleep in. Not that I’ve been up to sleeping in lately. Instead, I get up early to make my coffee and pretend to have an appetite enough for half a gluten-free muffin or artisan avocado toast. Then I crawl back into bed with a book. I’m just about to open it when my phone vibrates against my leg. I lay my book flat cross my stomach and flip my phone over.
Fuck.
Still in for MIAMI?
What? FUCK.
Star Resorts opening. U promised.
…
As friends : /
Shit I did promise. I look at the cute puppy calendar taped to the side of my nightstand. Thursday. Miami is tomorrow. I don’t see how it’s going to happen. I text a quick response.
IDK. Need to check w/ Zoë.
Come on Em
I forgot. Sorry : (
I got a tix in ur name. check email.
FUCK!
He said as friends. That’s not lost on me.
I exit from the text and check my email right away. There it is. Round-trip ticket to Miami for tomorrow morning. Forwarded by Brooks 17 minutes ago.
I can almost picture his face as he’s texting me. I wonder if he’s thinking of the last time we saw each other –of how we left things –of how he left me. Part of me is surprised he still wants me to come. Yes,
it makes me excited. No, I’m not well.
