Lost Love

by Nicole Casey

  “Straight men usually are,” Dylan replied. “You, though, are a catch-and-a-half.”

  “Thanks D.”

  “No problem, C.”

  I chuckled as he reached out and bumped my fist with his own, then centered my eyes on the road and prepared for the day of shopping that was to come.

  Chapter Six

  We pursued discount clothing stores, last-season retail brands, general convenience stores and supermarkets that sold everything imaginable. By the time one o’clock rolled around, we had already loaded the back seat of Dylan’s truck up with clothing, and we’d yet to even begin shopping for furniture.

  “You have an idea of what you want,” Dylan said after a moment, “right?”

  I considered the smartphone in my palm and nodded as I viewed the contents of the shopping list. I needed, first and foremost: a proper bed, a dresser in which I could store clothing, bookshelves which I would eventually fill with nick-knacks and other publishing paraphernalia, as well as a TV for the bird, who couldn’t exist in movies I’d loaded onto my external hard drive forever.

  As we made our way north, toward the furniture store that possessed nearly everything you could possibly imagine, I found myself reaching out and setting my palm across Dylan’s leg.

  “What’s this for?” he asked, reaching down to set his hand over mine.

  “For being such a good guy,” I said, “and for being an amazing friend.”

  “You don’t have to thank me for anything, Chase. I’m more than happy to help.”

  “Still—it’s not often you find a nice guy who’s willing to help you like this.”

  “I scratch your back, you scratch mine. I’m sure you’ll be able to help me in the future someday.”

  “I’m sure I will,” I laughed.

  We took the highway from Austin all the way up to Round Rock, wherein the Swedish furniture store awaited us in all its blue and yellow glory. We pulled off the highway with ease and settled into the parking lot before stepping out of the vehicle.

  Dylan—always the observant one—covered the mass of clothes and few non-clothing items I’d purchased from the various stores with a blanket before joining me at the back of the vehicle. “Sorry,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. “Just want to make sure no one has a shopping spree on your part while we’re gone.”

  “We’re in the middle of a crowded parking lot,” I replied. “ I doubt anyone will have a shopping spree here.”

  “Still—just want to be safe.”

  The fact that he was so concerned about my personal affects was touching. But, then again, he probably didn’t want his car broken into either, which I could understand.

  Rather than dwell on it, I led Dylan into the furniture store and considered my phone.

  Atop the list was the phrase, The perfect desk.

  “I forgot,” I said. “I need to buy a desk.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Dylan replied. “That shouldn’t be too difficult.”

  “I’m incredibly picky,” I said. “This might take a while.”

  “Let’s leave the desk for last then,” Dylan laughed. “Come on. I’m sure you can find yourself a bed and a few bookshelves easily enough.”

  It wouldn’t be completely impossible, considering that the colors would be easy to coordinate with. Black and white furniture was everywhere, prompting me to run my hands over fine birch wood and rich mahogany, across sleek plastics that ranged in colors from obsidian to silver. I found bookshelves I liked in black, a dresser in birch, bookshelves in rich mahogany that I’d so marveled at before. The bed—which I immediately decided had to be a queen if only for the sake of any future relationships—was spacious and grand, with end tables that slid flush against its side and drawers which could be placed underneath the sides of the bed. Items were marked on my phone for later pickup in the storage section of the store and our pursuits continued toward the home office section, wherein there were a multitude of desks and office chairs.

  I was just about to sit down when someone appeared out of my peripheral, causing me to stop dead in my tracks.

  “Chase?” Dylan asked. “What’s—”

  “It’s my ex,” I said.

  I swallowed a lump in my throat and watched the enigmatic man approach, my heart sinking ever so quickly in my chest and my mind racing from the thoughts running through it. Three years of life flashed before my eyes.

  The fights—

  The alcohol—

  The restless nights—

  The endless attempts to force him to go to AA—

  The final straw—

  All were at the forefront of my consciousness as he approached—as he offered a weak, uneasy smile that in the past would have made my knees weak. Today, however, it made me little more than sick.

  Dylan, likely sensing my apprehension, slid an arm across my shoulders and drew me close.

  My ex immediately paused in his tracks. “Hey, Chase,” he said, his gray eyes meeting mine in but a moment. “Funny thing, running into you here.”

  “Yeah,” I replied. “I… guess.”

  It wasn’t exactly funny, considering that he’d worked here for the past year-and-a-half, though how he’d managed to retain his job with his alcoholism being so bad I couldn’t be sure. Regardless, though, that wasn’t what bothered me. The fact that I was here, in his presence, and with Dylan no less, was what chilled me to the bone—that made me feel smaller than I could ever possibly imagine.

  Dylan tightened his grip around me, as if to say, I’m here for you. I merely stiffened beneath his touch and nodded.

  “I… just wanted to let you know that I’ve been going to AA,” Brad said, shifting his eyes from Dylan, to me, then back to Dylan again, “and that I’m doing a lot better now that I’m finally off the booze.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” I said, then sighed, unable to prevent the bad feelings from surging toward the surface. “You were always a nasty drunk.”

  “Yeah. I was.” Brad shook his head. He reached forward, as if to touch me, then stopped to consider Dylan and the arm he had around me. “Chase.”

  “Brad,” I said.

  “I have to be honest with you. I’ve been a wreck since we’ve broken up, and I… I don’t want what we had to just go down the toilet, Chase. You were the best thing that ever happened to me—still are, if you want me to be honest. You made me a better man.”

  “I enabled you,” I replied, “by putting up with your alcoholism for as long as I did.”

  “But I’m over it, baby. I—”

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said, shaking my head. “Come on, Dylan.”

  “So what? That’s it?” Brad asked as Dylan and I walked off. “You’re just going to let three years go down the shitter? Huh? Is that it?”

  “Leave me alone, Brad,” I said as I led Dylan away from the scene. “We’re over. Done. And that’s that.”

  I was just about to begin pushing the cart with what few items were in it away when I felt a hand tighten around my shoulder.

  “Chase,” Brad said.

  Dylan shoved the man away. “Back off,” he said, offering the hardest glare he could at the smaller, leaner man. “He said he doesn’t want to deal with you anymore, and I don’t blame him.”

  “Fuck off, man. This is between me and him.”

  “It’s between you and me now,” Dylan growled. “I said: leave him alone.”

  “And I said: fuck off.”

  It looked as though the men were willing to go to blows, and judging from Brad’s past behavior, I knew that this had the potential to end violently. For that reason, I reached down, took hold of Dylan’s hand, and began to drag him away, down the long aisle that separated us from the business center and the menagerie of lights awaiting us.

  “Chase!” Brad cried. “Come back, baby! I love you!”

  “Ignore him,” I said as we walked away—as I struggled to hold back tears.

  “Chase?” Dylan ask
ed. “What’s—”

  “Not now,” I said. “I’ll tell you later.”

  ***

  We loaded the various items I’d chosen to buy at the furniture store into the back of Dylan’s truck and sat there for several long moments afterward—saying nothing, doing nothing—and though the silence between us was amicable, I could feel a world of tension brewing like a bubble whose pocket of air was slowly expanding beneath its fragile exterior.

  “So,” Dylan said. “About what happened…”

  “Do you want the long story or the short version?” I asked.

  “Whatever you want to tell me,” he said as he engaged the vehicle and began to back out of the parking lot.

  “I met Brad while I was at a book signing,” I said, offering a slight smile in an effort to dispel the nerves that were currently placating my consciousness. “He was browsing the aisles and had stumbled across me while I was setting up my table. I’d yet to start the actual signing and was still setting up, but he immediately showed an interest in my work. This was my first book—before I sold Blood Magic for the obscene amount of money I did—and I was still struggling to garner attention. He asked what the book was about, my process, what inspired it—the typical non-writer-asks-writer things. Then he asked if he could take me out for coffee after the signing.”

  “And did you?” Dylan asked.

  “Of course,” I replied. “I sold maybe one book—which was nice, because it covered the cost of the sandwich and coffee I bought, but Brad was so sweet at the time. He seemed to show a genuine interest in my work and what I did for, at the time, was mainly my hobby. I’d worked in a pet store before that, and was still struggling to make ends meet on my own, if you’re interested.”

  “I’m interested,” Dylan said.

  “Anyhow,” I continued. “Long story short: I started to fall in love with Brad after about two months of seeing each other. We moved in together, everything seemed fine. Then he started going out to the clubs after work and came home every night smelling like alcohol.”

  “Did you fear that he was cheating on you?”

  “No. I didn’t. He swore he wouldn’t, and I never got sick from all the times we had unprotected sex, so I can only assume that he never cheated on me. He was—and, I think, deep down, still is—a good guy, but his disease affects his thinking, his judgment, his comprehension. He…” I swallowed, here, and tightened my hand into a fist. “Started getting mean after a certain point in time. He’d argue with me about how much he was spending at the clubs, yell at Scottie for greeting him a bit too enthusiastically when he came home, stomp around the house, occasionally break things.”

  “How’d he take it when you got the big book deal?”

  “He was ecstatic. Showered me with praise, took me to dinner, the whole shebang. Then he decided to take me out to the clubs to celebrate and couldn’t even drive home after the fact. I had to drive his bigass town car all the way from downtown back to east Austin, and you know how scary those things can be to drive.”

  “Yeah,” Dylan said.

  “Anyhow,” I continued, and this time sighed when I found myself struggling to tell the story, “the last straw was when he slapped me during one of our arguments. He apologized directly thereafter—swore he would never do it again, that he was sorry, that he loved me more than anything else in the world—but the truth of the matter was: he’d do it again. I knew he would. I told myself a long time ago that if a man ever hit me I was throwing him to the curb, so… that’s what I did. I told Brad to get out, come back the next day with a moving truck, and get his shit out of the apartment. That was three months ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” Dylan said, then reached down to set his hand over mine. “I can only imagine how hard that must’ve been.”

  “It was,” I replied, “but you know, I don’t regret it. Scottie’s happier, I’m happier, my career is taking off faster than I could ever imagine. I’m writing more than I ever did when he was around. His alcoholism blinded me—and him, sadly, to all the good we had in our lives. It was… well… just time to let that phase of my life go.”

  “And then he decides to try and get back together,” Dylan said, “when you have a new guy on your arm.”

  I swallowed a lump in my throat as I lifted my eyes to look at him. Given that his gaze was set firmly on the road, I doubt Dylan could see me—especially given the fact that he had sunglasses on—but it allowed me to watch him in a way that gave me privacy while I struggled to comprehend my thoughts. Had what he said been a Freudian slip? A new guy on my arm? Did that mean—

  Don’t even think about that, I thought. He hasn’t decided to move things further. He’s just being literal.

  Still—the idea that Dylan could be seeing me as more of a friend—or, better yet: a friend with benefits—was enough to make my heart flutter, especially when he reached down to set a hand on my leg.

  “I’m sorry you had to deal with all of this bullshit today,” Dylan sighed, only turning his head to look at me when we came to stop at a red light. “You’re a good guy, Chase. You don’t deserve this.”

  “I know I don’t,” I replied. “And the truth of the matter is: I’m glad that he’s going through AA. He obviously needs it. But it’s also obvious that he still has a long way to go before he gets to the point where he can be in a relationship with anyone.”

  “Yeah,” Dylan said. “That much is already clear.”

  “But it doesn’t matter right now. What matters is that we get home, put this stuff together, and enjoy the time we have together. Right?”

  “Right,” Dylan said.

  I smiled.

  He smiled.

  We continued down the road at a leisurely pace as the light turned green.

  We had a new TV to set up, some furniture to put together.

  Things would be just fine.

  ***

  Scottie was ecstatic as we carried the new TV in. Having been without a movie for hours during the time we’d been shopping, he cried, “Want want want!” and began dancing up a storm while Dylan and I lugged the monster but discounted flat-screen into the apartment. Dylan—laughing—congratulated Scottie on his new acquisition; and the bird, thrilled out of his mind, began to bob his head up and down as we set it down in its designated place beside the far wall.

  “I want!” the bird said.

  “I know you want, baby, but we don’t have a satellite hooked up right now. Let me start you another movie and I promise I’ll get to work setting this up. Ok?”

  He bobbed his head in agreement as I approached the laptop and queued up another movie for him.

  “Sorry we didn’t get everything we went for,” Dylan said after several moments of silence.

  “It’s all right,” I replied. “We tried. And I can always work out here for the time being.”

  “Cool,” the man replied. He waited until another movie featuring chipmunks began to play before turning toward the doorway. “We ready to bring the rest of the stuff in?”

  I was, and more than ready to begin putting it together.

  In all, it took us about thirty minutes to lug everything in. The process of putting it all together, meanwhile, would take more time than I could even begin to imagine, but Dylan was happy to assist.

  We first put the bed together—which was a chore-and-a-half considering all the pieces we had to assemble in order to make sure the frame fit properly into the platform—then began to work on the bookshelves and finally the dresser.

  By the time we unrolled the mattress and allowed it to fall into place within the bed frame, we were both ready to collapse.

  “Shit,” Dylan breathed, reaching up to wipe sweat from his brow. “That was a handful.”

  “You’re telling me,” I laughed, settling down on the bare mattress and spreading out lengthwise along it. “Here, Dill. Lay down with me.”

  He did, without reservation, and allowed me to cuddle up next to him as I struggled to remain awake. His breat
hs—ragged but quickly returning to their normal pace—mirrored my own, causing me to sigh contentedly as he wrapped an arm around me and nuzzled his face against my own.

  “You know how sexy you are?” Dylan asked as he pressed a kiss to my cheek—as he moved his lips to my lips and then down across my neck.

  “Dylan,” I sighed, moaning as he kissed my neck.

  “What’s that?” he asked. “Did I hit a good spot?”

  “You hit more than a good spot,” I said, shivering when he slid a hand underneath my shirt and began to paw at my abdomen, then my chest.

  “Take your shirt off,” he said.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “So I can rub your shoulders.”

  Having not been on the receiving end of a massage for months, I was more than eager to do as instructed.

  After pulling my shirt over my head and tossing it onto the floor, I rolled onto my stomach and awaited him to begin his work.

  He straddled my hips.

  He set his hands upon me.

  He began to rub my back.

  I groaned as muscles stiff from the hard labor of the day began to loosen beneath his touch. He paid particular attention to my shoulders, which I’d complained had been hurting earlier that day, and allowed his hands to glide effortlessly down my spine and to the curves of my ribcage. I shivered as his fingers traced my ribs and sighed when he reached where the most of the discomfort was targeted in my lower back.

  “That feel good?” Dylan asked.

  “It feels excellent,” I replied, closing my eyes.

  His hands continued to roam my body, massaging the sore and tender spots and bringing them relief I couldn’t have imagined feeling after first carrying, then putting together so much furniture. I sighed—multiple times—while his hands traced my body, as his fingertips slipped into every nook and crevice possible. He particularly concentrated on the landscapes of my ribcage and allowed his fingers to glide along bone and through the depressions between them.