Thirty Days: Part One (A SwipeDate Novella Book 1)

by BT Urruela

  “And then what?” she asks, pushing her plate and half eaten steak to the side before setting her elbows to the table and her chin in her hands.

  “Can I note that my story was far more descriptive than yours?” I say with a sly smile. She shakes her head.

  “I had physical evidence, so it evens out,” she says, a cocky smirk on her face.

  “Fuck it. So, I went back in and literally as I rounded the wall that separates the seating from the entrance hall… the brightest, quietest part of the movie hit and every set of eyes in the theater landed on me. Which may have been the worst thing I ever felt if there wasn’t a theater attendant spreading sawdust over my vomit as I passed by, holding his nose, and eyeing me for a moment before going back to business. It was awful. I sat there next to her, hating myself for another good twenty-five minutes before the movie ended and I bee-lined us the fuck out of there.”

  “So, then what happened?”

  “She told the entire damn school. That’s what happened. It was fun living that one down my junior year.” I laugh, raising my glass before taking a swig. I set the glass to the table, and I think for a moment, about that year, and the hatred I felt for my peers. And my family, who couldn’t give a single shit. My gaze eventually drifts back to her as she’s momentarily tongue-tied, her eyes showing disbelief. I shrug. “You know, at the end of the day, it’s moments like that that really make a person.”

  She smiles weakly and then nods. “Yeah, for sure.”

  I sit for a moment in uncomfortable silence, wishing she would just say something. To my benefit, the waiter returns, clearing his throat.

  “Can I get you all anything else?” he asks with his plastic smile, his eyes reading more overworked than anything else.

  “No, I think we’re alright here. Just the check please,” I reply, digging into my back pocket for my wallet.

  “And will you be needing a box for that?” the waiter asks Maria, pointing to her half-eaten filet.

  “No, I’m fine,” Maria responds, shaking her head. I feel a wave of annoyance wash over me as I watch the waiter pick up her plate to discard about thirty bucks’ worth of meat. Disregarding the feeling that I’ll seem cheap, I put a finger up to grab the departing waiter’s attention.

  “You can actually box that up for me, Joe. Thanks.”

  “You got it,” he says, turning again and making his way to the back.

  I shrug. “It was a good filet.”

  “I don’t eat leftovers,” she responds.

  “I’ll likely eat it sometime around midnight before it’s actually considered a leftover.” I chuckle, thinking about the fat joint I have waiting for me back home and doubting the filet even makes it to midnight.

  Halfway through my joint, I’m seated with my legs perched up on a stool in my private garden, a space I use for times like these when my thoughts are overwhelming and I need to slow the world down a bit. In the middle of fall, most everything around my little flagstone patio is in a state of decay, but in the spring and summer, it’s a lush tapestry of green and dazzling colors reminiscent of a tiny Central Park. I spend a lot of time on my flowers and plants back here. It’s one of my passions. The lights of the city skyscrapers shining overhead at night give me a sense of energy and peace at the same time and it’s a nice reminder of why I bought this place to begin with

  The loft was my first big purchase after the success of The Honest Ones, and Joanne and I spent months finding just the right spot. As sales for my books decline, I’m happy that I paid for this place outright. Among the many things taking up residence in my brain, at least that’s not something I have to worry about.

  I hear the ping of my phone again from the wrought iron table and can’t help but roll my eyes. I’ve checked it twice already and it’s been Maria both times, telling me how much fun she had and asking when she’d get to see me again. I’m not checking this one, nor have I responded to the previous texts. I’m genuinely confused as I don’t think the date went all that well. Pleasant company, sure, but no real spark. It certainly seemed we were on the same page from her body language.

  As I take the last drag of my joint and dab it out in the ashtray, a new concern overtakes me. Using basic logic, I can only assume at least half of them won’t like me, but am I setting myself up for a barrage of texts from fifteen different interested parties? I hate my phone as it is, but the thought of where this could potentially lead is unnerving. I look back at my phone after it pings again. My chin falls to my chest and I let out a long sigh.

  The other issue here is money. I can’t be paying hundred-dollar tabs for every date. Not even close. I need to watch what I spend, and while I have every intention of paying for each first date, I’m not so sure I should be the one paying for it. Bobby.

  I lift my legs from the stool and stand, grabbing my phone and heading inside through the back door. My focus shifts to the phone and I notice one of the new texts is from Maria, but the other is from Bobby. His ears must’ve been burning.

  Heading up the stairs to my bedroom loft, I pull up his text and it reads Lunch tomorrow?, the contact labeled ‘Bobby Bitch Tits,’ as it has been for quite some time now. An inside joke of ours, I started calling him that when he dubbed me ‘Señor Schnoz’ after I dressed up as Pancho Villa for a sixth-grade project. When we were growing up, he loved giving me shit about the Italian nose my slender body desperately needed to grow into. It’s how we’ve always been with one another, tossing shit back and forth, but if anyone else ever fucked with me, he’d be the first one to step up. He taught me about the gym and how to defend myself, back when we truly started to bond.

  I respond with Sounds good. You’re paying. haha before bringing my phone with me into the bathroom to get ready for bed.

  The Brooklyn Bridge is in my sightline, the setting sun casting beautiful fuchsia and orange light behind the massive bridge. The sunset is made more effervescent by the three shots of Jack and handful of Xanax. Having just left the loft, I have enough clarity to drive, but any minute now, all logic and reasoning will subside. I’ll be ready to do what needs to be done. Am I thrilled about my choice? No. Not one fucking bit. I’m ashamed of it. I’ve been ashamed of it every time it’s ever crossed my mind. I want to be strong like everyone else. I want to power through and push past the pain… but I can’t. I’m genuinely, desperately, without any other option.

  I remember being happy, truly happy for the first time in forever, when I met Joanne. She gave me life. She helped me forget about my past… if only for a bit. She’s the only human being on this earth who knows the worst of it. Who accepted it all and showed me that I could live beyond it. Beyond the closet timeouts my parents would punish me with, my hands bound and mouth duct taped, for what would often end up being hours at a time. It happened to both me and my older brother, but I got it more. I was always the mouthy one.

  Joanne helped me forget the time left alone with Uncle Joe, the innocence I lost over the years of abuse at his hands. She made it okay. She made me feel okay in my own skin.

  Without her, these past few months have been unlike anything I’ve ever been through. I’ve dated before, of course, but it was never, ever like it was with Joanne. She allowed me to truly be me. Until all my truths became too much for her. Dealing with someone with PTSD became too much. I don’t hate her for finding someone else. I get it. I’m not so sure I could put up with my baggage either.

  It’s not without much consideration that I’ve chosen to end my life. I know it could get better. It very likely will. Maybe, one day, I’d even write another book people would want to read. Maybe, I’d meet the girl of my dreams and start a family. I’d forget all about the shit I’ve been through in my life. But how long? I look back on my twenty-seven years and can count on one hand the good ones; the New Year’s Eves where I sat back and said ‘you know what, it’s been a damn good year.’ And beyond not having very many people to bitch or vent to, that’s not my thing anyway. It’s not my way of l
ife. In my house, growing up, emotion wasn’t something you shared. It was something you stuffed deep down and kept quiet from the world.

  No. I’ve thought very long and very hard about this decision. I’m ready to let this world go on without me. My life insurance will cover me. Grandma will be set. Bobby will certainly miss me. I’m sure some others in our group would mourn me as well, but after a few months, maybe a few charity runs later, they’ll move on with their lives.

  And, shit, maybe my other book will finally make a list, too. That wouldn’t be half bad. Same thing happened to David Foster Wallace. Ernest Hemingway. Hunter S. Thompson. Jack London. Fuck. At least I’ll be in good company. At the very least, The Honest Ones will be cherished. That, I’m sure of. It may even one day be read in classrooms.

  Regardless of the outcome, I’m resolved in my decision. I’m ready to take the dive, to hit the water like it’s pavement, and to never ache again.

  With no shoulder on the bridge, my car will be parked in the middle of the right lane with the hazards on. That, along with the scattered runners and cyclists passing here and there along a path just before the railing, makes quickness a necessity. I won’t have much time to think before someone can try and talk me out of it. That’s the last thing in the world I want, though with the pills causing a tingle in my fingertips and distorted vision, I imagine it won’t make much difference in a few minutes.

  It’s only after I’m straddling the barrier when a deep-rooted anxiety hits, like a tight-gripped fist around my stomach. I lift my other leg over and the loud thump of my heartbeat reverberates between my ears. I scooch my ass off the barrier, my feet landing on the thin steel platform separating me from a two hundred and seventy-seven-foot free-fall. I gulp when I look down, my vision zeroing in on the darkness below, only a hint of moonlight glinting off the water’s surface. I close my eyes, taking a deep breath and trying to remember why I’m standing up here in the first place, my numb legs causing me to drift with each powerful gust of wind. My hands hold the steel support cables so tight I feel like my finger bones may crumble to dust if I squeeze any tighter. I open my eyes again, my breathing rapid and uncontrollable, drool dripping from my lips down my chin.

  And then I jump, my eyes closing tightly as the incredible velocity throws my brain into panic mode. I wrap myself with my arms, tears beginning to stream down my face as a heavy, seizing regret takes hold. A regret that only ends when my head meets the water. And my lights turn out.

  I gasp for air as I come shooting up from my sweat-soaked pillow, my eyes taking in the dimly lit room and my pulse drumming in my chest. It takes me a moment to realize where I am; to understand I’m not back on the bridge ready to end my life. I breathe out deeply, wiping the sweat from my forehead before dropping my head in my hands.

  While I told Dr. Thresher the dream comes but a few times a month, it’s more like a couple times a week. Only instead, the man, or ‘mystery savior’ as I like to call him, never comes to my rescue in the dream. He never hops off his bike and climbs over the barrier and onto the ledge himself. He never talks to me about his own battle with depression, his abusive father, his ugly divorce. He doesn’t convince me to give life another go.

  Instead, I jump. And unlike what many go their whole lives believing, I do die in my dreams. I do feel the nerve-rattling fall that seems like forever. And I feel the concrete-like water as my skull splits against it.

  I smoke a few bowls of Mary Jane to hinder the onslaught of feelings, confusion, and desperation the dream always brings. It’s a time I’m not proud of, in a situation I never saw myself in, without an ounce of strength to deal with it all. I’m thrilled to be out of it. I’m even more thrilled to know, in my heart of hearts, that I’ll never be there again… never… but it doesn’t mean I’m not still affected by it all. If only we could erase those heart-crushing memories of our past. If only Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind was based on reality. I’d erase every last one of them. I’d get along through life just like everyone else; content and without worry. I know that’s not reality. I know others suffer too. But I also know, regardless of all that, depression doesn’t give two shits about any of it. It doesn’t give a fuck about how your peers are getting along, or whatever the fuck it says in the latest self-help book you’re reading. It only cares about you… and how it can tear you apart bit by fucking bit.

  I set my alarm to nine so I have enough time to meet my breakfast date, though it’s about the last thing I want to do now that I’m meeting Bobby for lunch. I am not in the mood to socialize today. Once it’s set, I toss my phone to the bed and turn the TV to the first sitcom I can find before slowly drifting back to sleep.

  “Wait a second…” Bobby lets his voice trail as the look of confusion forms on his face. “She texted you eight times last night?”

  “I bullshit you not, my friend,” I reply before taking a bite of my club sandwich. His head drops as he laughs his ass off, pieces of Philly cheesesteak falling out of his open mouth. “Laugh it up, bitch.” I smile. “If we’ve got thirty days of this, you’ve got maybe three more days of shit-giving before I shut your ass up.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “You threatening me, Mazzerelli?”

  “Yeah fucking right, genius. You got a foot and probably sixty pounds on me. I’d be dead in a heartbeat. I’m just saying… I’ll call the bet off, sell my loft, and move far enough away to where you can never find me.”

  “It’s probably more like seventy pounds,” he responds with a smirk.

  “Well, I wanted to say ninety and felt like being polite, so chew on that, bitch.”

  “You’re feisty today.”

  “No shit. I’ve only been forced into possibly the most uncomfortable position I can imagine. And I had to be up early for that stupid fucking date.”

  “Yeah, what’s early to you anyway?”

  “I had to meet her at nine-thirty. And with chatty fucking Cathy spouting off about everything under the sun, it felt like a lot earlier. It was pure hell.”

  “Gavin, if I’m required to stop giving you shit, you must stop whining. You seriously over-exaggerate every situation. I could think of worse things than you going on dates with a bunch of women. Even with a few bad ones mixed in.”

  “I could think of better,” I retort, taking a bite of my sandwich with a cocky wink for him. He rolls his eyes and takes a bite of his own.

  In the middle of chewing, he asks, “So… she called eight times, huh?”

  “Yes. Eight fucking times. Five times between the end of our date and when I finally got to sleep, two times while I was sleeping and once during my date this morning. She’s fucking nuts, dude!”

  “Well, stop spitting all your A-game,” he says, a smirk on his face as he’s obviously joking. Game is one of many skills I do not possess.

  “Yeah fucking right. If this is what I signed up for, I don’t know if I’ll last. This is bad. Is this how chicks are now?”

  “Fuck if I know. I haven’t been in the game in forever. You know that.”

  “By the way,” I say, narrowing my eyes on him. “I thought about something after my one hundred-plus dinner bill last night. If you’re the one who started the bet…” I scratch a pointer against the side of my head. “…shouldn’t you be the one paying for the fucking dates?”

  He smiles, shaking his head before he drops his sandwich and digs into his jeans pocket. He pulls out a check, opens it flat, and holds it out for me to take. Before grabbing it, I read my name and three thousand dollars written on it in Bobby’s child-like handwriting. I snag it and put it in my pocket when he says, “I can only assume every date isn’t going to be a hundred dollars, but Gavin…” He lets his voice trail as he tilts his head, his doubtful eyes zoning in on me. “Have some goddamn fun. Try some new things. Get out there.” His eyes wander to the passing waiter, and then he scans the diner before eventually returning his attention to me. “You have a lot to gain from this. And I want nothing more than for you to win
this bet. Let it be the only goddamn one I’ll ever want you to win, but it’s true. I just want you to take advantage of the challenge. Force yourself outside of the box and try new things. Do things you love. Try some strange ass shit. I don’t fucking know. Just think about making each date different, focusing on the person you’re with, and whether good or bad, either go on another date with her, or use that shit in a story.”

  “I really hate you today. You know that?” I muse, popping the last of the sandwich into my mouth.

  “So, you gonna be at trivia tomorrow night? You know we don’t win without you. And the guys have been asking.”

  “Normally, I’d tell you to fuck right off, but considering I’m going through this app dating shitstorm, some time with the boys sounds quite alright.”

  “Good,” he says with a smirk. “I’m so sick of losing.”

  Peg Leg’s is just a few blocks from my place, tucked into the corner of Bleecker and Jones streets, but the brisk night air cuts through to the bones. I pass by a few couples arm in arm and like me, they’re bundled up against the cold, walking briskly past the upscale shops and quaint bars lining Bleecker. I’m thrilled when I spot the pirate flag waving over the Peg Leg’s sign, which is perched above the set of stairs that lead down into the bar. It’s in a basement situated beneath an apartment complex, with no other ties to pirate life beyond the flag out front, the name, and the peg leg the owner Julius wears.

  Peg Leg's is a little out of place in New York City. And in a way, it fits just right. It’s like stepping back in time; floor to ceiling mahogany with a healthy mix of eclectic antiques, old cowboy movie posters, and mounted animal heads taking up every bit of free space on the walls. As I walk into the crowded bar, Julius is posted at the hostess stand and he greets me with a wide grin. The bushy, greying beard makes his smile look even more pronounced. He hobbles toward me with the familiar clunk as his peg leg hits the wood floor every other step.