by Isabel Love
Logan just shrugs.
“It’s fine if you know. I just can’t deal with hiding. It makes me feel like she was just slumming it with me, you know? We would have never worked anyway. She comes from money and you know where I come from.” I start drinking again to shut myself up.
“She’d be hard pressed to find a better man than you, my friend,” Logan says sincerely, and fuck, that makes my eyes burn.
“Can someone please change the subject?”
“Did you at least get to play doctor?” Charlie asks. Tact is his middle name.
“Dude, come on.” Logan stares at Charlie, trying to communicate silently.
“What? You know you were wondering the same thing.” He turns to look at me. “You banged her in the Porsche, right? Tell me you did not let that opportunity pass you up.”
Thoughts of that night come flooding back to me. The silver necklace. Her perfect nipples. The way she bounced on top of me. The sex was amazing that night, but it was amazing after the sex, too. The way she melted against me, boneless and sated. Then when we finally made it out of the car and into my apartment building, she’d blushed every time anyone looked at us, as if they could tell what we just did.
“Damn, you totally banged her in the Porsche. I wish I could read your mind right now. I bet it was hot, right?”
“How is this helping, you idiot?” Logan throws a peanut at Charlie. “Have you seen her at work?” he asks me.
I sigh. “Yes, and it sucks just as much as you think it does.”
“That’s the problem with dating a co-worker—you can’t escape them if it ends,” Logan says, helpfully stating the obvious.
“A wise man once said, ‘Don’t shit where you eat.’” Charlie quotes Logan’s advice from the beginning of all of this.
I stare at him. “That wasn’t your advice. You told me I should go for it.”
“Who said I was wise? You know you should never listen to me.”
“I’m going to the bathroom. When I get back, can we please talk about something else?” I go to the bathroom and take my time. If I wasn’t depressed before, I sure am now, along with slightly tipsy. Two beers in five minutes on an empty stomach is a recipe to get very drunk. If only drunk meant I could forget Monica for a little while.
When I get back to the table, my burger and fries are waiting for me and I dig in. Charlie and Logan are silent as they watch me eat.
“So,” Logan starts.
“So,” Charlie adds helpfully.
Even that two-letter word reminds me of Monica.
“Do you guys have to talk?” I grumble.
“Man, he really is a grouchy motherfucker tonight.”
“What did we say this time?” Logan asks.
“Nothing. Just…” I sigh. “Can you pour me another beer?”
“Coming right up.” Charlie fills up my empty glass.
“I’m thinking of getting a dog,” Logan informs us. Dogs, okay—I can handle talking about dogs.
“What kind of dog?” I ask him.
Logan looks relieved that I didn’t jump down his throat again and Charlie chimes in. “Please don’t tell me you’re getting a lap dog like that one you had when we were in grade school.”
“Hey, you loved that dog!”
We proceed to talk about dogs while I get drunk.
Oh, God. What is that taste? Consciousness slowly filters in as I begin to wake up. The light streaming in from my window is way too bright, my head is throbbing, and my mouth tastes like some rodent shit in it. I close my eyes quickly and groan. Why did I think it was a good idea to drink so much last night? The darkness feels so much better than the light, and I throw my blankets over my face to block out the sunlight. Alas, my bladder won’t let me rest for long. It’s screaming at me to go to the bathroom.
Each step makes my head throb worse and I curse whoever invented alcohol. After emptying my bladder and brushing my teeth to get rid of the foul taste, I stare at myself in the mirror. I’m a complete mess—my hair is too long, my face is unshaven, and my eyes are bloodshot with dark circles underneath. Fuck. I look away, not able to stand the sight of myself.
Fortunately, I’m off today. I plan to crawl right back into bed and wallow in my despair all day, but when I go to lie down, the smell of the sheets hits me. Ugh. I really need to change the sheets and do laundry.
But first, coffee.
The sight of the kitchen is worse than the smell of my bedroom. Shit. Why did I let this mess get so bad? I feel like getting a garbage bag and just throwing everything away so I don’t have to clean it, but then I remember that I would have to replace everything and I can’t afford it.
Sighing, I get to work. First, I clear a path to the coffee machine and take some pain reliever to help with my headache. Then, I throw out all the takeout containers. The dishes get put in the dishwasher and finally, I wipe the counters down. My stomach starts to grumble but I’m not sure I can handle much more than toast. My refrigerator shows me that in addition to being a complete slob the last week, I also forgot to go grocery shopping.
Wait, grocery shopping…
Shit!
I grab my phone and check the time. I am supposed to go grocery shopping for my mom today. Luckily I have enough time to shower, strip my sheets, and start a load of laundry before I have to get to the store.
“So what’s new with you?” my mom asks, studying me.
What a loaded question. I’d rather not get into it right now; the wound is too fresh. I want to let it scab over before everyone starts picking at it again.
“Eh, not much. How’s work?” I reply without meeting her eyes. We’re unpacking the groceries and putting everything away in her kitchen.
“Work is okay. Have you heard from Chloe?”
My youngest sister has a tendency to forget to check in and it drives my mother crazy, but instead of calling her out on it, my mom just asks me. “Yes, I just heard from her the other day. She seems okay.”
My mom smiles. “That’s good. Can I fix you some lunch?”
I hesitate. Staying for lunch will surely lead to more questions, but since my apartment had no food in it, I skipped breakfast and am starving.
“Come on, I’ll fix us some grilled cheese sandwiches. It’ll only take a couple minutes,” she coaxes.
“Okay. Thanks, Mom.”
She gets to work on the stove and the scent of the buttered bread in the pan takes me back to when I was a little boy. My mom makes the best grilled cheese sandwiches on the planet.
“Tell me about your girlfriend. Are you two still taking salsa lessons?”
I groan internally. Why do I tell my mom so much?
I put away the last couple items and begin to set the table. “We broke up,” I inform her.
“Ah, so that’s why you look like shit.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Have you seen yourself?”
“Yeah, I know. This week has been rough.” I rub the stubble on my face and run my fingers through my disheveled hair.
“I bet working together makes it even harder.”
“Indeed.” I’m ashamed to admit I’ve actually checked the job listings in the hospital to see if there are any interesting openings.
“I’m sorry you’re hurting. Want me to go beat her up?” She makes a fist and punches her hand, like she’s getting warmed up for a fistfight. The sight of my slender mom trying to look tough and intimidating cracks me up. She’s a force to be reckoned with when she’s angry, don’t get me wrong, but physically, she’s not very menacing.
Then I realize I’m chuckling. It feels foreign on my face, this smile, and it slides off as soon as I realize it’s there.
“Oh, honey.” She comes over to the table and starts rubbing my shoulders. “You really like this girl, huh?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Why did things end?”
I give her the brief version of the fundraiser and how it made me feel.
“Her fathe
r sounds awful.”
“He is.”
“And her mother passed away a while ago, right?”
“Yeah, when she was in college.”
“Poor thing.”
“Why are you feeling sorry for her?” I’m the one with the broken heart. I’m her son!
“Well, Max, we may not have grown up with money, but I’ve always wanted you and your sisters to find what makes you happy and go after it. I’ve never wanted you to become something you’re not just for appearance’s sake.”
This is true. My mom never balked when I wanted to become a nurse, or when Ella chose to be a graphic designer. She never cared what anyone else thought of us, as long as we were happy.
I stare up at my mom, waiting for her to get to the point.
“But it seems like Monica’s dad is not the same way. She grew up thinking she had to play a part for his approval. It must be a hard habit to break. She might have a hard time shutting off the part of her that cares what other people think long enough to accept herself for who she is and what she wants. You’ve always had my acceptance and support. She lost the person that gave her that unconditional acceptance.”
Huh.
I never thought of it that way.
“Well, I didn’t want to hide our relationship anymore,” I snap, aggravated that she seems to be taking Monica’s side.
“I agree with you completely,” she says gently. “But she might come to her senses.”
If only.
We finish lunch and I help her with a few things around the house—a closet door that keeps sticking, a box on a top shelf that she can’t get down, things like that. Then I take the groceries I picked up for myself and go back home.
The empty apartment mocks me, but at least it’s cleaner now than it was this morning. As soon as I finish putting the food away, my laptop signals that I’m getting a Skype call. Ugh. My mom likely put my sisters up to checking on me.
I really don’t want to answer and deal with more probing questions, but I know if I don’t answer, they will just keep calling.
I prop the laptop on the kitchen table, open it up, and accept the call. My sisters’ faces fill the screen, each in a separate box. I fix the angle so they can see me, too, although the little box with my image shows me how awful I look.
“You look like shit,” Ella says.
“Well, hello to you, too.”
“That’s it, we’re totally kicking her ass. What did she do?” Chloe says sharply.
I love it that they’re both coming to my defense. I’d certainly be upset if some guy hurt one of them.
I hold up my hands. “Nobody is kicking anyone’s ass. It just didn’t work out. The work thing was too big of an obstacle for us to overcome.” I shrug.
“Well, she’s an idiot,” Chloe concludes.
I try to muster a smile for them, but they see right through it.
“I don’t need a pity party. Logan and Charlie tried that last night, but all it did was give me a hangover. Tell me about you guys.”
We chat a bit about little things—school, work, the incredibly high price of rent in New York City—and it does help. Their support goes a long way toward making me feel a tad less miserable, and Chloe actually gets me to crack a real smile.
“Ella, did you see that? I got him to smile. YES! Mission accomplished!”
I chuckle.
“Thanks for calling, ladies, but I’m going to go. All this smiling has me exhausted.”
“Bye Max. Don’t wallow in misery for too long, okay?” Ella instructs.
“And tell us if we need to come down there and beat her up,” Chloe adds.
“Will do.”
Her smile is all I see.
Monica
My cell pings with a text message notification. I don’t want to check it, but I can’t resist looking to see if it’s Max.
Quinn: You haven’t answered my calls or responded to my texts for a week.
I sigh. She’s right. I’ve already established that I’m a coward, and I know Quinn will ream me out when she finds out what happened with Max. Honestly, I want to ream myself out.
I miss him, but it’s more than that.
I ache for him.
My life has been reduced to only work again and it’s stifling.
Quinn: You better respond to this or else I’m calling the hospital to make sure you’re still alive.
Me: I’m alive.
Quinn: Wow! A response! Was that so hard?
Me: Sorry, I’ve been busy.
Quinn: Don’t bullshit me.
Quinn: You’re meeting me for dinner tonight.
Me: Sorry, I can’t.
Quinn: Monica…
Me: I really can’t, I have a meeting.
Quinn: Tomorrow then.
Me: I work.
Quinn: You can’t work 24 hours a day.
Me: Fine. Dinner tomorrow. But can you come to my house?
Quinn: Yes. I’ll be there at 8 with food and alcohol.
I pass the next two days buried in work and little else. After work, I change into baggy sweats and a t-shirt and get ready to see Quinn. As promised, my doorbell rings promptly at eight. When I open the door, I see that Quinn has her arms full. One hand is carrying a pizza box, the other a bag from the grocery store. Her purse is draped across her shoulder and I have no idea how she made it from the car to the door without falling over.
“Take something quick!” She thrusts the bag toward me and I take it from her.
She almost topples over once I take the bag as her balance shifts and I grab on to her to keep her from falling; once I do, I smell her familiar perfume—peaches mixed with strawberries—and I have a hard time letting go. Soon I’m the one clinging to her as if I may fall over. Both of us have only one free hand, but we manage to hug. I’m overcome with emotion and so grateful she’s here, forcing her way in as usual. It’s like she knows when I need her and that I’m too stupid to know what I need.
“Hey, Monica?” she asks quietly after a couple minutes.
“Yeah?” I ask, my eyes squeezed shut, my face buried in her neck.
“Can we go inside yet? My arm is cramping from holding up the pizza.”
I laugh and pull away. “Of course. Sorry.”
We head into my kitchen and she makes herself at home. I just sit down and let her do her thing; it takes too much energy to fight it.
“You need to catch me up. I didn’t get much information out of Charlie the last time I saw him, but he let it slip that you and Max broke up. Imagine my surprise when I heard this from Charlie and not from you.” She glares at me.
“Yeah, sorry about that. I’ve been busy.” I sniff.
“You mean you’ve been burying yourself in work instead of dealing with your problems.”
“Or that.” She knows me so well.
“What the fuck happened? I need all the details.” She pours me a margarita, complete with salt rim, and puts the pizza in the oven to keep warm.
I tell her everything. At first, I have to force the words out, but then they won’t stop. Caleb. My dad. Having sex in the empty office. Mrs. Ramos. My dad and Dr. Finley. It sounds like a bad comedy. I describe the run-in with my dad and how I kicked him out, and I’m doing good until I get to the part where Max broke it off with me. My voice gets a bit shaky, but I ignore it and keep going. Finally, I describe the last week of working with him and how he’s treated me like a stranger.
Once I get to the end, she gapes at me.
“Say something!” It’s a rare feat to leave Quinn speechless.
She drains her drink and pours another. “I just don’t know where to begin. You’ve really made a mess of things.”
“Thanks a lot. I know that already.”
“Well, you’re lucky you have me. We can fix this.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” I tell her.
“First of all, I can’t believe what you did with Caleb. You know you should have just told him from the st
art that you have a boyfriend. I’m amazed Max went along with it. He really loves you.”
“Loved.”
“Oh my dear, you can’t turn off emotions like that in one week. If he loved you then, he loves you still.”
I sigh. “I’m not so sure.”
“Do you still love him?” she asks gently.
“Yes.”
“Aha! I knew it. You were trying to play it off the last time we met up for dinner.”
“Quinn! Focus. I’ve really fucked up.”
“Right, sorry.”
“Well, bravo on telling your dad off. That had to feel good.”
“It did,” I admit. It also hurt, but mostly it felt good.
“The way you describe it, it sounds like you can fix things with Max if you come out of the closet at work.”
Anxiety runs through me at the thought. “I don’t know about that.”
“Why do you even care about what they think? Is it worth losing Max over?” She cuts right to the point.
I try to put it into words. “I’m just a big coward.” I bury my face in my hands and envision people pointing and whispering at work, the other members of the board of directors knowing I’m sleeping with a nurse in my department—the thought of dealing with that makes my skin crawl.
Then I think of this past week. No one at work knew my world has fallen apart, aside from Rosetti. No one was whispering or pointing, but Max was there, right in front of me, close enough to touch, yet so far away. No small smiles just for me. No lingering looks, no secret texts. No salsa dancing on Thursday.
Being without Max is far worse than what I imagine it would be like if people at work knew about us.
“You are not a coward, Monica. You are fierce. You just need to want to do this and I know you can get him back. The question is, do you want to?”
“What if they ask me to resign?”
“If you had a doctor in your department who approached you about dating a nurse, would you ask him or her to resign?”
“I guess it would depend on how they conduct themselves. If they could be professional at work, I’d probably be fine with it, but I’d have to look it up in our policy and procedure manual.”
