by Emma Chase
We’ll start with an excursion to the Jersey shore. My parents used to take me there all the time when I was a kid. It’s December, but most of the rides and boardwalk games are open year-round. There’s an indescribable magic to the place—an aura of simpler days—a nostalgic beauty. I’ll hold Delores’s hand, spend thirty bucks to win her a two-dollar stuffed animal on one of those games where you have to knock the weighted cans over with a baseball. We’ll ride the bumper cars, maybe a roller coaster, and we’ll share a delicious but incredibly bad for you funnel cake.
Then we’ll kick off our shoes and walk down the beach, near enough to the water so we can watch the waves in the moonlight without getting wet. It’ll be cold, so she’ll lay back against me and I’ll wrap my arms around her to keep her warm. And then, with the thunder of the crashing waves in the background, I’ll tell her.
That she’s changed my life. That I want to share the rest of it with her. That nothing looks or feels the way it did four weeks ago—because of her—it’s unbelievably better. I don’t think she’ll freak out, although it’s possible. If she does, I’ll tell her she doesn’t have to say anything back. I’m a pretty patient guy. I can wait.
Then we’ll make out. And it’ll be awesome. Sex on the beach isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Sand is not a friend to genitalia. But . . . if Dee is interested, I’m sure as hell not going to turn her down.
When I hear my unlocked apartment door open, I check my hair in the bathroom mirror. All good. Then I walk out to the living room. Smiling—until I see Delores’s face.
She’s furious. The teeth-grinding, pacing, nostrils flaring kind of fury. And words shoot out of her mouth—like a hail of bullets. That I walk right into.
“Your friend is an asshole! And I want you to tell me where I can find him.”
“Which friend?”
“Drew-I’m-gonna-cut-his-pecker-off-and-feed-it-to-him-Evans.
I chuckle, even though I shouldn’t. “Easy there, Lorena Bobbitt. Calm down.”
Calm down. What the hell am I thinking? Those two words are like pouring water on a grease fire—just makes it hotter. It’s the second most direct way to piss a woman off even more than she already is. The first, of course, is to ask if she’s on the rag.
“Calm down? You want me to calm down?” Dee yells.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me, you insensitive ass, is I just left Kate’s apartment. She’s wrecked—completely devastated. Because your buddy, Drew, played her like a violin and then treated her like a whore that he couldn’t even be bothered to pay afterward.”
I knew Drew had a thing for Kate, but still, I can’t keep the surprise out of my voice. “Drew and Kate hooked up?”
Dee crosses her arms. “They sure did. He’s been all comforting and kind to her since the breakup with Billy. Made her believe he actually gave a shit. She spent the weekend at his apartment. And then this morning, after they got to work, he pretty much told her she sucked in bed—wasn’t worth another go around.”
I press my fingers to my forehead, trying to digest the information Dee’s telling me—that just doesn’t make any sense. Drew doesn’t take women to his apartment, any woman. Drew doesn’t screw the same chick twice . . . at least . . . not if he remembers he’s already done her. And spending the weekend with a girl? No frigging way.
“Are you sure Kate said Drew?” I ask.
“He called her a fucking ‘project,’ Matthew! One that he was ‘done with.’ And I’m gonna make a project out of his face. Kate is the best person I know. She puts on a tough front, but inside she’s soft. Breakable. He doesn’t get to treat her like this.”
Underneath Dee’s anger, there’s pain. She’s hurting, because her friend is hurting. I move forward to touch her, to comfort and calm her, but she steps back.
I put my hands up in surrender and try to reason with her. “Drew’s not that kind of asshole, Dee. He has a lot of respect for women . . . in his own way. He likes to have a good time, no hard feelings. He doesn’t get off on making girls feel bad about themselves. He wouldn’t go out of his way to hurt someone, especially . . . Jesus, especially not Kate.”
“Well he did!”
I shake my head. “Kate must’ve misunderstood him.”
For a moment she just stares. Her gaze rakes over me, up and down, like she’s seeing me for the first time. Then her expression changes from righteous fury to cold disbelief.
And her voice drops to a harsh whisper. “Are you defending him?”
“He’s my best friend. Of course I’m defending him!”
Her chin lifts sharply, almost like she’s absorbing an uppercut. She hisses, “Well then fuck you too!”
“Excuse me?”
“If you think there’s nothing wrong with what he did then you’re not the person I thought you were. Not even close.”
And I shout, “Are you fucking serious right now?”
“Yes! A serious idiot is what I am. To think that I let myself believe . . . I should’ve never let things get this far. We’re done Matthew. Don’t come to my apartment; don’t call me! You and your asshole friend can just stay the hell away from us!”
Her words hit me like a sledgehammer to the stomach. They’re wrenching. Bruising. And fucking maddening. Dee’s rant continues, but I’m not listening anymore. All I think about is how stupid I’ve been.
Blind.
Again.
It’s almost funny, in a depressing, ironic kind of way. Dee told me—more than once—that she couldn’t do this. That her relationships never ended on a happy note. But I didn’t listen. I heard what I wanted to hear and believed I could change her mind. That if I was charming enough, smooth enough, she’d see—like I did—how great we could be together.
What a fucking moron.
It’s really no different than Rosaline. The red flags may not have been there for the same reasons—but they were there. And I missed them.
“Goddammit!” I kick the coffee table but it doesn’t break. So I kick it again—until it does. The leg collapses and the glass top cracks against the floor, bringing Delores’s rant to an immediate stop.
She takes two steps back, looking cautious—almost afraid that she’s pushed me too far. And I hate that I’ve made her look like that. But I’m too pissed, too disappointed in her to stop. So instead, I lash out.
“You say Kate puts on a tough front but she’s soft inside? How about you look in a fucking mirror, Dee? You’re terrified—nothing but a scared little girl. You’d rather be alone and tell yourself it’s what you choose than take a chance on something that might be better. Something that could’ve been amazing. I have bent over backwards for you! I’ve spent weeks walking on fucking eggshells trying not to scare you away! And where’s it gotten me? Nowhere! You think you’re done? I’m done! ’Cause it’s not worth it.”
Her arms cross over her waist, holding herself together. And she doesn’t look angry anymore. She looks . . . sad.
I take a breath and push a hand through my hair. And I laugh at myself—because I’m an idiot. Pathetic. “I had this whole thing planned. I was going to take you to the boardwalk and win you a bear. I was going to tell you that I think you’re the most incredible, beautiful, fantastic woman I’ve ever known. And I was going to tell you that I’m completely in love with you. And now . . . now I can’t say any of those things.” I shake my head. “Because you’re just waiting . . . . looking for a reason . . . because I can’t love someone who’s so fucking eager to run out the door.”
Her voice is quiet now. Softer. “I told you . . . I told you I wasn’t good at this.”
And mine is raw. “Yeah, well I guess I finally believe you.”
I look into Dee’s honey-brown eyes. Eyes that always said so much, even if she didn’t speak a word. And I turn my back on her. “Just go, Dee. Just leave—it’s what you’ve wanted to do from day one.”
I hear her breathing. Waiting. And then I h
ear her footsteps. They stop near the doorway, and for a wonderful, awful moment I think she’s changed her mind.
Until she whispers, “Good-bye, Matthew.”
I don’t answer, and I don’t turn around. Until I hear the door close behind her.
Chapter 17
“Fuck!”
I spend the thirty minutes after Dee walks out cursing and pacing and kicking shit around my apartment—generally pissed off at the entire world.
“Shit!”
I’m angry at myself for letting things get as far as they did—for losing my patience and my temper—and for even falling for Dee in the first place. My self-flagellation is hot and varied and doesn’t make a whole lot of sense—even to me.
I’m furious with Delores—for not trusting me, for not even fucking trying. For not thinking what we have is worth the risk. For thinking I’m a goddamn risk at all, when I’ve done everything possible to show her I’m not.
And I’m beyond irritated with Drew—but I’m not sure what the fuck for yet. Maybe he cut Kate down just like Dee claimed. And if he did, it was an asshole move. One that’s unjustly blown back on me. And I’m kind of pissed that he even screwed Kate at all—breaking his precious, stupid fucking rule that was there for a reason. This reason. Because—like a goddamn suicide bomber—his actions have had painful consequences for everyone around him.
But most of all, I’m infuriated that Drew won’t pick up his fucking phone so I can find out what the hell happened.
“Goddamn it!”
Guys aren’t chatty. The telephone is not a necessity for us—unless it’s to find out where we’re meeting up or what the latest baseball scores are. But this is one time I actually need to talk to him—and he’s MIA. I call Erin, Drew’s secretary, who’s still at the office. She informs me that he went home sick this afternoon—that he probably has the flu.
Fucking perfect.
Screw it. I drop my phone, grab my keys, and head over to Drew’s apartment—to get the story straight from the ass’s mouth.
But when I get to his place, he doesn’t answer.
I bang on the door for the third—or thirtieth—time. “Drew! Open the fucking door! What the hell happened today? Drew!”
Nothing. I stop and listen for any sign of life inside the apartment, but all I hear is silence. Not even the rustle of footsteps or the squeak of couch springs. There’s an excellent chance he’s not even home. Which means, for now, I’m shit out of luck.
Breathing hard, I leave the building. I get on my bike and ride—fast and sharp. Probably not the best idea at the moment, but I do it anyway. I get through the tunnel, onto the turnpike, where traffic is thankfully scarce.
And I really open her up. The wind blows so cold and harsh, my face goes numb. But it’s a good thing. Because feeling nothing is so much better than feeling the loss. Of what Dee and I had—of everything we could’ve had.
I ride for hours. Trying to let go. Trying to forget today . . . and the entire four weeks that came before it.
I park my bike in the garage and climb off—stiff and frozen from the ride. I didn’t think I was hoping that Delores would be here, waiting. That she’d realize she made a terrible mistake and show up at my door to beg and apologize. Especially the begging part.
But I realize it’s exactly what I was hoping for . . . when I reach my apartment door and she’s not there.
And the disappointment is crushing.
The letdown intensifies when I scroll through the missed calls on my phone and see that none of them are from Dee.
But I’m not tempted to call her.
I’m frustrated, and I miss her—but I’m not calling. I’m not chasing her. Not this time. Not ever again, if it comes to that.
Drew hasn’t returned my calls either. I’m looking forward to work tomorrow, where I’ll see him, get the story . . . and most likely punch him in his stupid face. That’ll make me feel better.
Don’t worry—I won’t actually do any damage. Even though he doesn’t box as often as I do, Drew’s no wuss. He can take care of himself. And unlike Delores’s and my relationship, our friendship will survive. A few punches, between friends, really isn’t that big of a deal.
I have no appetite, so I skip dinner. I just take a shower and collapse—naked and wet—into my bed. But when my face burrows into the pillow, I smell her. The scent of her skin, her hair—it’s sweet and spicy, apples and cinnamon, distinct.
And it makes my chest ache.
Instead of getting up and sleeping on the couch, like I probably should, I pull the pillow closer and wrap the sheets tighter—surrounding myself in Dee’s memory—until I fall asleep.
Kind of pathetic, right?
Yeah, I fucking think so too.
Tuesday morning, I drag my ass into work—grumpy, disheveled, and feeling shitty—even though I slept like a rock. There, I hear all about the show Billy Warren put on for Kate in the lobby, and I wonder if they got back together. As far as grand gestures go, you don’t get much grander than a public serenade and a lobby full of flowers. But if Kate is back with Billy, why would she give two shits about what Drew thinks or feels about her?
Throughout the rotten day, I check to see if Drew shows up. He doesn’t. And I wonder if he really is sick. Or if whatever happened between him and Kate—and the possibility that she went back to her ex right after—busted him up more than he let on.
I spend my time wondering about that . . . so I don’t have time to think about Dee. But, of course, my mind finds a way to squeeze thoughts of her in.
Plentiful, pain-bringing thoughts.
About where she is—what she’s feeling. If there’s any way she’s doing as badly as I am.
Erin gathers Steven, Jack O’Shay, and me together and asks us to cover for Drew while he’s out. Like the man himself, his clients are fucking spoiled, and they tend to freak out if he isn’t close by to hold their hands. I take a couple of his files because, even though I think he’s a shithead at the moment, I’m not gonna let his career tank over it.
The extra work makes the day go faster, and before I know it, it’s quitting time. I go to the gym—even though I’m feeling craptastic—and undergo a brutal workout and sparring session.
Because this is what most guys do when they’re hurting. Punish themselves or—like the barking boss in desperate need to get laid—everyone around them.
After the gym, I stop by Drew’s apartment again, significantly calmer than last night. He still doesn’t answer the door, but this time, I hear the television on inside. Sounds like he’s watching Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy.
I pound on the door. “Open up, jerk-off.”
The only response I hear is the growl of Sex Panther—a punch line from the movie. I knock again. “Come on, douche bag. You’re not the only one with problems, you know.”
When he still doesn’t answer, I genuinely start to worry. “Drew, you seriously need to give me a sign here. If not, I’m going to assume you’re actually dying and call nine-one-one.”
A minute goes by. Then another. And just as I’m about to pull out my phone, something bangs against the inside of the door. Like it was purposely thrown against it. A baseball maybe.
Bam.
“Drew? Was that you?”
Bam.
“Do you need me to bust the door down?”
Bam . . . Bam.
I think for a moment. Then, to make sure I’m right, I ask, “So it’s once for yes, twice for no?”
Bam.
Guess it’ll frigging have to do for now. I sit on the floor and lean my back up against Drew’s door. And I start to talk, ask yes and no questions—feeling kind of like an idiot. Like some teenager in a horror movie, communicating with the other side through a Ouiji Board, who’s too much of a moron to remember those interactions never end well.
“Erin said you texted her. Do you really have the flu?”
Bam.
“Did you and Kate hook up last weeken
d?”
Bam.
“Was it as good as you imagined?”
Bam . . . Bam.
You might be confused by his answer. I’m not.
“Was it even better?”
There’s a meaningful pause. And then . . . Bam.
“Were you a dick to her afterwards?”
Bam . . . Bam.
No. So Dee did have it wrong. But then, Drew elaborates. Sort of.
Bam.
No and yes. Drew was a dick to Kate . . . but he seems to think he had a reason to be. I move on.
“Delores broke up with me. Because of the way you treated Kate. And I was really into her, man. I . . . I fell in love with her.” My voice gets stronger. Irritated. “Do you even care? Are you fucking sorry at all?”
There’s another meaningful pause. Then . . . Bam.
Although his remorse is nice to hear, it doesn’t help me at all. And, the bottom line is, it wasn’t really Drew that ended Dee and I. That was all on us. Her refusal to trust me . . . my refusal to keep trying to earn it.
Whatever Drew said to Kate, he’s obviously suffering because of it. So, I let him off the hook. “The truth is, it’s not all on you. We had . . . issues. Problems I thought I could get us through . . . but . . . she didn’t want it as much as I did. You know how that goes.”
Bam.
“You plan on staying in there forever?”
Bam . . . Bam.
“Do you need anything? Is there anything I can do?”
Bam . . . Bam.
I nod, even though it’s only to myself. “Do you want me to come back tomorrow?”
There’s a moment of silence, when I assume he’s thinking it over. Then he answers.
Bam.
I go back to my apartment and do nothing but watch TV the rest of the night. My face has one expression the whole time—grim. As I flick through the stations, one of those long-as-hell commercials comes on, advertising the ultimate soft rock eighties collection. And “One More Night” by Phil Collins plays loud and clear. It’s the part of the song where he’s wondering about calling the girl.
And it’s like a freaky science fiction movie—like the television is reading my fucking mind. I stare at my cell phone. Contemplating.
Trying to Jedi Mind Trick it.
Ring, you bastard. Ring.
I pick it up, brushing my fingers over the numbers. And I punch in nine of Dee’s ten digits . . .
Until the next lyric out of the TV reminds me that maybe she’s not alone.
I toss my phone away, like a scorching Hot Pocket fresh from the microwave. Then I plant my face in the couch cushion and yell into it.
“Fuck me!”
The music on the infomercial changes. And now it’s “Against All Odds”—a song about a guy who has so much to say to a girl, but she just won’t turn around and let him.
