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Tonight, though, my mind won’t quiet. Instead of creating a calming environment, those familiar little noises are like nails clattering angrily against the glass, an incessant annoyance I can’t escape.
I shift out of bed, being careful not to put too much pressure on my left arm as I do. I glance at the sling resting on my desk—the one I’m supposed to wear whenever I’m not in bed—wishing I could just leave it there. I almost do, but the part of me that knows I need to follow the rules reaches forward and grabs it, and I grumble to myself the entire time I’m putting it on.
Quietly, I slip out of my childhood bedroom and make my way downstairs, hoping a midnight snack and some mindless television might lull me to sleep. After a snoop through the fridge, I collapse on the couch, wincing at how the action sends an unexpected ribbon of pain ricocheting through my arm. I sigh in frustration, rubbing my fingers over the bit of stubble growing along my jawline.
I feel off tonight, sour and bristly in a way I rarely experience, and there are only two reasons that come to mind as to why.
The first is the message that came through earlier today. Glancing down at my phone, I read it again.
Eliza: Heard about your arm. Just wanted to see how you’re doing.
I haven’t responded, because I don’t know what to say. The fact that she’s texting me at all feels like a joke in and of itself. I’m not a callous kind of guy, but my lack of sleep and poor attitude get the best of me, and I begin a text in response.
Me: You want to see how I’m doing? Or you want to assuage your guilt about cheating on me all summer by ‘checking in’ on poor, sad Bishop?
My non-dominant hand moves slowly as I type, and by the time I’ve written it all out, all the prickly irritation I’ve felt since she first contacted me has leaked out, leaving me feeling like a deflated balloon.
Lashing out like that isn’t my style. I might get a rush of anger here and there—who doesn’t?—but it usually dissipates almost as quickly as it arrives.
I delete the message and compose a new one.
Me: I’m fine. Thanks for checking in.
The truth is I don’t hate Eliza for what she did. The two of us were more fuck-buddies than soulmates anyway, and it’s probably better for both of us that things are over.
Still, I can’t help the bruise to my ego over the fact that she started hooking up with Heath on her trip to Europe, especially since we’d have these FaceTime chats and he would pop on to say hi, knowing damn well he was taking her to bed after we got off the call.
I roll my eyes and click send, hoping this one text from her is the last time she reaches out, then I toss my phone to the coffee table. I power on the TV, intending to search for a show to watch that will distract me, maybe something mindless.
Instead, the bright light of baseball replays stream through the dark room, and I grit my teeth, watching a muted recap from last night’s game between the Flame and the A’s. It was the final game of the regular season, nothing particularly spectacular since neither team was heading to the playoffs.
It just smarts to know everyone else playing the sport I love is finishing up their season, and I’m “stuck on the bench”, so to speak.
But I’m not even on the bench. I’m on the couch, with an injury that required fucking surgery.
I let out a long breath and stretch my neck from side to side, trying to mentally set Eliza and my injury aside…which only creates room in my mind for me to think about the second reason I feel off today.
Gabi.
I don’t know why her bristly reaction to me this morning is sitting so poorly with me. We each left town to go to school—to follow our dreams—and when it got too difficult, we broke up. It makes sense that she wouldn’t be rejoicing at the sight of me, but I guess…I don’t know. I thought the split was a bit more amicable, thought we’d still be the ‘wish the best for you’ kind of exes.
I thought there was too much history, too much love, for us to ever hate each other.
Clearly I was wrong, at least on her end.
“You sure you should be watching that?”
The sound of my father’s voice in the quiet of the room startles me just slightly, and I glance over my shoulder to find him in the kitchen, pulling a glass down from an overhead cabinet.
I turn back to the TV.
“Probably not.”
There are some light sounds behind me, and then eventually, Dad drops down on the couch next to me, a glass of amber-colored liquid in each hand.
“I’m not supposed to drink right now,” I tell him.
“You weren’t supposed to drink while you were on your antibiotics. You took your last ones…” He glances at the clock on the wall that says it’s 3am. “What…yesterday? I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
