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Good word.
I need to hit my punching bag. Kick the shit out of it. I need to vocalize the vicious emotions crowding my chest with shouts of effort and exertion. Tonight is definitely not a cartwheel night.
“Look at me,” Drew says.
I turn to face him. He examines my cheeks, my eyes. His brow furrows with concern.
“I’m okay,” I tell him.
“You wouldn’t rather be alone, would you?”
“When have I ever wanted to be alone?” I ask.
His hand tightens on my arm, and a low noise escapes him. It sounds protective. “Good.”
We don’t speak again until the car arrives to take us the six and a half blocks to my building. But the second we’re inside, I latch onto him greedily. I get as close to him as possible without actually crawling onto his lap. He holds me and strokes my hair, pressing kisses on the hickey he left. I don’t need any words. I don’t need anything more than this.
Except I keep saying something. Over and over. “I’m sorry.”
And he tells me once for every time I say it, “It’s okay.”
When we arrive at home, he tells me to go in through the front, and he’ll take the service entrance.
“Why can’t I go with you?”
He shrugs. “We worry.”
At any rate, he’s holding the door of my apartment open with an ironic smile when I come off the main elevator. My shoulders finally begin to unwind now that we’re home.
I yank at my tie, shrug off my jacket, and unbutton the top two buttons of my dress shirt as I walk to the kitchen to get some water. Normally, I’d pour myself a drink after a night like this one, but my father’s words are implanted in my eardrums. “As usual.” Like I’m some fucking drunk. Like his expectations for me have never been anything but abysmally low.
Is this why they didn’t bat an eyelash when I told them I didn’t want to go to college?
Drew is in the foyer, hanging his coat, shrugging out of his jacket and hanging that, too. He loosens his tie, but leaves it on, undoes the buttons at his neck and walks over to me. “Sorry for the mark,” he says.
“Don’t be. I would’ve stopped you if I didn’t want it.”
“Not sure I could have stopped,” he said.
“I know you would have.”
He nods, too quiet.
It makes me feel like I should explain. My tears. My family. Myself. “He’s not usually like that,” I say, filling a glass with filtered water from the fridge.
He leans a hip on the island countertop. “Your dad?”
“I mean, he didn’t use to be. Mean, I guess.”
“You did look surprised,” he notes.
I decide I don’t really want the water, so I set it aside and position myself like he is, facing him. “It was upsetting,” I say, glad my voice stays even-ish. “This whole experience has taught me a lot.”
“Such as…?” he asks, but the words are careful and measured, a note of caution in them.
“I used to think they liked me. Now I’m not sure they even care about me, much less love me.”
Drew slides his hand over, palm up, for me to take if I want to. And I do. His skin is firm and warm. His grip is reassuring.
