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“I’m too tired to play games,” I say.
“So now I just have to get you to trust me.”
“I don’t want to talk about this right now.” I sit up, already feeling my heart rate pick up at the thought of him marrying Elodie and being in servitude to their parents for the rest of their lives. I don’t want to think about how fucking tempted I am to spend all his parents’ money either. Not because I’m some con artist, but because I just want to be that asshole.
“Can we talk about it, though? Soon? I’m serious about this, Drew. I want to be with you—all the time—and I want us to figure out how to make it work.”
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly as I pull out a clean pair of boxer briefs from the dresser and make sure they’re mine before I head back into the shower.
“We’re running out of time,” he says.
“Yeah, I get that.”
“Are you saying you don’t want this?” He makes a vague gesture between us.
“No.” At least I don’t think that’s what I’m saying. Is it possible to hate the idea of someone but be in love with the actual person? It seems like love stories that start out like that always end badly. Romeo and Juliet for example. “What if it just can’t work, though?”
He huffs out an indignant breath. “The only reason it wouldn’t work is if you keep being impossible. Is it always about pride with you?”
“I think I can safely say it’s not always about pride. But if we’re not talking about sex and we’re talking about the actual future, then yeah—I guess my pride does get involved.”
“You know what sucks, Drew?”
“What?”
“I can literally see how much you want to take a fucking break. That’s what all this shit about leaving town is about, you know? You’ve put yourself under all this pressure, and you’re burned out. I might not offer much in the way of intellectual conversation, but what I can offer you is some time off even if it’s just to sleep for two weeks, or regroup, or punch a bag, I don’t care, but you can’t afford this place. You kinda like me or whatever, your job makes you ragey and bitter, and you don’t have anything else lined up at the moment. You can think of it like you won a vacation if it makes you feel better.”
I glare at him, the sensation of being so fully perceived totally alien to me. I don’t like it. And I don’t like him very much right now either. I respect the hell out of him, though. “Sounds like you’ve got me all figured out.”
I slam myself into the bathroom after that, taking a quick shower, shaving my face and running a nickel-sized dollop of gel through my hair while everything he said to me grows roots in my brain.
Olivier is fully dressed and sitting on the edge of the bed when I come back into the bedroom. His hands are folded, his head is tilted slightly downward, and he’s looking up at me. “You need more don’t you?”
“Jesus—can we not?”
“I’m determined,” he says.
“I see that, but now’s not really the time. I need to get to work.”
“Great, then we’re heading the same direction. Circling back, what would ‘more’ look like to you.”
I want to answer that question. There are answers to it, I’m sure. But even the logical ones popping up in the still functioning part of my brain get knocked over and dismissed by the cloud taking over my entire psyche.
Nothing would help. Nothing would make this better. Because the problem isn’t Olivier trying to make me stay and make me happy. The problem is my inability to be happy about anything—to envision a future for myself with any pleasure in it whatsoever.
Lesson learned: great sex is not the cure for depression. It’s the equivalent of taking morphine for a broken arm. It takes the edge off, but in the end, the bone’s still broken. “Do you really want to be involved with me?” I ask instead.
“I thought we covered this.”
“But you never really said why, and that’s what I’m getting at. I’m not fishing for compliments here, but ever since you’ve met me, I’ve been in this sinkhole. I’m really, really depressed, Olivier, and I have trouble thinking beyond right now. It’s so much easier for me to tell you every reason it won’t work than imagine one single way it could. Because everything I picture in terms of a future is flawed. Like I’m so deep in this hole, I can’t imagine a life outside it.”
“Ah… Maybe we find you a psychiatrist then.”
“Jesus.” I sigh and turn my back to him to get dressed.
“Who have you talked to about this?” he asks, undeterred.
“You. Jericho.”
