Did you leave?2hrs ago
Where are you 2hrs ago
Where’d you go2hrs ago
I respond to the most current message, to let know him I'm fine. I feel a bit juvenile by not answering him in person, especially with his obvious presence outside my building, but I just can't listen to him right now. If he still wants to talk tomorrow I'll call him, but not tonight.
I open the app and keep my eyes on the small keyboard that appears.
I’m fine, safe and sound. No worries.
I'll speak with you tomorrow.
I hit send, the buzzing in my apartment stops almost immediately. My phone vibrates in my hand before the screen darkens.I see in the still open app.
WHERE ARE YOU ARE YOU HOME
OPEN THE DOOR
I'm confused. I want to open the door but know I shouldn't. I don't think my heart can handle just a few short days or weeks with Beau. Would it really be worth the broken heart I'd undoubtedly be left with? My phone brightens again, and I see the first portion.
Let me explain I...now
I'm feel myself begin to give in. I walk over to the intercom. I stand by it a moment or two, breathing quietly. I depress the buzzer, letting him in.
I turn on a lamp in the living room as I make my way to the kitchen to start my coffee maker, thankful tomorrow is Sunday, and I don't have to be at work. The water heats up, filling my silent studio. I hear Beau’s thundering footsteps heading up the stairs. I sigh.
He knocks softly on my door.
I walk to the door, relieved to see that even in my state I remembered to lock it. I turn the few deadbolts and slide the security chain, then pull down on the handle, allowing him in. I turn my back and walk to the kitchen before he enters.
I grab a k-cup from my decaf stash and lock it in place. I turn around to grab a mug from the cradle. Beau looks irritated, his posture stiff with his lips pressed into a tight line. For the first time, his anger makes me nervous. I turn my back to him, placing the cup under the drip.
I walk over to my bed and retrieve my phone to use as a safety net. It's been hours since I left his place, and I don't want to know what he's been doing. If he stayed...I let the thought train off, not particularly interested in exploring it, but it returns. I think back to the alcohol in the fridge and Tasha. I don’t like the combination or what state it may speak to him being in now.
He watches me, not say anything. I grab creamer from the fridge and my mug a bit forcefully, causing a bit of coffee to spill over the side. I hiss as the coffee splashes on my hand. Beau moves forward, but I wave him off and fill the mug to the tip top with french vanilla creamer. I grab a spoon and stir it gently, careful not to spill it again. When I'm done, I look up at Beau. I raise my brows as I take a sip to let him know I'm waiting on him to explain. He disappoints.
"Why didn't you answer my messages or the door?" He questions, his voice gravely like he hasn't used it in a while or has been yelling. The second possibility worries me.
I follow a drip of coffee with my thumb stopping it before it can land on the counter, "I—was—sleeping." I enunciate every word slowly. I’m annoyed and beyond caring if I sound patronizing.
He scowls and curses under his breath, then says, "When did you get home?" It's a demand more than it is a question.
I set my cup down, "Are you freaking kidding me?" I bark, "I got home a little after eleven. Not that it's your concern or business.” I glare at him, folding my arms around my chest, “What the fuck? You wake me up at almost three o'clock in the morning, buzzing at my door, lighting up my phone with messages, and when I do let you in, hoping you will explain to me why a trip to get a change of clothes ended with a naked women in your arms, you’re the one interrogating me, giving me the third degree." I scoff.
Unbothered by my outburst, he asks, "What took you so long to get home? Where'd you go?"
My eyes get big because he's seriously asking me this shit, "I gave you my night run through, now I want a fucking explanation." I throw my hands in the air at his absurdity, his face darkens and his hands fist. I step back, "I went for a walk." I reply quietly, hesitant and trying to predict his response. This angers me. I am acting the same way I did when I was a teen. I have every right to feel safe in my own studio.
"Unfuckingbelieveable!" I say, bewildered. It comes out on a long exhale. I’m exhausted.
I walk around him and open the door to show him out. It doesn't matter. I want him gone, even if there is no way I'm falling back asleep after this conversation.
"Fuck," he spits, slamming his hands on the counter and drops his head down in defeat. "It's Tasha's apartment. She said I could stay as long as I wanted.”
“Now you want to explain?” I roll my eyes but close the door as there is little sense in bringing in a draft with him obviously staying put where he is. I still keep my distance.
He turns to me, tilting his head back to look up to the ceiling. He explains, “She’s usually in California this time of year." He pauses and inhales deeply, "We had a relationship on and off over the past couple years." Beau shuffles around looking everywhere but at me, ashamed. "She's the reason I came to New York."
