After I shut the door and let the shower warm up, I send Greta a quick text.
Me: All good. Got a room at La Quinta. Gonna shower and crash.
I’m hoping she’s already asleep and will see it in the morning and know we’re okay.
I strip off my clothes and take the hottest shower the Broussard La Quinta can give me. And after a day spent in airports and on tarmacs, stewing in my own stress, it feels damn good to be clean.
When I towel off, I see that Greta’s replied.
Greta: Are you okay, babe?
The question is like a balm to my nerves. I wrap the towel around my waist and text back.
Me: Yeah. Tired, but I’m solid, baby. You?
She sends me a head exploding emoji that has me chuckling as I brush my teeth.
And then.
Greta: Thank you. You don’t know what this means to me.
Something bright and searing slices through me. Gratitude is nice and all, but I want so much more from her that my teeth ache. I want her to need me. To love me.
Get it together, Rousseau.
I want to talk to her about where we stand, but now for sure isn’t the time. And if we’re not on the same page, I’m definitely not in the right headspace to deal with it tonight.
Me: It’s all good. Get some sleep. I’ll call in the morning.
Her response is a shortokay.I don’t try to read anything into it. I open the bathroom door and switch off the light.
Josh is already lying in the bed closest to the window. He’s under the covers, but he’s on his back, staring at the ceiling.
I climb into the empty bed and flip off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into an unnatural darkness. No starlight. No moonlight.
Instead of crickets and frog songs, I hear the rumble of eighteen wheelers and the squeak of brakes on Highway 90.
Man, this sucks.
And I can’t help it. I want to know.
“Why’d you do it, Josh? Why’d you leave like that?”
He’s quiet for a while, but I know he heard me. If he doesn’t answer, fine. I can live without answers.
“I thought it was the only way to stop the pain… Short of offing myself, anyway.”
I swear into the darkness. “Why didn’t you fucking say something?” The anger is swift and white hot.
Josh’s sigh is colossal.
“Because the only time I felt okay—feel okay—is when I’m drinking.” Silence stretches, but I wait for him to say more. I don’t trust my tongue anyway. “Meds don’t work. Quitting Amazon didn’t work. Nothing else works. Figured the best I could get would be to chill on a beach for the rest of my life, keeping a steady buzz and holding my shit together that way.”
I mentally palm my forehead. He honestly saw that as a legit option. And he chose to let us bankroll that fantasy. His girlfriend and his best friend. Jesus Christ.
I grit my teeth. Do I even want to know?Fuck it.
“And what made you come back?” I grind out.
