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Ninety percent of the time, Nova is a sane and reasonable woman. I have always been exceedingly clear that this is not a relationship and, ninety percent of the time, she is in agreement. It’s the other ten percent of the time that’s the problem.
Like now.
“Nova,” I try to interrupt her rant that slips between English and Russian. “Nova, listen to me. I don’t want to do this anymore.”
I pull the phone away from my ear at her high pitched scream. Dante’s eyes go wide, and his shoulders rock in laughter at my predicament. I don’t think he’s ever spent more than one night with the same woman, so this is hilarious to him.
“Stop yelling.”
She does not stop yelling. I’m going to have to talk over her.
“Nova, I need you to hear me. We can’t do this anymore. We don’t want the same things. I’ve told you this.”
Dante makes the motions of playing a fake violin.
Nova is now crying.
“No, we don’t. I’m sorry, Nova. That’s not going to happen.” I try to combat every point she makes, and I’m trying not to be a dick, but my patience with this is running out. Lately, every few months, it’s the same thing. “We are never getting married.”
“Married?” Dante blurts out in horror, and I kick his foot.
“Shut the fuck up,” I mouth at him.
“You don’t love me. You don’t even know me, Nova.” Nova’s well acquainted with my dick, but that’s about it. “Okay, well, I am not in love with you, and I never will be,” I clarify when she doesn’t accept my first argument.
A stream of Russian profanity courses through the line. I don’t want to be cruel, but this has to stop. This is why I don’t touch anything that even resembles a relationship anymore.
“Nova, it’s over. For good. Stop calling, don’t show up. It’s over. Do you understand?”
When an ear-piercing “fuck you” reverberates through my phone and the line goes dead, I assume she finally understands. I toss my phone back onto the coffee table and pray it’s quiet for the rest of the evening.
“Jesus,” I groan.
“She’s going to cut your balls off, man,” Dante laughs. “This about the brown-eyed girl?” This has been Dante’s nickname for Emily since she started at Imperium as if she’s the Van Morrison song.
I haven’t heard that in years.
“No, this is about Nova being a bunny boiler.”
That’s at least half-true, anyway. This isn’t the first time she’s brought up getting married. We’ve never so much as gone on a date, it’s ridiculous for a multitude of reasons. But especially because I’ve long since given up on the concept.
I haven’t had an emotional connection with anyone since I left home, since I left Emily. I tried, for a while, then I gave up. Sex was sex. I’m not going to deny I’ve had a lot of fun, but that extra layer was never there again.
At some point, it didn’t even make the loneliness go away anymore, either.
Dante checks his watch, “I’m out of here, you coming?”
The sun is down, and the stars are just starting to come out. I just want to sit here alone in the quiet for a little bit before I leave for the hotel. “Go ahead, I’ll catch you later.”
Dante leaves, and I lie down on the couch, put my arms behind my head, and watch the stars above me start to twinkle and come out for the night. I used to do this a lot and think about it being the same sky that Emily was under somewhere else in the world. She could see the same thing I was if she were doing the same.
I reach behind me to stuff a throw pillow under my head, and something hard falls out. It hits the deck next to the couch with a thud. Glancing over the couch, I pick it up—Emily’s Kindle. I know it’s hers because she has a black leather cover on it that makes it look like an antique book.
Back on the sofa, I arrange my pillow and lie back down. Let’s see what Emily’s reading. It’ll probably be tales of organic chemistry or a how-to book on splitting atoms for fun and leisure.
I flip open the cover, and the on-screen book advertisement is a sweaty naked dude’s torso, “Abs of Thunder—Marcus Wolf is a wealthy playboy, and he takes what he pleases in this 5-star steamy series of office bad boys.”
I laugh to myself, fucking Amazon.
