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But… With a sigh, I accepted it.
Slipping it over my head to try it on for size, I shuddered through a strange tingle of awareness as brass tubing wrapped around me like a big, clunky hug. I glanced wearily at the enormous bell that would blare sound right beside my ear. But then I slipped my fingers over the valves as if they’d always known where to go.
And I became a tuba player.
28
Wick
Not gonna lie; I woke up extra early the next morning, straining under Haven and beyond ready for her to open her eyes, smile at me, and commence to fucking me any and every way she so pleased. I even arched up my hips, pressing my morning wood against her insistently, trying to remind her that, hey, here it was, ready and waiting for action.
But all she did was grumble out a groan, roll off me, and turn onto her side, facing away from me.
Rejected.
Suffice to say, she didn’t wake up refreshed and hangover-free, seeking me out for that crazy, awesome sex she’d been so intent on getting the night before.
Ignoring the disappointment, I sighed—because what the hell else had I really been expecting—and I crawled from her bed, leaving some water and ibuprofen on her nightstand for her before I took care of myself with a steamy, very soapy and lonely, thirty-minute shower.
Before I left the apartment, I checked in on her to find her still asleep, but the cap had been removed on the ibuprofen bottle, and half the water in the glass was gone. Glad she’d taken care of herself at least that much, I ate some breakfast—half a grapefruit and wheat toast—and left for the day.
When I returned home that evening after practice, she was stretched out on the couch and watching Night Court on the television in the front room. Her hair was up in a sloppy ponytail and she wore a large, baggy shirt and equally loose flannel pants. From the scattered food on the coffee table in front of her, it looked as if she’d skipped class and stayed home all day to binge-watch the show.
I paused, tipping my head to the side as I glanced at it a moment. “How’d you find this on TV?”
“Amazon Prime,” was her only answer.
“Hmm.” I nodded before turning my attention back to her.
When she said nothing else, just stared dead-eyed at the screen, I figured she didn’t feel like talking. This was obviously a down day for her. So I left her to it. Retreating to my room, I worked on homework. Then I helped a few of my pupils with math tutoring. When I left the room to make myself some supper, I popped my head into the front to ask if she wanted some food too.
Her answer was, “No, thanks,” as she kept staring at the television.
I watched her a minute longer, wondering if she was being so brief with me because of the night before. Was she embarrassed about throwing herself at me when she was drunk? Was she worried I expected something from her now?
I must’ve stood there long enough for her to realize how worried I was. She looked my way.
“I really, really don’t want to talk about what they did to me,” she said.
They. Realizing her mood had nothing to do with what had happened between us, I nodded and left her alone. Hell, she probably didn’t even remember our conversation as I carried her to bed last night. It stung a little that our byplay hadn’t even registered, but then again, she had a mountain of other shit to deal with at the moment, so I forced it from my mind too.
Night Court was still running when I went to bed, the volume turned down to a respectable level so it wouldn’t bother me, but I was bothered, anyway, worried about her. She’d been so upset last night. Had I handled it okay? What if something I’d done had caused her to spiral like
this? Should I have done something different, something more? I hated not knowing what the best thing to do was in order to help her.
She was miserable, and I knew what it felt like to be miserable. I didn’t want her to go through that. But I didn’t intercede; it didn’t seem like my place.
When I woke the next morning, all was quiet. So I was surprised to find her camped out and asleep under a throw blanket on the couch in the darkened front room when I passed through to leave for school.
She was still there on the couch when I returned that evening as if she hadn’t left the cushions all day. Awake and watching more Night Court, she wore the same outfit as she had the day before, with her hair just a little more distressed. The pile of food wrappers and cups on the coffee table in front of her seemed to have grown exponentially.
I left her be and retreated to my room so I wouldn’t bother her.
The next day, same pattern.
By Friday evening, I sat on the couch and silently watched two or three episodes of Night Court with her. She didn’t ignore me, but she didn’t speak to me either. At one point, she offered me some of the popcorn from the big tub where she was eating. I declined. She shrugged and went back to munching and staring.
A while later, I stood up, stretched, and went to bed.
