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Davis
It took me another week before I grew some balls and shot Merrick a text, asking if wanted to run with me.
He didn’t answer until the following morning, a simple, “Yeah. See you at nine.”
As has become the norm lately, I was up around three, and have done nothing but pace and drink coffee since then. I have no idea what to expect from him. Most likely I’m going to get a bunch of pity looks, much like those I received when I returned to work the week following Charlotte’s death. For the record, I hate pity. If you’re sorry for me, say so and move on. If you don’t know what to say to me, say that too. But a bunch of “poor Davis” looks will do nothing more than push me away.
I wonder what Merrick thinks of me. I’m sure there’s a healthy dose of pity he’s feeling now that he knows most of my story. Part of me wishes that night had never happened, at least then he’d look at me and see nothing more than a very closed off man, rather than the pathetic wimp I’m certain he now sees me as.
This is a mistake. I should have just cut my losses. I’ve managed to survive many, many years without a friend by my side; relying only on myself and never needing to confide in anyone. That said, I should have no issue with going back to my life pre-Merrick. I should, but I can’t seem to imagine it.
In such a short amount of time he’s come to dominate my thoughts. He’s brought a sense of normalcy to my life, given me someone to count on, and made me laugh again. Without him knowing, he’s pulled me out of the downward spiral I was on. Pulled me out of the bottle I was bound to lose myself in eventually. Weirdness aside, I am grateful. He has managed to give me something I needed without realizing it: hope.
At eight-thirty I pull on running clothes and stretch out the kinks. At eight forty-five I’m back to pacing, watching the clock, and counting the minutes. I’m nervous. I have no idea what to expect from him, especially since he’s done nothing to try to communicate with me in the past few weeks.
I’m such an idiot. I’m over-exaggerating the entire thing. Most likely he’s been busy with work or his other friends. Chances are, this friendship with me isn’t all I’m making it out to be.
By the time nine rolls around and I’m stepping out onto the front porch, I’m regretting ever contacting him. My stomach is in knots, my head hurts, and there’s this weird pain in the center of my chest that I can’t describe. It isn’t until I look up to see him standing on the sidewalk in front of my house that all my ailments fade away, and suddenly I’m grinning like an idiot.
Don’t do that. What are you, stupid?
The smile slides from my face as I walk toward him, offering a nod and a mumbled, “Hey man.”
“Good morning.” He looks me over as I move closer, eyes widening with surprise at whatever he sees on my face. “Ready?”
I nod again. “Yep.”
In contrast to other runs, this one is silent. I keep pace behind him and try to will my body to relax into it. We keep to one of our usual courses—through Cannery Row and down to the park—and when we stop for water he tries to engage me in conversation.
“How’ve you been?”
“Fine.”
“How’s work?”
“Fine.”
He frowns as he takes another sip from the drinking fountain, then takes a step toward me with an outstretched hand. My instinct is to recoil, back away and bristle. When I do, surprise washes over his face, and something that looks like pain flits through his blue eyes. Silently he nods once as if to say “I get the message”, and takes off running back the way we came.
By the time we reach home, my stomach is once more rolling uneasily, and the pain has returned to my head and chest. Out of the corner of my eye I watch him walk in circles, head down, ignoring me completely. I sure as hell can’t blame the guy; I’m so all over the board emotionally that I can’t even control my own reactions.
“I’ve got errands to run.” He says the words to the ground, each one punctuated by a hollow surrender, as if he’s come to the same conclusion I have: we’re better off as casual neighbors than friends. “No time for lunch.”
The pain in my chest grows exponentially, and the bottom drops out of my stomach with the knowledge that I’ve done irreparable damage to a friendship that has become my lifeline. “Sure. Yeah.”
Merrick gives me a hostile, sideways glance, but remains silent and goes right back to his circular pacing. I know he’s lying, and even though I can’t blame him, I’m still pissed. All the heightened emotions of that night have now faded into nothingness. The trust I placed in him that night has vanished too. This friendship I thought we had, now nothing more than an inconvenient and annoying after-effect.
“I’ll see ya.” I start to move away, head home, when I feel his fingers wrap around my wrist, halting my movement. Slowly, I turn to face him, yanking my arm away and shoving my hands into the pockets of my shorts. “What?”
His hostility is now gone, and genuine worry has taken its place. It’s written all over his face, as his pleading blue eyes find mine. In them I see the same care and concern I did that night. I don’t see the pity that I expect, or the annoyance he’s shown me since the beginning of our run. I see only the man I once called a friend.
“Davis? Are you…are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Yes, you’ve said.” At my questioning look, he states, “I’ve been worried about you.”
“No need. I’m fine.”
