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“No, it’s — it’s been aweek. I don’t know what that makes us. But I know I look forward to our dinners and, our, whatever.” I want to saysleeping beside you and waking up beside you, but for some reason, I can’t. ‘Whatever’ has to do.
Except, of course it doesn’t.
“Our ‘whatever’?”
“Why does this have to be a big thing?” I burst out. “What’s wrong with me helping you out because I feel good whenever we’re together?”
“Because what happens if your feelings change?” she stands up, defiantly. “What happens to me then?”
“I don’t know, I haven’t thought that far ahead!”
“Well, I have! Because I have to. I don’t have your luxury, so, I need to know what this is.”
I stay silent. This argument is not what I want. I don’t want to fight. Someone will inevitably say something they’ll regret. If we haven’t already. I toss the towel aside and grab my coat from where I flung it over a chair when I arrived.
“Where are you going?” she demands.
“I don’t want to fight,” I mutter.
“So, you’re gonna take your fancy ass upstairs and just avoid it altogether?”
“Exactly. One of the ‘luxuries’ of having a ‘fancy ass’ to begin with.”
I’m out the door. I try to take out my frustration on the elevator button. Every second it takes for the elevator to arrive is another second one of us might continue the fight. Finally, it rescues me from her floor, and in seconds, deposits me to mine.
I hop in the shower. I’m seething and I hope this does the trick. I let the water wash down my bare back. Down my front. I stick my face in the stream. I still feel the rage and confusion.
In addition to the shower head, there are six other spouts. I turn them all to the highest setting and let the water blast me. It stings, but it manages to lessen the sting of our confrontation.
I step out of the shower and vigorously dry my hair. My phone, on the sink counter, buzzes. I can see Natalie’s number come up on the screen. I ignore it and she doesn’t message. One glance tells me she’s already left one and also sent about five other texts. I don’t read them. If I do, I might be tempted to respond.
Any calming effect the shower had are quickly undone.
I wrap the towel around my waist and stomp into my study. Forget the whiskey. It’s a scotch night. I pour a healthy glass of aged-twenty-three-years single malt. Immediately, I toss it back. The smoky, peaty flavor fills my mouth and burns just the right amount going down.
I settle on a couch, still in my towel, bottle and glass both in hand. I pour myself another. Then another. And another.
By the time I stumble naked into bed, I am good and pissed. I let my head sink deep into my pillow as the world spins around me, and the inevitable drunken doubts parade through my mind.
Why did I run away?
“Ha,” I exclaim out loud to my dark, empty, spinning room. Then I mutter, slurring the words, “Maybe because you’re afraid you’re falling in love with her.”
The idea hangs in the air.
I pass out.
