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Her anger ispalpable. It’s scorching; like, if two volcanoes erupted on the surface of the sun and I was dipped face-first into it all, itmightburn as much as what’s coming off her. The room seems to get several degrees hotter.
Even as my body goes cold.
“I can’t believe I let you lull me in like this,” she says, still in that calm, terrifying voice. “I actually thought there was somedepthto you. You even had me going with that sob story you told me last night.”
That hurts. It’s a knife in my heart. I open my mouth to speak, but my throat closes up on me.
It doesn’t matter. Natalie’s not done. Her eyes burn into mine as she says, “You are shallow. You are a drunk. You are a player.” With each accusation, she backs me up. “You are insecure, and you are a child playing with grown-up feelings. Playing withmyfeelings. But, most of all, you are a goddamnasshole!”
She shoves me and I stumble backward, finding myself in my bathroom. The tiles are cold against my feet. I stagger as I try to catch my balance. No sooner do I have it than she slams the door shut so hard I fear the mirror behind it is going to shatter.
I lean my head against the door. “Natalie? Natalie?”
No answer.
I sink into the seat of the toilet, my head in my hands. I can hear her stomping around out in the bedroom. What a pathetic picture I must paint. Me, in my boxers, moping on the john in one of the fanciest bathrooms in New York City, while the girl I’m crazy about rages around on the other side of the bathroom door.
Let me tell you, I feel supremely stupid.
It was stupid to go out that night. Stupid to get so drunk and high. Of course, pictures were going to be taken. Of course, someone was going to try and blackmail me with them. I have no idea who sent the texts to Natalie — whether it’s her ex-husband or Jared Barron or whoever.
But it doesn’t matter. That sort of thing was inevitable, wasn’t it? For all the comforts and luxuries I have, I still live and operate in a cruel, ruthless world.
What was even stupider than my behavior that night though? My behaviorlast night. It was stupid to trust Natalie. You’d think I’d learn from Tabitha, right? But, no, I had to go ahead and open myself up once again.
Maybe I should go out there and give her a piece of my mind. But what would be the point? Why prolong the agony? That’s not my sort of drama.
Love is a trap. That’s a certainty. The only variable is how long it takes before she springs it on you, how much damage it does, and what limb you have to gnaw off to escape.
The same feelings run through me once again – confusion, hurt, helplessness. Who needs these feelings in their life?
I sure as shit don’t.
I breathe deeply in and out, willing myself to calm down, to let the anger, and surprise, and disappointment go. Eventually, it does.
What’s left is a hollow emptiness. Thing is, I know how to fill hollowness. I do it all the time. I can only imagine the sorts of pictures that are going to circulate as I work to fill up this latest vacuum.
After several minutes, I hear the front door of the penthouse slam shut downstairs. I wait another few minutes, wondering if she’ll return, either to apologize or to rail against me some more.
There’s only silence.
Finally, I grab the knob of the bathroom door and brace myself for the destruction she no doubt left in her wake.
I open the door a crack and peek out, expecting the worst.
Except, to my surprise… everything is fine. Neat. Opening the bathroom door wide, I see she even made the goddamn bed. That throws me for a loop. Is there such a thing as rage-straightening-up?
The shirt of mine that she was wearing is lying at the foot of the bed. She folded it very precisely. It’s folded like in a store. I’ve never been able to fold a shirt that neatly. It’s like sartorial origami.
A note sits on top of the shirt. I walk to the foot of my bed to stare at it. It’s folded over, with my name spelled out in her large, loopy handwriting.
My hopes rise a little. For all her accusations of my shallowness, it’s not likeshe’sthe mostcommunicative person when it comes to difficult emotions. I mean, I confessed my feelings for her last night and she answered by blowing me. It was aheartfeltblowjob, as those things go, but still. She didn’t spout poetry or anything.
Carefully, as if it were wired to explode, I lift up the note. I hesitate before opening it.
I figure, after she calmed down, she saw how unreasonable she was being. Rather than face me and risk us getting into another altercation, or another emotional confession, she must have scribbled this note of apology or explanation. To kind of lay the groundwork for our future reconciliation.
Nope.
I open the note to find a very brief, but very clear message —
“Fuck you.”
