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Logically, I know I need to blink. But I can’t. I stare, peel-eyed, at the message I just sent.
My eyes burn, staring at the space below my sent message. Waiting to see if she’ll respond to what definitely looks like the ramblings of the very unhinged. I want you? That’s how I end the worst apology ever?
I wonder if I can get to her phone before she does. If I can somehow delete the message. All the messages. Her memory. Starting at the airport. Up to and including this, the worst text message on record. Everything that has ever happened between us, except for that kiss. That kiss that we shared right here in my living room. On this couch.
I curl myself into a ball and pull a pillow over my head.
Primal scream therapy is definitely underrated. I yell nonsense into my pillow until I feel—not better, exactly—a bit less deranged.
I’m not relaxed, but I’m calm enough to assess the situation. First thing, being my own hype-man, self-talking myself out of my little roadside detours into despair? It works. But it’s not for public consumption. Unless the person on the other side of the conversation is Hank—or my therapist—it comes out badly. Very arrogant. Very condescending. Very, very wrong.
I try for just a minute to remember all the things I said to myself in the old chapel this morning. I hope it wasn’t as bad as I think it was, but there is not a chance it’s less bad than I think it was.
It was awful. Every positive thing I told myself must have felt like a total cut to Joey. Each of my affirmations had to come across like a comparison. If I told myself I was strong, she had to feel weak. And then I just kept it coming. And I made it personal.
I am the worst.
And then. Then, not only did I screw up the apology, I objectified her. And admitted way too much. So much I wish I could take back. Now. Because she has already decided to follow the rules.
I get up off the couch and head for the door. At the entryway, I check my reflection in the mirror.
No way am I leaving the house for an important performance like this looking this way. I head to my room for a wardrobe change and a few minutes of hair repair. I stand in the closet looking between my favorite button-up (says “put together, ironed but not starched, classy”) and a T-shirt with a flannel open over it (says “approachable, warm, charming in a guy-next-door way”).
I go with the button-up.
When I get to Joey’s apartment, I don’t even wait to catch my breath before I knock on her door. I’m so relieved when it opens, I almost reach my arms out to offer a hug to Ginger. She gets the full intensity of my words. “I’m so sorry. Please ignore any stupid texts from me.” I spew out this much before I catch myself.
Ginger could not look more unimpressed. Her eyebrows are raised practically into her hairline. If that expression were captioned, it would say, “Seriously? You think you get to say anything?”
So either Ginger knows what I said to Joey (but really only to myself) today, or she just stands assured that I don’t deserve to speak. Fair enough. Either way.
I take a step back. Joey’s head appears to the side of Ginger, and I try to send telepathic messages of humility and repentance. Joey’s face is impassive. She doesn’t look angry. She doesn’t look welcoming, either. She’s a perfectly blank slate.
Ginger finally speaks. “I didn’t get any texts from you lately, stupid or otherwise, so I guess you didn’t mean to blurt that at me.” She turns to Joey, squeezes her hand, and walks past me and away.
Leaving me here with Joey. Which is what I came for—to talk to Joey. But now I can’t remember any of my lines.
I have no lines.
I stand in her doorway, staring, with that horrible feeling of ruining a scene because I can’t remember what I’m supposed to say.
“Do you have a minute?” I ask. It comes out in a whisper.
“Did you iron that shirt before you came over here?”
I glance down. “It was already ironed,” I say, knowing exactly how I sound. I force myself to relax a bit, because I’m pretty sure that shoulders-up-to-my-ears isn’t a great look on me.
“You like to be prepared for your big moments,” she says. It’s not a question, but I feel like I need to answer.
Nothing comes to mind.
I stare at her, that expressionless mask on her face, and wish I could roll back time.
That’s it.
“Can I have a do-over?” I ask.
“For which part?” she shoots back so quickly that I know it was the right thing to say.
“Everything between the breakfast cookies and the last four seconds.”
“That’s a lot of territory,” she says, but she steps away from the door and motions me inside.
