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Mason
Now…
I swear a psychologist would have a fucking field day with me.
Just downstairs, just twenty or so stairs away, there was a fully stocked kitchen. Aurnia was to thank for that. Apparently a diet of whiskey and Cheez-Its could be improved upon. I knew for a fact that there was toast, eggs, bacon, English muffins, jams of several varieties, butter, frozen waffles, raisin muffins, and fresh fruits including strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, kiwis, and cantaloupe. I knew this because after Aurnia’s weekly grocery deliveries there was no fucking room for whiskey and Cheez-Its.
What I’m trying to say is that there was no reason to even leave the house the next morning. Within crawling distance was a plethora of breakfast options. A veritable feast at our feet. Anything and everything we could possibly want practically at our fingertips, if our fingertips simply rolled out of bed.
Maybe you can explain the fact that I decided to ignore the fully stocked kitchen and set out into the early morning dawn because of laziness. It’s true that the closest I would ever get to being a chef was prying open a can of Batchelors beans with a switchblade because I never bothered learning how to use a can opener (I mean, you can’t defend yourself in my neighbourhood with a can opener…). Fine. Sure. Reasonable enough.
But it doesn’t stop there. Because despite the fact that our neighbourhood is crime-riddled and poor as shite, it has some damn good food. Within walking distance was a pub that served all-day Irish breakfast, an all-night restaurant with melt-in-your-mouth crepes, and a hole-in-the-wall bakery that served these criminally wicked cinnamon donuts. I could have picked any of these places and been back to Dublin Ink, back upstairs to Rachel in less than thirty minutes.
So find me a shrink to tell me why I instead felt the need to cross over to the bus stop at the end of the street for a bus I knew wasn’t coming for nearly twenty minutes. Find me someone with an advanced degree who can tell me why I hauled my ass all the way across town. Figure out who out there can solve the riddle of why I was gone almost three hours just to bring back home breakfast that wasn’t even very good. And cold by the time I turned the key in the lock.
Or maybe I don’t need a shrink at all to tell me. Maybe you don’t need any education at all to put two and two together. Maybe a fool knew exactly why I was being such an eejit. Maybe I knew full fucking well what the shite I was doing.
If only I could be honest with myself…
With the bag of cold, soggy breakfast food, I climbed the stairs slowly. My ears strained for any hint of a sound. I paused on each step. Waited for the creaking to stop. Leaned forward, trying to hear something. Anything. I thought I already knew. I thought the silence was already my answer.
Because it could be the only answer.
I continued up the stairs with memories of the night before haunting me. Taunting me in the silence. I shifted the plastic bag to my other hand just to hear something other than that terrible silence.
I’d given Rachel time. Time to leave. Just like before, time to leave. Time to take her out. Time to escape. Just like before. I was sure, absolutely sure that she had taken it once more.
That’s the kind of twisted fuck I was. Because the five minutes it would take to go downstairs and toast, butter, and jam an English muffin wasn’t enough. She’d know. I’d hear her at the door. I’d catch her as she tried to slip through unnoticed. She’d have to face me. She’d have to see my face as I asked without a word, “Why?”
Thirty minutes was right on the fence.
Thirty minutes meant she would be unsure. I knew. And she knew. I could see her: tense in the bed. Ears straining like mine were straining down the hallway. Thinking, “Had he just gone down the block? What if he was already on his way back?” Not wanting to run into me out on the sidewalk. Not wanting to bump into each other around the corner, me with an armful of breakfast burritos, her with a suitcase dragged behind her. Not wanting to have to see me. To explain to me. To fucking explain to me.
But three hours was safe. After an hour she’d crack open the blinds. Check the street outside. She’d pace for a bit. Chew at her fingernails probably. A bad habit. She’d hesitate for another fifteen minutes or so. Unsure. Wanting to be sure. I knew. And she knew. But even if she waited till the two-hour mark. Just to be sure. Just to be safe. Even if she was so cautious as to wait two hours, I’d still left her with nearly fifty minutes. Nearly fifty minutes to leave me.
Like she’d left me before. Like she would leave me again and again. Like she would always leave me.
The hallway was silent as I tiptoed down it. I didn’t move quickly because I was sure what I would see. I didn’t move slowly because there was no avoiding it now, now was there?
I stopped just outside my bedroom door. Just out of eyeshot of the bed. I remembered the stripped mattress in Rachel’s abandoned place. Left on the floor. Crooked. Pathetic without sheets. Cold without her. I told myself that I knew what I would see when I rounded the corner. I told myself it was alright. I hadn’t set myself to be hurt the way I had all those years ago.
I’d protected myself…hadn’t I?
Maybe that’s what made me hesitate. Not that I was afraid of what I would see. But that I was afraid of how open I’d left my heart. It frightened me how quickly I’d let down my guard the night before. How easily I’d bared myself to Rachel. I was afraid that I’d let her in too much. Enough to feel the emptiness in my stomach when I laid eyes on the empty bed in the empty room.
I sucked in a breath and turned into my bedroom. There it was. Just as I knew. There it was. Just like before, I’d left her time to leave and she’d taken it. Jumped at it. Refused to miss her chance.
I resisted the urge to throw the bag of breakfast across the room. I clenched my fists to keep myself from punching a hole into the wall. I wanted to kick things, break things, tear things in two. But I couldn’t. I absolutely couldn’t. Because if I did, it meant that it was just like before. I’d have to admit she’d hurt me again. That I’d let her hurt me again.
And I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. I had to tell myself I was stronger this time. Even if I knew it was a fucking lie.
I was shaking against the door frame, straining to control my twitching muscles, when the bathroom door opened.
“I’m glad you’re back,” Rachel said around a toothbrush. “I’m fucking starving.”
I stared at the empty bed. Stared at her. Rachel raised a quizzical eye as my wild gaze darted between the two: the empty bed and her. The cold and the warmth. The absent and the present.
“You’re still here,” I said, almost laughing in disbelief.
