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The shower just makes me tired again, and I avoid the temptation to crawl back into bed. When I do finally come out of the bedroom in a clean pair of jeans and a semi-clean T-shirt, EmersonfuckingGrant is standing at my kitchen sink with his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows as he loads my dishwasher.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I mutter, rubbing my temple.
“Feel better?”
“Not even a little bit,” I reply coldly. “Will you please, for the love of God, stop cleaning my kitchen?”
“No. Now tell me about Mia.”
When I smell the aroma of coffee, I cross the room and pour myself a cup. It’s not vodka, but it’s the second-best thing.
“I’ll give you one guess,” I grumble.
“She figured out you were the man behind the profile.”
“Yep,” I reply with a sarcastic grin, holding up my coffee cup.
“Have you apologized?”
“I tried, but come on…I don’t deserve her forgiveness. It’s over. I let it go, and so should you.” Taking my coffee cup over to the barstool, I sit in the same spot she sat in that night. The memory of the promises we made hits like a tidal wave.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and when he looks at me this time, it doesn’t feel so much like he’s angry or disappointed anymore. He does look sorry. I think that might be worse.
“Don’t pity me, Emerson. I’ll be fine. I fucked up, but it doesn’t change anything. I still think I should just back off at Salacious.”
“Why?” he asks.
“Look at me.”
“I am. I’ve worked with you for ten years, Garrett. Salacious was a great app because of your ideas, and now it’s a great fucking club because of you. And tonight, we have an epic-fucking-event happening thatyouput together, so get out of this apartment with me and come see it.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“You don’t understand,” I mutter darkly into my steaming cup of coffee.
“I don’t have to understand, and I never will, if you don’t fucking talk to me. Talk to Mia. Talk to a therapist, just fucking talk to someone. But you’re not giving up. That’s not an option.”
I breathe heavily, forcing back the stinging emotion rising to the top, making everything behind my eyes and in my throat ache with the need to just let it out. And after a long, torturous silence, the dam breaks. Tears leak across my face, and I quickly wipe them away before he can see them. This fucking sucks. Then a box of tissues appears in front of me, and I glare up at him with anger.
“I hate you.”
He laughs, a large hand landing on my shoulder. “That’s fine. You can hate me.”
“I spent the last ten years keeping my shit together, and now you just want me to lose it.”
“Eh, you didn’t keep it that hidden, Garrett. I saw it.”
“Lovely,” I reply.
“I tried to help, but you never let me.
“I told you,” I reply, glaring up at him. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”
“You think depression is something to be ashamed of, Garrett? You didn’t choose this any more than Mia’s dad chose to have cancer. If he was my best friend, what kind of man would I be if I left him alone in his apartment when he was sick?”
For once, I don’t respond right away. I don’t have a quippy comeback or a sarcastic reply. The emotion is so thick in my throat that I can’t seem to form words anyway. It’s a long time before I’m able to clear it and mutter, “Thank you.”
