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She didn’t want to be with me anymore, he had said. She was staying in California and wouldn’t be coming home. Don’t try to get in touch, don’t call, don’t message. She wouldn’t answer anyway.
Thea had dreams of a life bigger than the one I could give her. She wanted more for herself than a stagnant town and a boy who never had any intention of leaving it.
I can't blame her for that really.
But truth be told, this place hasn't felt much like home without her.
“What are you thinking about, baby?” India nudges me with her toe as she sits beside me on the sofa with her legs pulled into her chest, chin resting on top of her knees.
“Nothing.”
If she knew I was thinking about Althea, she'd shoot me with her father's shotgun.
“Doesn't look like nothing.”
“Just work,” I lie. “Stanley Garrison, that old guy who works at the gas station on the corner…he brought his car into the shop today, and it's gonna cost him more than he can afford.”
“So?”
“So,” I say, unable to hide the annoyance at her ignorance in my voice, “it's money I know he doesn't have.”
“Then tell him you can't do it.”
I scoff. “And leave him without a car? You've seen the guy, India. He can barely walk from one side of his store to the other. The only reason he's still workin’ is so he can pay for his daughter's medical bills.”
“Then he can take the bus. You're a mechanic, Cole, not a charity.”
“Whatever.” I shake my head, knowing no matter what I say, she won't get it. India is many things, but compassionate she is not. Her selfishness and clear disregard for anyone else would turn me off if it weren't for the way her ass looks when I fuck her from behind.
And it's not as if I'm perfect either.
I'm a twenty-four-year-old man who still thinks about a girl he hasn't seen since he was eighteen. A girl whoisn'this girlfriend. I'm hardly in a position to pick holes in India's character.
“I'm gonna go to bed,” she says, her voice deepening the way it does when she's trying to be seductive. “Join me?”
I hold out my hand for her and she takes it, leading me through my condo. Her shirt is unbuttoned before we even make it to the bedroom, her breasts pert and bare. India never wears a bra. It's one of my favorite things about her. I palm one and she lifts onto her tiptoes to kiss me.
Her tongue tangles with mine. Her hands grip my shoulders. Her body presses against me.
And it's nice.
But that's all it is.
That's all it's ever been.
Nice. Pleasant. Bland.
If our relationship was a color, it would be beige. And I know I'm to blame for that. She tries. She really does. She brings dinner to the shop on the nights I have to work late and shows up on my doorstep in nothing but lingerie and a trench coat at least twice a month. She hands out blow jobs like she'll never have a chance to suck a dick again and rides me without instruction.
For all intents and purposes, she's a damn good girlfriend.
And I'm content.
But I'm not happy.
It's an affliction I've resigned myself to suffering for the rest of my days. This unextraordinary, beige kind of life. Passionless relationships and repetitive, unremarkable sex. A life without real love. A life withouther.
Maybe after six years, I should be over it by now.
