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Which then sends me down the rabbit hole of thoughts like,“Well, Derek, if you’re not in it for love or the possibility of it, what the hell are you doing with these women?”The first thing that comes to mind is torture. I’m providing a special brand of Derek flavored fucking torture, parading the possibility of something in front of these women and then saying,“Oh just kidding, I’m a fuck.”
It’s been a disturbing realization. To make matters worse, Hawk insisted on coming to see me for lunch. I didn’t imagine he’d have anything nice to say to me, but surprisingly, he tried to be as understanding as he could when I explained all this to him.
“She’s my best friend,” he’d said. “I don’t want her to get hurt.”
“I don’t want to hurt her,” I told him.
We fell into a silence after that, one we’re still in as we eat the club sandwiches he brought with him. I’m thankful, considering the cafeteria food is just sad.
“What are you going to do?” he finally asks.
I sigh, not really all that certain myself. “I don’t know.” I rifle through the bag of potato chips that accompanied my sandwich, grabbing a few. “No matter what happens, I need to kick myself into gear and move out.”
“Seems like poor timing,” he says. And I know he’s right. It’s going to look bad. Really bad.
“But it has to be done,” I say. “We couldn’t have continued living there together either way.”
We both know I’m right but neither of us seem to like it.
“And as for Willette,” I add, pausing. “I’m going to do my absolute best to get my shit together and talk to her.”
“Talk to her?” he muses.
“Yes,” I admit. “Good, bad, awesome or ugly, I’m going to man up enough to have the conversation and honestly, that’s all I got right now.”
I can see in my brother’s eyes he doesn’t love what I’ve said. But hell, I don’t either. I’m doing the best I can.I think.
I watch as he pulls out his phone, texts something quickly, and then puts it away again. I don’t question it. He has lots of things he needs to communicate about. Maybe he’s even warning Willette. I wouldn’t blame him.
* * *
After sayinggoodbye to my brother and thanking him for lunch, I don’t spend much longer at work. I tie up a few loose ends and leave early to meet with my real estate agent. She’s assured me that, with a little hard work, the house I’m interested in can be mine sooner rather than later. I’ve asked her to expedite any and all parts of the process we can.
I think it would be best to have a plan and timeline on moving outbeforetrying to speak with Willette. I just have to make sure I explain that the moving doesn’t have anything to do with her. That it was already in motion. I think I can do that.
Three hours later and I’ve finally signed all the necessary paperwork for the house I want. It’s on the outskirts of the hustle and bustle in a quiet suburban area. I thought for sure I’d want a downtown apartment or loft, but the idea of barbecuing in the backyard really won me over.
There’s a lot of natural light and the basement would be perfect for a home gym. I mean, I don’t necessarily need three bedrooms, but it wouldn’t be so bad to have a home office and a guest room.
“I’ll be in touch with more information soon. I’m sending your offer over once I get back to the office,” she says, likely relieved to have finally found me a place.
“Sounds good,” I say. “Remember to push the urgency of the matter. Hopefully a full cash offer will show them how serious I am.”
She nods her head, no doubt running the numbers on her commission. I know I would be. It’s by no means a million-dollar home, but I imagine it’s a nice chunk.
I slide behind the wheel of my car fifteen minutes later, after I’ve looked around the house one more time. I buckle in and head to a nearby restaurant to pick up food, hoping by the time I get home to Willette, I’ll have heard back from my agent. I figure if I have to have this conversation, I might as well not do so empty handed. The least I can do is feed her.
But to my surprise, when I arrive home with food for two, she’s not home. The apartment is empty. Serves me right, really. I didn’t text her all day. After this morning, I’m sure she knows I’m not doing well. I’m sure she’s preparing for the worst.
I sit alone at her small kitchen table, unbagging the containers of food and grabbing one of the plastic forks. I opted for comfort food—fried chicken and mashed potatoes with still warm biscuits and green beans smothered in bacon chunks. I’m nothing if not someone who appreciates Southern cooking. Not that it matters, because all of this tastes so bland. I’m sure it has more to do with my mood rather than the actual cooking.
On the one hand, eating alone isn’t so bad. I dreaded the idea of trying to eat with her and have this difficult conversation at the same time. It would hardly result in a pleasant meal. On the other hand, I’m not sure the absence of her has ever hit me this hard before.
I’m a shit. And I don’t deserve her.
WEIGHT OF THE WORLD
WILL
