by Mika Jolie
“Dude, you’re so slow. If you move any slower, time will stop,” Zander says as he wheels past me.
The trash talking continues for the next twenty minutes. The lead shifts from team to team. Cam attempts a shot and misses. I go for the ball, but Rafa cuts under the net and snatches the rebound. He slows the game down, passing and passing, until the right moment comes. Then, the asshole releases a high-arching jump shot and hollers, “Nothing but net.”
Swish!
Game over.
After the game, Zander leaves with Colbie. Since I drove with Cam and Lucas, I have no choice but to hang out. We eat lots of wings, drink beer, and talk a lot about nothing. Oh, yeah, I watch the guys flirt with a few women. I make no effort to join in the fun.
This is no longer about my dick sulking. The bastard is still pissed off, but there’s no fun in the game for me anymore. My heart has found its home in Cori.
“YOUR GAME WAS OFF tonight,” Lucas says next to me over The Roots on the radio. We’re on the Palisades Interstate Parkway heading back to Alpine. Roads are sparsely illuminated. Traffic is light.
“A bit.” My attention stays on the road, but I can feel Lucas’ brown eyes studying me.
“You slept with her, didn’t you?”
My jaw clenches. From the corner of my eye, I notice Lucas rake a hand through his dark hair. I tap the up arrow on the steering wheel and fill the space with the sound of Otis Reading.
“Time to confess, bro,” Cam says from the backseat.
From the rearview mirror, I cast a glance at Cam’s face, buried in his phone as he types away. “What are you doing?”
“Right now, I just finished kicking Reagan’s ass in a Scrabble game.” He looks up from his phone, a satisfied grin on his face. “So how did you fuck it up?”
“Don’t want to talk about it.”
Cam scoffs. “I wrote a poem last night, want to hear it?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Roses are red, shit is brown—”
“Shut the fuck up, I’m in a bad mood,” I finish.
“Yeah.” Cam places one of his large hands my shoulders. “But we don’t care about you.”
“Answer Cam’s question,” Lucas presses. “How did you fuck it up?”
“What do you want me to tell you?”
“Tell us you’re an idiot for letting your other head ruin a twenty-year friendship,” Lucas answers in a voice laced with disappointment.
Get in line, buddy.
Someone, please put a muzzle on both of them. Then again, if I can’t talk to these two knuckleheads, my male best friends, who the hell can I talk to?
Cori.
Except, we’re no longer on speaking terms.
And so, I tell them the whole story, minus the graphic details. But my brain burns with the memory. How perfectly fit we were together. After I finish, I exhale, flick the signal, and turn left to Lucas’ house.
Cam extends his hand toward Lucas. “Pay up.”
Lucas groans, reaches in a pocket for a bill, and slaps it in Cam’s hand. “You fucked up,” he says directly at me.
“No shit, Sherlock.” My brows raise. “Were you betting on when I’d sleep with Cori?”
Cam shakes his head. “Nope. Just that you were with her that Sunday when you went AWOL.”
Fuckers.
Lucas leans forward and locks me in a serious stare. “You give a fuck, right?”
Of course I give a fuck. When it comes to Cori, I give lots of fuck. As a matter of fact, I’m a fucking prostitute of feelings.
“You’re in love with her, right?” Lucas continues, his eyes never wavering from me. “Otherwise, we’re boys and all, but I just might beat the shit out of you, because you know . . . Cori is part of the clique.”
“Of course I’m in love with her.”
“Have you told her?” Cam asks.
I shake my head. “Never had a chance.”
“You know where she lives, where she works. You have her phone number, probably even know her daily routine like a true boyfriend.” Lucas claps my shoulder. “You have all the opportunities you need. If you want to be together you have to. get. her.”
Lucas’ words are on replay in my head. Inside my house, I go straight to my bedroom, strip off my clothes and shower. After that, I pick up my phone and scroll to Cori’s name. Ignoring the little voice of doubt whispering to let her be, I quickly type a text and press SEND:
Hey! I miss you. Let’s talk. Coffee?
I wait.
My textpectation makes me antsy. The anticipation. I check my phone several times. No answer.
Two hours later. Zilch.
It’s three in the morning. And still nothing.
Silence is an answer, too.
Have you ever been punched in the stomach by Muhammad Ali? Me, either. But now, I know what it feels like. The blow-off knocks every wisp of air from my lungs. In the dark, I lay on my bed, flat on my back, staring at the ceiling with my arms crossed under my head.
Cori is out of my life. No amount of pain has ever felt so agonizing or concentrated. It’s like a giant hole has pummeled into my chest, with no hope of repair. Tears start to cloud my vision, and a single stream falls down my face.
Before we start with the name calling such as ‘you’re weak, a pussy,’ let’s get a few things straight.
Number one: I have the utmost respect for the pussy.
Number two: Men hate to cry. They rarely ever do. When a man cries over a woman, I guarantee you, he loves her, because men only cry when they lose something, or when they are afraid of losing something that they love as much—or more—than they love themselves.
Number three: I did say tears were shed. Why does it always have to be the woman shedding the tears?
“Every girl needs a guy friend to help her laugh when she thinks she’ll never smile again.”
DAY 2:
Dear Life,
Whatever, motherfucker. Whatever.
My three moods today:
I’m empty, sober, and joyless, like a sheet of paper.
That evening, I get sloshed. Alone. At a bar in New York. Then I catch the path and Uber my ass home.
Pathetic.
DAY 3:
Waking up after a night of drinking with a hammering headache and a stomach rolling around like a sneaker in a washing machine is not as fun as it used to be in college. I drag my ass to the kitchen and grab an isotonic sports drink to rehydrate myself for some much-needed energy.
Later in the day, Lucas stops by my office on his way out. “Cam and I are heading to the city. You joining us?”
“No,” I answer, eyes on my computer. “Need to work.” Total bullshit. The truth is, I don’t want to do much. My mind’s a mess. My life’s a wreck.
When I finally make it home, I watch Netflix until I’ve seen every documentary my subscription has to offer, and yet, nothing seems to smooth my heartbreak or soothe the longing I feel.
True Story: Breakups are a bitch, and heartbreak is a bigger bitch than fucking karma.
DAY 4:
I’m a smart guy. I can compartmentalize my feelings. Emotions this strong for another person should be considered suspicious anyway. I also have bigger priorities to think about—like the pile of work on my desk—than the health of my heart and mind.
I think I can say, with pretty solid confidence, most people would rather get smacked in the face with a metal pole than get their hearts broken. It’s why we try to avoid it.
This is too consuming. Time to wash all those lovey-dovey chemicals out of my system and bring the old Dean back.
My head says, “Time heals all wounds. Who cares if Cori is out of my life?”
My heart says, “You do, dumb fuck.”
DAY 5:
My week continues its downward spiral. All the butterflies in my stomach have died. Stuck between mourning and longing, I’m wrestling with the urge to text, or call Cori again. Just when I’m ready to succumb to my heart
, I tell myself if she wants to talk to me, she’d reach out to me.
But this self-scolding doesn’t exterminate the heartache.
P.S. I wonder if life smokes after it fucks you?
DAY 6:
Dear Cori,
My heart is a blender of amplified emotions. It has taken a beating lately. Right now, I am angry, confused, sad, happy, scared, lost.
More importantly, my heart is hurting. This heartache of mine is like the music of a great orchestra. At some times, it is quiet and allows me to function; at other times, the violins play, and I’m morose. And then, it rises to a crescendo, and the anger bursts from my chest in a vicious shout of anguish. At this point, there is a flute playing, and I am able to remember you with fondness. I enjoy this moment.
Many more emotions have been added to the mix, but these are the primary ingredients.
Need.
Desire.
Lust.
Love.
I want you to feel me deep inside you. I want to hear you moan my name. I want to hear the sound of your voice as you go over the edge. I want to hear you beg me to fuck you harder. I want to make you smile. I want to be your anchor. I want you, all of you.
I am lost in the torrid vortex of the moment.
I need you.
I want you.
I love you.
I feel it all.
“We’ll always be best friends, because I love you too much.”
SUFFERING. THAT’S HOW I can describe the last few days. Although, I believe it’s much more than just ‘suffering’. It’s a plethora of shattered bones, burning flesh, and cracked skulls.
In other words, I miss Coriander. Badly. Almost two weeks later, the smell of her perfume is still stuck in my bedroom, on my clothes.
No, it’s not about dipping my stick in the pool one more time. Well, that would be nice, too, but this hollow feeling inside me runs deeper than that.
Memories of her continues to tip-toe their way into my dreams. I miss Cori’s laugh. Her pale pink lips that remind me of a perfect rose bud. How many times have I stared at them when she bites her pencil in concentration, drinks from her mug, or applies lip balm to keep them soft?
I want to feel her lips against mine.
A week since we’ve last talked. Two weeks since she’s lain in my arms . . . an eternity in my world. There’s a void in my heart that only Cori’s presence can eradicate. We’ve gone from seeing each other at least twice a week, calling and texting every day, to nothing.
Since my last text attempt, I haven’t reached out to her. Not because I don’t want to, but I’m stuck in uncertainty lane, unsure about where to go from here. Every day is agony. The line between friendship and whatever-the-fuck we are now has become blurred. Relating, and communicating, and so many other facets of us have become ambiguous.
“Oh, Dean,” my mother is saying, “the cleaning crew found these buttons in your father’s library.” She places three light-blue buttons on the table in front of me. “Figure they’re yours since you changed your shirt the other night.”
“Yeah, thanks.” The events of the night flip through my brain like a slide show—Cori and I dancing. The way she stepped on my feet. The sound of her voice as she begged me to touch her.
Just thinking about that scene has my heart thumping harder, my dick straining against my zipper. Since I have no desire to sport a boner during a family dinner, I manage to shove those thoughts to the back of my head.
I take the buttons and stuff them into my jeans pocket. From across the table, my sister is assessing me. I’m ignoring her. Not up for her interrogation. We’re at our parents having dinner. Truthfully, I’d like to be home on my bed, wallowing in my sadness. Watching more documentaries on Netflix.
Needless to say, I’ve been in a funk. Some might even call it heartbroken.
“Darling, what’s bothering you?”
I meet my mother’s worried eyes. “Nothing,” I lie. For the most part, I’ve managed to hold shit together and bury myself in my work. At night is when I fall apart, as my mind grapples with questions.
What the fuck happened?
Did I really think we could become the next Harry and Sally, Dylan and Jamie?
The romantic comedy section of Netflix might say yes, but we all know reality is a little more complex and totally unscripted.
How can I make her forgive me?
Being an idiot is part of a man’s genetic makeup. Cori’s smart, she should understand that.
“You don’t look well,” my mother continues.
My sister snorts.
Ignoring her, I say, “I’m fine.” But my voice is sullen. How can I explain my emotional turmoil? Even to me, it doesn’t make sense. One minute I’m swallowed by sadness, which makes me mad. Madness takes over, making me angry. Anger then consumes me, making me mad. The cycle continues.
“Word on the street is, you’ve been staying late in the office,” my father says.
His source is none other than our office manager and Cori’s grandmother. I’ve been avoiding the woman like the plague. Out of guilt. “Lots of work lately.”
“Yeah, but don’t use work to escape whatever is bothering you.”
I nod. My dad is one of those guys who believes in life-work balance. He and his partners have no problem shutting the office down once in a while for a surprise company picnic or giving their employees a day to themselves.
“Did Cori turn you down for one of those—” My grandmother waves her hands, the tiny wrinkles on her forehead scrunching together. She snaps and smiles. “—hipsters. That’s the word.”
I smile and shake my head. “Grandma, there’s nothing going on between Cori and me.” But I wish there were. While we’re on Cori’s type, she’s not into hipsters.
I take a forkful of the braised short ribs Dad prepared earlier, with black truffle potato puree, wilted swiss chard, and port glaze on the side. I told you, the man is a master in the kitchen.
“You should write a cookbook,” I say to Dad. “I need the recipe for this one.”
My dad laughs, takes Mom’s hand in his, and brings it to his lips. The dude is a romantic. “Son,” he says, his voice filled with admiration for his blushing wife. “I’ll give you the recipe when you find that special woman.”
“He has a special woman,” says my seventy-year-old, nosy grandmother. “Cori. He’s in love with Cori. Give him the recipe.”
Jesus!
“Are you and Cori together?” my dad asks.
“We’re . . .” My voice trails. Cori and I are neither on good terms or bad terms. We are no longer anything. “It’s complicated.”
“Then no recipe,” Dad gloats. “Let me know when the status changes, and I’ll gladly take you shopping for the ingredients.”
My parents look at each other and smile. Kate continues eating. Her silence makes me wary. When my sister has nothing to say, be prepared to feel her wrath.
A FUNDAMENTAL THING I’VE LEARNED the last few weeks is that emotional pain has a biological purpose: to teach, to educate us away from unhealthy patterns and relationships. I want Cori back in my life, not only as a friend, but as her boyfriend. There’s only one problem.
I haven’t figured out how to get my girl back. I know the beginning and the middle of the story, as most fools do. It’s the end I fear.
The cogs in my head are still turning when my office door opens. My sister strolls in, looking pissed as hell. Without even a glance in my direction, she struts straight to the framed, autographed, LeBron James poster and removes it from the hooks where it hangs beautifully on the wall.
What the fuck!
My breath hitches. Surely she’s on crack for even touching such a treasure? This isn’t only about the King of basketball. It’s about the moment captured in time. I was there, in the overheated arena, full of excited and red-faced fans, when one of the hottest players in the NBA made a breakaway, jumping high in the air, right at the basketball, stuffing the ball f
or the winning score, and clinching their spot as NBA Champs.
Cautiously, I ask, “What are you doing?”
“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t destroy your most prized possession?”
Uh. “Because it’s LeBron fucking James.” Carefully, I walk over and remove the framed poster from her clenched fingers, then restore it to its rightful place. “What’s the problem?”
The way her eyes squint when she glares at me reminds me of a pit viper’s slit-like pupils. I release a deep breath. A burning animosity is in her brown orbs, and I can tell I’m the root cause of the problem.
“Cori and I had lunch today.”
My ears perk. Shoving my hands in my black slacks, I ask, “How is she?”
“Fine.” Kate eyes me up and down before settling on my face. “What’s going on between you two?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because she looks like shit.”
This makes me happy. Cori never looks like shit. Even when sick with the flu, she manages to look adorable. If, indeed, what Kate is saying is true, that only means she misses me.
Yes. A burst of hope rises in me.
Don’t even start with the eye roll. For the sake of my shattered and broken heart, I, also, look like shit. Look at me. Three days’ scruff. Bagged eyes. And the messy hair, it’s not because I’m trendy and going for the just-rolled-out-of-bed look.
Exactly. I look like shit. I’m heartbroken. Destroyed.
“Also, when I brought up your name, she started acting weird.”
“Define weird?”
“Oh, I don’t know, try bawling her eyes out.” Kate stares at me, hands on hips. “So, what gives?”
I release a deep breath, but say nothing.
“You slept with her?” Kate’s voice is low, anger thick on every word.
“I sleep with a lot of women. You have to be more specific.” Yeah, I’m stalling.
“Coriander Phillips.” She jabs a finger into my chest. “You slept with Cori, my best friend, Dean.” Her nail pokes the fabric of my shirt. I’d be surprised if I’m not bleeding at this point. “She’s a sister to me.” Another finger jab. “To us.”