The Reason I Stay

by Patty Maximini

  I tell him about the fight and the breakup, and for the first few minutes of it Fitz nods and seems engaged in the conversation. Surprisingly, it makes me understand the appeal of talking, because this actually helps. But then, once his sandwich is gone and I move on to how broken and dead I feel, his eyes drift to the phone beside his coffee cup. At first it’s just a glance every couple of minutes, but in a matter of minutes his fingers join his eyes on the device’s screen, and that’s when his focus stops bouncing back to me altogether.

  I must admit that in the past I’ve been guilty of getting distracted by my phone while talking to people, so Fitz’s actions shouldn’t piss me off so much. However, this situation is different. Even if we leave out the fact that I’m in such bad shape that he called me a freaking zombie, we’re best friends who haven’t seen each other in a year. Call me crazy and needy, but I think that qualifies as a good enough reason to keep your nose out of the fucking phone for half an hour. So yes, I’m angry and, quite frankly, hurt.

  After fifteen minutes of basically talking to myself, I just stop mid-sentence. I keep my eyes on him, and count silently in my mind. It take’s Fitz exactly eleven seconds to realize I stopped talking. Eleven motherfucking seconds. When he finally looks at me, I see a fleeting glimpse of confusion, but being the king bullshitter I know him to be, he masks it with downcast brows, and the grim line of his lips.

  “This fucking sucks, Matt. I know you really liked this chick.”

  I stare at him with wide, shocked eyes as I wonder exactly what he thinks sucks, because he paid even less attention than I’d thought he did. In fact, he probably didn’t pay shit’s worth of attention to anything I’ve said in the past eight months, because if he had, he’d know that I don’t like Lexie. I haven’t in a long time.

  To make matters even worse, he adds, “Not to be insensitive and shit, but you kind of ruined everyone’s vacation plans. We all had plane tickets and hotel reservations to go see you for your birthday and all. They were refundable, but still. You could have waited a week to call it quits.”

  Despite his laughter at what I’m sure he believes to be a joke, I envision myself grabbing his overgrown hair and knocking his face on the table until his nose pops through the back of his head. Lucky for him, he gets up from the chair and walks to the living room before the shock dissipates, and I get a chance to turn that fantasy into reality.

  I close and rub my eyes, trying to alleviate some of my anger. Although I make some progress on that front, by the time I hear him walking back, the silent mutiny still rages on inside my head.

  “I’ve never thought this day would come, but here it is.”

  The words, and what is sure to happen next, prompts me to open my eyes just in time to see Fitz slide back into his seat with a bottle of Jack Daniels and two shot glasses in his hands. This is the moment when I realize that everything about this morning was a big mistake. I should have stayed in bed until he left for work.

  He pours the whiskey into the glasses, pushes one toward me, and raises the other. I want to refuse the drink and the toast, but I can’t find my words.

  When he speaks, I hear my own voice instead of his. “To my best friend Matt, and his first broken heart. May Jack Daniels cure you of this evil, and easy women help you forget why you needed a cure in the first place.”

  For years that was my toast to Fitz, and every other friend who went through a break-up. I’ve always thought it was solid advice, and maybe, for my reality at the time, it was. However being on the receiving end of the toast, after learning how not to be an asshole, makes me realize what a monumental pile of horseshit it is to say to a grieving buddy, and that puts everything into perspective for me.

  Although I want to be mad at Fitz and call him a shitty friend, I can’t, because I see that everything that is making me mad at him now—the lack of attention, the self-involvement, the stupid toast—are characteristics that we shared, and in a big way, the very things that ensured our friendship survival for so many years. He’s still the same funny, careless Fitz he always was, and he’s being the very best friend he knows how to be, for which I’m actually grateful. The problem is that I've changed. During my time in Jolene, I outgrew him.

  With all of that in mind, I pick up the shot glass and bring it to my lips. I toast, and down the contents in one gulp. When I place the empty glass on the counter, Fitz smiles at me, drapes an arm around my shoulder, and gives me an awkward hug. “I have to go to the agency, but it’s really good to have you home, darling. I missed you.”

  “I did too, sugar. Thanks for breakfast.”

  He winks, pockets his phone, and walks toward the front door. Before leaving, he looks at me again. “We’re going out with Jeremy and Rico for dinner. I’m sure they’d love to see you.”

  I smile, and shake my head. “I’ll pass. I’m still on Alabama time, and I have a bunch of shit to organize, but y’all have fun.”

  Fitz crocks a brow at me. “Driving a truck, and saying y’all? The south really got you by the nuts, didn’t it?”

  Even though that was my first time ever using the contraction, I chuckle, and shrug at the amount of truth in the statement. He waves a hand as he walks out the door.

  As I look around my empty apartment that is not my home, I feel lonelier and more out of place in the world than I ever have before. Everything in me aches and misses Lexie and our life, but I know that I can’t go back. Leaving was the right thing for Lexie, and staying away, letting her heal from the pain I caused her so she can be happy, is the selfless thing to do. It may kill me, but I’ll do it.

  Despite how tired and crappy I feel, I clean the dishes and take a shower because, as Fitz pointed out, I do in fact stink. The shower helps replenish my strength, but does nothing about the crappiness. That’s a lost cause, I think.

  Clean and wearing sweats, I grab my phone and computer and walk to the living room to call Luke and Joshua, the two guys who work for me, to give them their instructions for the day. After all, Rosie Landscapes & Gardens now depends entirely on them. When I turn my phone on, I see eleven missed calls, all from Eric.

  I call him back, and he answers after only one ring. “Matt?” I acknowledge that it’s me, and he curses under his breath. “Man, I’ve been worried sick. Where are you? How are you?”

  For some reason, his worry makes me smile a little.

  “I’m in Seattle, and feeling like three-day-old shit.” I clear my throat, and cross my fingers that what I’m about to ask won’t make him hang up the phone in my face. “How is she?”

  He sighs. “Haven’t seen her yet. Tanie spent the weekend there, though, and said she’s a mess.”

  The hole in my chest grows and pushes against the other parts of me, causing more pain than before. I want to curse or punch something, my own ass if at all possible, for continuing to cause Lexie pain, but I also don’t want to seem unhinged to Eric. So I hold my breath, pinch the bridge of my nose, and keep my crap together.

  “You sound like a mess too.” I huff at the understatement as he continues. “Before I decide if I should hate you and get myself another best man, tell me what happened. And don’t bullshit me. If I’m gonna help ya outta this mess, you better be straight.”

  I finally let out the breath I’m holding. Even though he can’t see me, I smile in relief and gratitude as I tell him every last detail of everything that happened. Like a true friend, he listens carefully and without judgment, he asks pertinent questions and, although there aren’t many, discusses possible solutions. It makes me feel a tiny bit better.

  In the days following, a new routine forms in my life.

  I wake up, put on clothes, and go out for breakfast at this little diner called Pam’s Pancakes that opened two blocks away from my apartment. The 1950s inspired place reminds me of The Jukebox, which helps a little with my homesickness. So every morning I sit at a booth by the window, order chocolate-chip pancakes that are not nearly as good as Lexie’s, and drink coffee. Afte
r my meal I stay there, hiding from reality in my poor man’s Jolene diner, as I reply to emails and calls from my clients, and call Luke and Joshua to give them their daily instructions.

  That’s the only productive part of my day. The rest consists of basically doing nothing but listening to depressing music, feeling like shit, and moping around the apartment while thinking of Lexie, and feeling guilty about pretty much everything I’ve done in my life. It seems like every day I miss her and the person I became with her a little bit more, which quite frankly I didn’t think was possible.

  The nights are a whole other deal.

  Fitz tries to help by inviting me to go out with him. Although I appreciate the effort, it’s mind-boggling to me that he doesn’t understand that I’m broken, and that parties and dinners won’t fix me. Most days I think nothing will. So I just smile, and give him some lame-ass excuse that makes him roll his eyes.

  When he’s finally gone and I’m alone, I walk to the living room, get a glass filled with Jack, and walk back to my bed. I lie there with my phone in hand, and lose count of how many times I dial her number. I look at the screen and let my finger roam over the send button as I remember everything that happened, the good and the bad, but I’ve never been able to follow through and actually call her.

  As the haziness of alcohol starts to overpower my consciousness, my mind wanders to all the things we’d talk about. Like a crazy person, I imagine those conversations and in my head. I hear her geeky laugh, and the sweet sound of her voice telling me about her day and the things she’s been up to. And then, as drunken stupor finally takes hold of me, she smiles as I tell her I love her, and says she does too.

  On Friday morning, I step out of the shower and clean the fog off the mirror to look at my twenty-five-year-old self. It’s funny how nothing and everything changed in the course of a year. I look exactly like I did when I woke up on the morning of my last birthday, but I feel completely different.

  It’s officially been more than a week since I last saw or talked to Lexie, and the hurt hasn’t stopped—if anything, it’s gotten more intense. Today, however, it’s damn near unbearable. Although memories of Lexie and the accident have become constants in my life, like a perpetual itch in the back of my every thought, the significance of this day turns that itch into my actual thoughts, and I relive the past year a million times per hour.

  The only solution I can find to my crazy-making problem is to keep busy the whole day, and hope that makes it go faster. I don’t know what I’ll do, but I’m definitely not staying in this apartment.

  With that in mind, I go to my bedroom and change. For the first time since leaving Jolene I actually put some effort in my look. I stay clear of the suit, vests and ties section of my wardrobe, but I put on a nice pair of snug jeans, a thick, fitted caramel knit over a white tee and boots. The overall look is a perfect mixture of who I was and who I became. The new me, perhaps.

  With my satchel over my shoulder, I walk out of my bedroom and into the grand room of the apartment. To my surprise and annoyance, I find Fitz cooking breakfast, and Caitlyn in her pajamas propped over the couch, hanging a Happy Birthday banner on the wall.

  “Good morning, y’all,” I greet, not acknowledging the banner or the fact that it is my birthday.

  From the breakfast bar, Fitz looks up from his omelet and raises his coffee cup. “Happy birthday, y’all.” I narrow my eyes at his obvious mockery—and misuse—of the contraction, which makes him laugh.

  A whistle makes me bounce my eyes from my friend to his girlfriend as she climbs down from the couch and walks in my direction. “For a homebody, you clean up pretty damn good.” Fitz protests against the compliment, making both of us roll our eyes. “Happy birthday, Matt.” She folds her arms over my shoulders, and gives me a kiss on the cheek.

  “Thanks. But you can take the banner down. I really don’t want to celebrate this day at all.”

  All the tenderness she showed toward me just now flies out the window. She pouts, and sighs an exasperated breath. “Too bad, because the banner is staying where it is and you’re getting a party. This homebody thing has got to stop. It’s not healthy. People, including some girlfriends of mine from school who think you’re hot and are more than willing to help you forget your ex, will be here at seven to celebrate you reaching a quarter of a century. Now, if you want be rude and not show up, that’s your problem. We’ll enjoy the party instead, but I really hope you come.”

  With anger bubbling in my veins, I look from her freckled face to Fitz, hoping that he surprises me by being somewhat of a good friend and telling his girlfriend to back the hell off. I’m disappointed, but not the least surprised to see that he doesn’t. In fact, he just shrugs, and continues to shove eggs into his mouth.

  I look back at Caitlyn. She has her hands on her hips, as if I’m the overbearing one. I run my hands through my hair in frustration, and consider telling her where she can shove this party I don’t want to have, and the girlfriends I don’t want to meet. I consider letting out all the frustration I’ve been holding in towards them and life, but since I no longer want to be an asshole, I just turn around and walk to the coat closet. I shrug my coat on, and without another look or word I walk out of the apartment.

  The door is barely closed when I hear Caitlyn groan. “If he’s staying here, you’ll probably have to move, Fitz. Seriously, he’s become so inconsiderate. I’m throwing him a party, and he gives me shit? Gah . . . I liked him way better when he was crazy.”

  “I’m starting to think I did too.”

  As weird as it may be, hearing them say those things is a relief. I’ve been feeling bad about distancing myself from them, but I don’t anymore. With a smile on my lips, I make my way to the elevator and the snow-covered street.

  Despite my lack of desire to celebrate or be celebrated, I decide to keep my phone on in case Lexie decides to call to wish me a happy birthday. I’m aware that she most likely won’t call, but I keep hoping that she does. By the time I walk into Pam’s Pancakes for my breakfast, I’ve gotten three calls, one from my former secretary at Roger’s Law, and the others from a couple of my buddies from Jolene. As happy as I am to hear from them, every time the phone rings my disappointment over the caller not being Lexie grows a bit more.

  “Good morning, Mathew.” Anitra, the waitress who has been serving me every morning, smiles at me. She’s one of those people that smiles with both her lips and her eyes, and therefore compels you to smile back.

  Even though her chocolate skin and dark hair are the polar opposite of Lexie’s creamy completion and golden hair, as I smile back at her I see Lexie’s face smiling at me as I come in for breakfast. This is becoming a constant in my life. I see her everywhere. She’s the girl crossing the street, the cashier at the grocery store and every other woman I pass by.

  “Hi, Anitra. How are you this morning?”

  “Cold.” She laughs, and with a menu in hand, starts walking to the left. I follow her through the narrow corridor between crowded booths, not paying much attention to the people sitting in them, until a familiar face to my right catches my eyes.

  Large, round eyes watch with interest, blond brows pull together, and an anxious smile curls up her lips. Anitra points to the booth right in front of her, but even as I thank the waitress, I can’t peel my eyes from the familiar face. Instead of taking the seat at my booth, I take a couple of steps until I’m standing beside her.

  We look at each other for a second. My insides contract uncomfortably because I don’t really know what to do, or what to expect from this encounter. I can’t believe that out of all the days we could have bumped into each other, this meeting had to happen today?

  A part of me, the one that is mortified about how she’ll react, says that I should sit down at my booth, or turn away, or do something to avoid speaking to her, but my body has made a habit of not obeying me, and therefore my lips spread in a wide smile, and I greet her. “Lea Simmons.”

  She exhales a de
ep breath, and I can almost see the anxiety pouring out of her. “Matty Rogers. Long time no see.”

  I think of the last time we saw each other. We were both covered in bruises, and she was connected to a bunch of tubes and machines right after her amputation. She was so different from the girl I used to know, and from the girl looking at me right now. The guilt I’ve been stewing on for a week kicks up a notch, and I almost regret saying hello. But then she turns her cheek toward me and points her finger at it, asking for a kiss.

  Despite it all, I can’t help but laugh, amazed to see that she’s still her loving, silly self. I bend down and give her a quick peck on the cheek, the way I had done so many times over the years.

  “Are you meeting someone?”

  I shake my head. “No, just me today.”

  She tilts her head. “But it’s your birthday?”

  “I’m not celebrating this year.” I shrug.

  A crease forms between her brows. “Then sit with me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  The outer corners of Lea’s lips curl up. “I am. My boyfriend just texted saying he’s running really late, and will take more than an hour to be here and I’m starving. Besides, no one should eat alone on their birthday.”

  A wave of heat creeps up my neck as my eyes have difficulty holding her gaze. Despite my discomfort, I shrug off of my coat and pick up the menu Anitra left on the other booth for me, and slide into the opposite seat from Lea.

  “Blond hair, a boyfriend, and an appetite? That’s practically a new woman.”

  “After I got my cyborg upgrade, the rest had to keep up.”

  She laughs and playfully wiggles her body on her seat. The hard plastic of her fake leg hits mine four times before she notices. I, however, see no amusement in it whatsoever. My face instantly falls as the jumbled mess of guilt and regret takes over my brain. Her hysterics continue for a few seconds before she realizes I’m not laughing with her.