She scoffed. “No.”
“You should try it sometime,” I told her. “Find someone who drives you insane in the best possible way, someone who you drive insane in the same way. There’s really nothing like it.”
“Maybe I will,” she said.
We walked another half block before she spoke again.
“All right,” she said. “You’re off the hook.”
“Thank y—”
“For now,” she said. “But if you and your little honey biscuit end up going splitskies, I want to be the first one you call. I’m seriously getting blue ovaries over here.”
I laughed so hard I lost my balance. That, of course, only made Wrigley start laughing.
We spoke for a few more minutes before I hailed a cab. I thanked her for finally understanding, and we actually shook hands before I got in the taxi.
I look at the clock.
Leila said she wouldn’t be any later than eight o’clock, but it’s already nine-thirty.
I pull out my phone and call her number, but it just goes straight to voicemail.
Maybe we miscommunicated somehow and one of us ended up in the wrong bar.
I don’t know, but I don’t like what I’m feeling. It’s the kind of heaviness that makes it a little hard to breathe.
The thought crosses my mind, but I dismiss it before it has a chance to fully form. I’m nowhere near ready for that.
I order another shot and ask the bartender if they sell any gum.
He says, “Sorry,” and pours me my shot.
I pay him and drink it down, watching the ice cube melt in my tequila sunrise.
It doesn’t make much sense, but I kind of wish that Wrigley was here right now. Despite her general lunacy, she actually does have a way of cutting through the shit and giving some pretty solid advice from time to time.
I’m not ready to make that phone call, either, though.
Leila and I have been talking about how we’re going to find a way to spend time with each other after she leaves, but neither one of us really wanted to take that conversation too far.
I know, on my end, that’s because I simply don’t want her to go, much less admit the reality that there’s nothing I can really do about it without guilting her and being the biggest ass hat on the planet.
Another shot of vodka finds its way into my stomach, and I’m really starting to get worried.
That’s when I feel a hand on my shoulder.
I smile and turn around.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I ask.
“Now that’s not the way to greet someone,” Mike says. “How are you doing?”
“Half-drunk,” I tell him. “Where’s Leila?”
“That’s why I’m here,” he says.
“What happened?” I ask, and am instantly on my feet.
“Sit down,” he says. “She’s already gone.”
* * *
She’s gone. She’s actually gone.
After Mike found me at the restaurant, he saw me back home. He even paid for the cab.
His car, he told me, was somewhere in New Jersey, carrying Leila and all of the stuff she wanted to take with her. Or, to be more accurate, all the stuff she wanted to take that the movers didn’t take themselves.
About the last thing in the world I ever wanted to do, especially in the presence of that guy, was cry, but there I was, sobbing.
When we got up to the apartment, there was a note on the table. Mike said he’d be downstairs, smoking a cigarette, and that he’d press the buzzer in a few minutes.
I heard him, but I didn’t answer. I was engrossed in the note.
It read:
“Dane,
I can’t begin to tell you how much our time together has meant to me, but I think we need to be realistic. Yes, I have feelings for you and yes, it might even be love, but you’re not ready to leave New York, and I can’t stay there. I really hope you understand.
It’s been so long since I’ve had a glimmer of what we’ve shared, and I thank you for that. I know this isn’t going to be easy for either of us right now, but it’ll be the best thing for both of us in the long run.
Thank you for making my fantasies come to life. I will never forget you.
—Leila”
And that was it.
And here we are.
Mike’s still downstairs smoking. I don’t know, maybe he left. It’s been about half an hour.
I don’t know if I’m sober or drunk. I don’t even know what I’m feeling right now, only that it’s the worst thing I’ve ever felt.
This is the worst day of my life.
The buzzer snaps me out of my trance for a moment, and I walk over and press the button.
“Yeah?”
“Hey,” Mike says, “it’s me. Mind if I come up for a few minutes?”
I don’t answer, but I do press the unlock button.
Really, I don’t want to talk to Mike right now.
I get why he did what he did; she is his friend, and he was doing what he asked her to do. I can’t hate him for that, but I hate the situation. Right now, that situation is embodied in him.
There’s the knock on the door. I just call out, “It’s unlocked.”
Right now, I’m trying to force an answer to the question of inebriation.
Thank god I remembered to go to the liquor store.
“How are you doing?”
“Did you read the note?” I ask.
He’s quiet.
That’s a yes.
“How long have you known that this was how she was going to do it?”
“She left most of her stuff,” he says. “Well, she took her personal stuff, but she didn’t want to just up and leave you with an empty apartment.”
I mumble something.
“What?”
“I said, it is empty,” I tell him. “Without her here, I don’t give a shit if this place is packed to the ceiling, it’s fucking empty.”
“Yeah,” he says, and that’s all he says for a minute.
Alcohol probably isn’t the best idea right now, but the anesthetic properties are all I’m thinking about at the moment.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.
“Not really,” I tell him. Then I decide I have every right to be pissed off at this guy, “Not with you, anyway.”
“I get that you’re upset—”
“Upset?” I ask. “Did you even consider what this might feel like for me? Did you even care?”
“I know it hurts, man,” he starts, but I don’t let him finish.
“You don’t know a fucking thing,” I snap. “I have never felt what I feel for Leila. Why would she do this?”
“Because it’s her fucking dream job and you need to stop being so god damned selfish,” Mike answers.
“Boy, you’ve got some fucking balls,” I retort, glaring.
“Yeah, maybe that’s a little harsh, but this whole time, have you even thought about how much this job means to her? She’s been working toward this for her entire adult life, and I’d think for someone who professes to love her so fucking much, you might look past your own shit and realize that you need to let her do what’s going to make her happy. Otherwise, who the hell are you and what the fuck are you doing?”
“Why are you here?” I ask. “Aren’t you doing the same fucking thing: not supporting her? The least you could have done was help her move.”
“I helped her move the stuff down to the car, and does it not occur to you that the only reason that I am here right now is because Leila asked me to be here? She cares about you, dickhead, and she didn’t want you to be alone tonight. So you can be pissed at me all you want. I probably would be if I was in your shoes, but at the same time, you’ve got to pull your head out and realize that if you really care about her, you’ve got to let her follow her dreams, man.”
“I want her to follow her dreams,” I tell him. “But I want to be a part of them, too. Is that such a bad thing?
”
“She kind of gave you the chance to do that,” he says. “Don’t you remember her inviting you to move with her?”
“I have a job,” I tell him, and yes, it sounds and even feels weak as it comes out of my mouth. “I can’t just leave my boss high and dry.”
“I get that,” he says, “I really do. But that’s the choice that you’ve made. So, you can sit here and be pissed at me or be pissed at her, but you made your choice. Now it’s time to start living with it.”
“I was going to talk to her tonight,” I tell him. “I was going to talk to her about finding a way to make this work.”
“Don’t you think that’s the kind of thing you might not want to leave for the last minute?”
“Okay, I get that you’re trying to help your friend here, but your folksy advice is really starting to piss me the fuck off.”
“Whatever,” he says. “Look, you had the chance to go with her, to figure something out before hand, but it doesn’t seem like it was important enough for you to—”
“Get the fuck out of my house,” I tell him.
His mouth is still open and, for a second, it looks like he’s going to start moving it again, but I’m ready to beat the shit out of him, and I think he can see it.
“Fine,” he says. “I told Leila I wouldn’t leave, but I don’t want to make things worse either. Just one more thing before I go?”
“What?” I ask, impatiently.
“Could I use your bathroom? I’ve really got to take a—”
“Get the fuck out of my house,” I repeat.
He leaves, and I start to feel bad. I don’t really feel bad for him. He was being an asshole, but I feel bad for talking to one of Leila’s friends—one who actually listened and followed through when she asked him to keep an eye on me tonight to make sure I was going to be okay.
Maybe I should have gone with her, maybe not. Whatever the case, Leila Tyler turned my life upside down in the best and worst possible way.
Now she’s gone.
Now she’s gone, and I’m calling Wrigley to see if she’d feel up to hanging out, maybe getting a drink.
It’s not that I have plans to get back with her; she’s simply the only person I can talk to right now. Before I slept with his secretary, I used to be able to talk to my friend, Derek, but he’s a little pissed at me right now.
I’m sure as hell not going to get Mike back up here.
“Hello?”
“She’s gone,” I start, but I can’t say anything else.
I take the phone away from my ear and drop it on the table.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Of Chlorine and Anger
Dane
It’s been a week now, and I haven’t heard anything from Leila.
Mike hasn’t stopped by again, but I’m not quite so upset about that.
I tried calling Leila a few times, but the phone always went straight to voice mail, and what I have to say isn’t something a recording can contain.
I’ve been talking to Wilks, trying to gauge his readiness in taking the kitchen entirely on his own, without any further input from me, but he’s nervous. I know it’s something he’s going to have to overcome, but even standing back, watching him, it’s clear he’s not quite ready.
I’m not sure that I am, either.
Right now, I’m at home with an old friend. Well, in truth, the only friend I have left.
“So, are we fucking tonight, or what?” Wrigley asks.
“That’s really not why I called you,” I tell her.
“I know,” she says, “but I bet it would cheer you up.”
“I bet it wouldn’t,” I answer, taking a shot of vodka.
“Pour me another?” she asks as I’m still breathing through mine.
I pour her another shot and start to wonder what the hell she’s doing here.
I know why I called her: I’m lonely, heartbroken and I have absolutely no one else to talk to about it. Unless she actually thinks I’m going to relent and we’re going to end up in the sack, however, I have no idea why she came over.
“You know what you’ve got to do,” she says and takes her shot.
“What’s that?” I ask. “Fuck my pain away?”
“Woo!” she says, slamming the now empty shot glass onto the table. “No,” she says, wiping her mouth, “well, it couldn’t hurt. What I mean, though, is that you’ve got to figure out a way to be all right with never seeing her again. How would you go about that?”
“If I had the answer to that question, I wouldn’t have a problem,” I tell her. “It’s not just some switch I can turn on and off at will.”
“It’s simpler than that,” she says.
“Simpler than flipping a switch?” I ask.
“Well, no,” she says, “but it’s not nearly as difficult as you’re making it out to be. All you have to do is get mad. Get angry at her for hurting you. You’ve heard of the five stages of grief, right? You know: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.”
“I’ve heard that they’re largely bullshit.”
“They’re not,” she says. “I mean, not everyone goes through every one of them all the time, and there’s not some absolute order to them, but they are a pretty common way that people deal with loss. You, my dear,” she says, “are stuck in depression. Have you even experienced anything else since she left you high and dry without so much as a phone call or a goodbye kiss?”
“I know what you’re trying to do,” I tell her, “but it’s not going to work. I love Leila, and I’m not about to get mad at her for following her dreams.”
“Oh, god, will you stop romanticizing the fact that she got a fucking job and moved to New Jersey?” she asks. “It’s about the least romantic thing there is. It’s just a thing. No, I’m not telling you to be mad at her for ‘following her dreams,’ I’m telling you to get mad at her for not wanting you to be a part of them.”
So far, I’ve been deftly avoiding Wrigley’s finer points, but that last part caught me off guard.
“She’ll call,” I tell Wrigley.
“She hasn’t yet,” she answers. “Why do you think that is?”
“She probably wants to make this easier on both of us,” I tell her. “I mean, if we’re not going to be able to be together, isn’t it better to—”
“Closure is better,” Wrigley interrupts. “That’s the one thing I will give you about the bullshit way you decided to stop giving mama the old in-out-in-out: At least you were upfront about it and were firm in your resolve. I’m not saying it’s been easy going back to less compatible man skanks, but at least you didn’t leave me hanging. I mean, that’s just fucked up.”
“Stop it,” I tell her.
“You’ve got to stop idealizing her as this perfect person who could never do wrong, who’s perfectly benevolent and holds the power to make your life better at a whim. That’s why people create gods.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” I ask.
She smiles.
“Nothing,” she says. “I’m just trying to tell you that the longer you put her on that pedestal, the less of her is going to be part of it.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“It means that the longer you idealize her, the less real memories you’re going to have to hold onto because they’ll all be slowly replaced by the fantasy. Memories are good, whether they’re of happy times or bad times. They keep things in perspective. If things are shitty, you can pull on a good memory to remind you that things aren’t always going to be shitty. If things are good, you can pull on a bad memory to remind you to keep your focus and not get complaisant.”
“Where do you get this shit?” I ask.
“I’m a social worker,” she says. “There’s a bit of psychological training that goes into that, you know.”
I stop to consider the fact that Wrigley has had substantial psychological training.
“How can I be mad at her, though?” I ask. “I’m
just hurt. If anything, I’m mad at myself.”
“Why?” she asks. “Now, don’t get me wrong, I’ve been around you enough to know that you’re pretty good at being stupid when you want to be, but that’s hardly a crime.”
“Thanks.”
“I mean it,” she says. “What did you do that was so terrible to deserve being abandoned the way that Leila abandoned you?”
“Will you stop saying shit like that?” I ask.
“Why?” she smiles. “Is it making you angry?”
“Yeah, it’s making me angry.”
“Good,” Wrigley says.
“How is that good?” I ask.
“It’s good because you’re allowing yourself to feel something else. You’re becoming more in tune with the larger reserve of emotion that you’ve been pushing down so you could wallow in your depression. Movement is a good thing.”
“It’s so weird to hear you talk like this,” I tell her.
She laughs.
“I’ll tell you what,” she says. “Why don’t I pour another shot and you can take it from between my tits?”
“That’s much more familiar,” I chuckle.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe I do need to get angry. I’m just not used to being the one left wondering.
Yeah, I get the karmic bullshit in the situation.
I’ve been looking off into space, and I didn’t even notice that Wrigley has, in fact, poured another shot and she’s holding it between her breasts.
“You know you want to,” she says.
“Wrigley…”
“Stop being such a baby,” she says. “I’m not telling you to lick it out of my twat, although—“
“I think I’ll be okay,” I tell her.
“Oh, you’ve had enough for the night?” she asks. “Lost your tolerance for alcohol, have you?”
“No,” I tell her.
“Then, come on,” she says. “I’m kind of getting tired holding this thing in place. Maybe if I’d worn a bra, I could have—”
“Fine,” I laugh. “I’ll take the fucking shot.”
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I won’t read too much into it.”
I hesitate.
“Seriously,” she says. “I won’t. Now stick your face in there before I spill this shit.”
Escort (A Standalone Romance Novel) (New York City Bad Boy Romance) Page 71