I can’t even tell you what she said during that last bit because I got hung on the word—“Who the hell said anything about a relationship?”
She rears back as if I’ve slapped her. I watch the various emotions play out across her face. Everything from shock to devastation surfaces. Her grip on the sheet tightens as she crawls off the bed. I immediately sit up and go into repair mode.
“Rave, that’s not how I meant it.”
No response.
Shit. What have I done?
She darts around the floor and gathers her clothes in one hand, avoiding my gaze at all costs. I run my hands through my hair, frantically searching for a way to explain myself. It’s not that I don’t want her to be my girlfriend, but it was never discussed. The statement caught me off guard. I should’ve figured that’s what she wanted, but she’s shot me down so many times before I’ve gotten in the habit of no longer making assumptions.
“Rave, listen to me.”
She shakes her head and moves to the door.
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“Wait!” I jump off the bed and wrap my fingers around her arm to stop her. She looks down at my hand, then up at me. Her beautiful brown eyes are searing with fury.
“Let go,” she snaps.
I try for pleading. “Stay the night and we can sort this out.”
“After that? Not a chance.”
She rips her arm free and opens the door. I slip into my boxers and flinch when the door slams behind her. I throw on my tee and race out there before she can reach the bathroom. She beats me by three lousy steps and locks me out.
I raise my fist and bang on the door. “Rave, open up. We need to talk.”
She rebuttals with a proposition of her own. “Go fuck yourself!”
I press my head against the door and lower my voice. “I didn’t know, okay? I didn’t know that’s what you wanted.”
I hear faint scattered sounds, then her voice echoes from the other side of the door. “Oh, really? So you just decided to skip over the part where I specifically told you I didn’t want to be like every other girl?”
“Do you honestly think if you were like any other girl we’d even be having this conversation? Shouldn’t that tell you something?”
“It tells me I was right all along. You can’t handle real commitment. Instead, you choose to shut me out. You love to joke how I’m the selfish one, but really it’s you. You’re completely incapable of putting anyone else’s needs above your own. You only care about casual, meaningless sex. It’s all a stupid game that allows you to get what you want from others, without having to compromise anything yourself. At least I’m not afraid to put myself out there and let somebody see me for who I really am. But you, you’re so busy running from your past and dodging intimacy, you wouldn’t know affection if it hit you in the face with a two-by-four.”
The door flies open, making me jump back. She zips her jeans up and plows past me with her salty attitude and thoroughly fucked hair.
I trail her into the living room. “Will you slow down for two fucking seconds? I’m trying to fix the problem but you’re not letting me.”
“Don’t bother.”
“Now who’s shutting who out?”
She snatches her keys and clutch up, slides her sunglasses on top of her head, and holds onto the wall while she wrestles into her heels. “Don’t go there. Don’t you dare put this on me. I laid everything out on the table and told you exactly what I wanted, exactly what I was afraid of, and exactly what my issue is.”
“But you didn’t tell me exactly what you wanted. That’s my point! You never said you wanted a relationship.”
“Do you really think I would’ve slept with you otherwise? Use your other head for once.”
I let out a defeated sigh, realizing I can’t win in this scenario. “You know what? Fine. Be that way. You wanna walk out that door, go right ahead. I can’t stop you. But you could at least tell me how to make it better.”
She opens the patio door and shoots one last lethal glance over her shoulder. “Figure it out yourself.”
There goes the second door slam of the night, and the millionth door slam of my lifetime. All that’s left is me standing in an empty apartment harboring two distinct feelings I’m all too familiar with: guilt and self-loathing.
EIGHT
r a v e n
Three days have passed and still no word from Eric. To add insult to injury, every time I creep on his Facebook or Instagram, new pictures emerge of him flaunting his “no strings attached” lifestyle. Just this morning there was a photo posted of him and some random brunette getting close at a bar last night. It’s like he’s deliberately rubbing it in my face to make me jealous. He’s not doing anything out of the ordinary from what he usually does on social media, but now it hurts. You’d think he’d have the decency to spare me the trashy photos. Or maybe he took my feelings into consideration and did it anyway. A dull ache spreads through my chest at the thought.
Had I known our night was going to end with a blowup fight, I would’ve never let him have me. It all happened so fast. One minute everything was perfect, and the next it all spun out of control. My heart feels as raw and used as my body. It wasn’t until I was getting ready this morning and looking in the mirror that I was forced to face the ugly truth: I got played.
What was I expecting? Have I really become one of those girls? The typical, cliché ones who fall into the embarrassing trap of believing they’re the exception and not the norm? I was thoroughly convinced Eric and I had something different. I’ve never felt more stupid. Did he really think I’d settle for being his sidepiece? That I wouldn’t want a relationship? It was supposed to be obvious. Apparently, Eric needs it spelled it out in bold letters, underlined three times, highlighted, and stapled to his forehead.
“Raven, clock out and go home.”
I glance over at Andre. Ever since he became a manager, we’re back to butting heads like old times. I don’t appreciate him ordering me around and insinuating I don’t know how to do my job. It’s a major conflict of interest. Screw anyone who thinks I get special treatment around here. Sure, I automatically have one foot in the door—and unless I steal or the restaurant goes under, job security is pretty much guaranteed—but everything comes at a higher price. What people don’t take into account is the complicated dynamics between family members. It can be a nightmare to work with each other. Here’s why:
1.) Personal issues tend to bleed into the business side, and vice versa. There’s no escaping the family drama. Ever.
2.) You’re bossed around by parents and siblings both at home and at work.
3.) You’re expected to go above and beyond what any non-related employees do.
4.) Family doesn’t think twice about calling you in at a moment’s notice and guilt-tripping you into working. If someone blows off a shift, or the restaurant gets busy, Andre, Emilio, and myself are the first ones on the call list.
“Why? My shift doesn’t end for another forty-five minutes.”
“I know, but we’re slow and I can’t use you.”
Normally I’d be all over getting cut early, but I was really counting on the distraction today.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. If we get slammed tonight, I’ll call you back in.”
There’s that conflict of interest again.
“Sounds good. See ya later.”
I remove my apron, grab my stuff from the back, and clock out. Digging through my purse, I find my phone and check for any missed notifications. A few texts pop up on the screen. Much to my disappointment, none of them are from Eric. How much longer is this standoff going to last? Better yet, who’s going to be the first to surrender?
Tori: When are you off? I’m bored out of my mind.
Tori: Come watch Grey’s with me. Oh, and bring home some stuffed mushrooms and mozzarella sticks if you can, purdy please. I’m too lazy to shower and drive there myself
. Don’t judge.
I smile and shake my head when I finish reading those texts.
Me: You’re becoming completely unmanageable.
It only takes her a few seconds to respond. Tori: I know, but you love me. ; )
Me: Just clocked out. I’ll put the order in and head out. Be there soon(ish).
Tori: You’re my hero. XOXO.
Me: Lies.
Tori: Truth.
When I walk through the door, I find Tori sprawled out on the couch in her pajamas, scrolling through Instagram. She tilts her head back to greet me, kicks her feet up on the coffee table, and points to the cushion beside her. I pass the appetizers off and tell her to hold on a sec while I grab a couple forks from the kitchen.
“Have you seen Eric’s posts today?”
I bump the drawer closed with my stomach and spin around to retrieve a bottle of wine from the fridge. I’m not revisiting this topic sober. It’s less painful to process when the details are blurry and self-awareness takes an extended vacation. I fetch two wine glasses from the top cupboard and fill them to the brim with Merlot. I shove the cork back in the bottle, sling it under my arm, and walk over to take a seat, carefully handing her a glass.
“Not since this morning. Why?”
She takes a sip and sets her glass down to show me her screen. I look closely at the most recent photo. It’s a selfie of Eric and me taken two years ago when we were hanging out in an empty movie theater. My head is casually resting against his shoulder without a care in the world. We’re both sporting 3D glasses. Our cheeks are puffed out to the max, I’m cross-eyed, and he’s staring longingly at my bucket of popcorn. The caption underneath the photo reads, My best friend for life. #homegirl #rideordie #throwback
I remember that day perfectly. Having the theater to ourselves was awesome. We spent the entire movie talking about random stuff and messed around with the projector, making inappropriate hand gestures on the screen. We loaded up on snacks like it was going out of style, then we each stood on opposite ends of the aisle and took turns tossing gummy bears in the air for the other one to catch in their mouth. To this day, neither of us could tell you what the movie was about.
Tori’s voice knocks me out of my nostalgia. “You think it’s his way of trying to apologize?”
I hand the phone back and gulp a generous amount of wine before responding. “If it is, I’m not impressed. He needs to step it up and try something more sincere. Reaching out via social media is impersonal and overdone, especially when he’s been posting countless photos of him with other girls all weekend long. He should know me better than that. And if he doesn’t, he has no business posting that photo in the first place.”
“Has he tried texting you at all since Thursday?”
“Nope,” I emphasize the “p” with a popping sound.
“Have you tried getting ahold of him?”
I shake my head. “And I don’t plan on it, either.”
“Atta girl. Make him work for it.”
“More like make him suffer. These last few days have been hell. If he were feeling even a fraction of what I am, he’d be speed dialing me nonstop and blowing up my phone with text messages. And if he couldn’t get ahold of me that way, he’d race over here to break down my door and beg me to give him a second chance. He’s doing neither of those things. He’d rather be out in bars picking up chicks instead of trying to make it right with the one girl who’s never left his side. How insulting is that? I put myself out there in the greatest way possible and he made me feel so insignificant. A small part of me hates him.”
“Hey,” Tori soothes, wrapping her arms around my torso and giving me a tight hug. “You don’t mean that. You’re just upset. Rightfully so, but still.”
Tears well up in my eyes. “How could he do this to me? I trusted him. And the way he made me feel about myself afterwards? That’s the worst part. I had to pull my car over because I was crying so hard I thought I was going to puke. He ruined everything. I’ll never be able to get that experience back.”
“If it makes you feel any better, my first time was awful. Nick didn’t even try to comfort me. Or get me off. My body was sore for days and the whole experience was so traumatizing, I didn’t have sex again for a year. Remember that? Felt like the world’s longest dry spell, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”
She repositions her legs on the couch. “I know it’s probably too soon to tell, but do you think y’all will be able to move past this and salvage the friendship? I mean, you’ve been friends for a really long time. That’s a lot of great memories to throw away. On the other hand, he royally fucked up. We can’t ignore that. Maybe he should be exiled. Decisions, decisions.”
I stare down and pick an invisible piece of lint off my work pants. “I don’t know. I have no idea where we go from here. All I know is I’m exhausted. Let’s drop the conversation for now. I’d like to give my mind a break from all the obsessing and have a fun girls night. Let’s stuff ourselves with bombass food, drown our sorrows in wine, and overdose on McDreamy.”
Tori raises her hand high in the air. “Preach! But first, let’s have a Kodak moment.”
She picks up her phone, swipes her screen, and pulls up Instagram. She holds the camera out in front of us. Before she snaps the picture, she drops her hand. “Hold up! We need our wine.”
Both of us seize our glasses and squeeze back into the picture.
“My eyes are all red and puffy.” I complain.
“That’s what filters are for.”
“Good call.”
Cue the fraudulent smile. A momentary flash goes off, followed by the clicking sound. Tori sets her wine back on the table and alters the photo to make us look like goddesses. I start up Netflix and search for the second season of Grey’s Anatomy. It’s the only one I can binge-watch in my current frame of mind. Meredith + Derek = Happiness? I’ll pass. Give me the angst and heartache.
I hit play and drop the remote on the couch. Tori leans over to show me the final shot. “Check it out.”
Strangely enough, I look happy. Guess the saying holds true: appearances can be deceiving, and artificial smiles can go a long way.
“Post it.”
She taps her screen, types a speedy message, and uploads the photo. I steal her phone out of her hand to check out the caption.
Who needs boys when you got bitches? Real love never dies. #ourloveisobscene #realtalk #stepoff
I smile—a genuine one this time—and pass the phone back.
“Truth.”
We grab our forks and dig in. Food has been missing its usual pizzazz lately, and my appetite is suffering as a result. How long can a person survive on a diet of red wine? Probably not long. I should Google that.
Answer: it’s complicated.
Not promising.
A glass of red wine is good for your heart, though. Too bad I’m on my third. Ugly crying and boy bashing are parked in the forefront of my mind, waiting for me to jump in and take a joy ride. Meanwhile, Meredith’s wandering around on my TV screen like a lost puppy, baring her dark and twisty soul, imploring Derek to “Pick me. Choose me. Love me.” Spoiler alert: he picks Addison. Ruthless bastard. I feel ya, Mer. We can’t win for losing. Pour yourself a glass of wine when you’re done with surgery and catch up with me.
My pity party is cut short when my phone buzzes. Eric’s face lights up the screen under his designated nickname, Modern Day James Dean.
My heart sinks.
Tori picks up the remote and hits pause. “Who is it?”
“Eric. Should I answer?”
“Only if you’re ready to talk.”
It’s not a question of whether or not I’m ready to talk; it’s whether I’m willing to listen to what he has to say. Before I can make a decision, the call ends and travels into my missed calls log. Another missed shot. Story of our lives. Our relationship—or lack thereof—is defined precisely by the amount of opportunities we were presented and never took. What’s holding us bac
k? Fear of rejection? Fear of failure? Fear of accepting a love that’s powerful enough to destroy our safe crutch of dependency? I’m gonna go with all the above.
My phone vibrates with an incoming text.
MDJD: Look outside your door.
Is he serious? I stand up and walk over to the front door, pressing my hands up against it and peering through the peephole. There’s no one on the other side. I step back and swing it open. A medium-sized canvas wrapped in brown paper tips over and lands on my feet. Curious, I glance around the empty hallway and crouch down to pick it up.
“What’s that?” Tori asks.
I drag it in and kick the door shut. “One of Eric’s portraits.”
She hustles over to my side, “Ooh! Let me see,” and rips the paper off.
We both stare.
Speechless.
Streaks of midnight blue paint run up the canvas and fan out like splashes of water on dried paper. Vibrant shades of magenta are infused at the top, elevating the mood from somber to serene. Flocks of ravens soar above my head in a vanilla cream sky, keeping their watchful eyes on me.
At first glance, I appear closed-off and solemn. But if you study the painting more closely, I think I just look…innocent. He captured my essence, not my outside, my inside. A perfect blend of vulnerability and strength. He even scribbled his signature in the bottom right corner, sealing his stamp of approval.
“Wish I had someone to see me the way Eric sees you,” Tori mutters in awe.
I cannot stop smiling. Knowing Eric put so much thought and effort into my gift chips away a thin layer of the icy exterior cloaking my heart. If this is his way of reaching out, I accept. We’re a long way from okay, but at least we’re moving in the right direction.
I set the canvas against the couch and snap a quick photo. I send it to Eric as an attachment along with the message: Thank you so much for the portrait. It’s gorgeous. I’ll send you a pic when it’s up on the wall.
Baby steps.
Several beats pass before he responds.
Catching Raven Page 8