I’m reminded of her nasty words. I felt every single one, but I won't give her the satisfaction of knowing how wounded I really am.
Did I accept his explanation of his relationship with Laura too easily? Maybe I was desperate to believe him, to believe he was this great guy I wanted or imagined.
When I finally look up from my musings, I'm closer to Central Park than I should be this time of night. I move to the nearest hotel and wait my turn in the que for a cab ride home.
It's after eleven when I walk into my studio. I strip my coat and boots off before falling onto my messy bed. My phone buzzes, but I don’t bother with it. Whatever it is can wait.
I grab the pillow he used, and without thinking I bring it to my nose, wishing it held some of his scent. A few tears fall as I will myself to sleep.
I wake up only an hour later, gasping for air, startled by the incessant noise of my intercom buzzer ringing in my ears.
My sleep-addled mind knows who's likely out there, but I have no desire to speak to him. He'll make some excuse. He’ll have some explanation, and like a fool, I'll believe it the second I look at him, not because it'll be true, but because honestly, I want to believe it.
I know better. Even with me standing right there, he did nothing to stop her, and what right do I even have to expect any different? Other than him saying he wanted more, we never once discussed what we were to each other.
Everything in our relationship has happened so fast, especially with the threat of Daryl or whoever is leaving the flowers. All of it was pushing us closer than we perhaps would have progressed naturally. Perhaps even pushing us into a relationship that otherwise would not have happened, Tash did say I was —unexpected for Beau. I shake my head at the thought, trying to lodge it from my mind, but it reminds me of all the women in his life. Even with him basically living with me, it felt weird to say, ‘Hey Beau. So are we exclusive? We said no casual, but what does that mean?’
I hug my pillow as my thoughts spiral.
The noise stops. My phone on the nightstand vibrates, the screen lighting up as a series of alerts come up on my phone. We still haven't exchanged numbers, weird as that is. He’s been with me so often that I haven’t thought to ask for his number. He must be contacting me through Facebook.
The intercom buzzer picks up again, prompting my reaction.
I pick up my phone, and the first thing noticed is the time because it's after two in the morning. I see numerous notifications from the bookstore’s page. I don't open the messaging app. Instead, I just read the first few words from each one. Most start the same.
I'm fucking worr… now
I’m sorry pleas… now
Answer the door 1m ago
Are you home? 2m ago
I can’t find you… 1 hr ago
Did you leave? 2hrs ago
Where are you 2hrs ago
Where’d you go 2hrs ago
I respond to the most current message, to let know him I'm fine. I feel a bit juvenile by not answering him in person, especially with his obvious presence outside my building, but I just can't listen to him right now. If he still wants to talk tomorrow I'll call him, but not tonight.
I open the app and keep my eyes on the small keyboard that appears.
I’m fine, safe and sound. No worries.
I'll speak with you tomorrow.
I hit send, the buzzing in my apartment stops almost immediately. My phone vibrates in my hand before the screen darkens. I see in the still open app.
WHERE ARE YOU ARE YOU HOME
OPEN THE DOOR
I'm confused. I want to open the door but know I shouldn't. I don't think my heart can handle just a few short days or weeks with Beau. Would it really be worth the broken heart I'd undoubtedly be left with? My phone brightens again, and I see the first portion.
Let me explain I... now
I'm feel myself begin to give in. I walk over to the intercom. I stand by it a moment or two, breathing quietly. I depress the buzzer, letting him in.
I turn on a lamp in the living room as I make my way to the kitchen to start my coffee maker, thankful tomorrow is Sunday, and I don't have to be at work. The water heats up, filling my silent studio. I hear Beau’s thundering footsteps heading up the stairs. I sigh.
He knocks softly on my door.
I walk to the door, relieved to see that even in my state I remembered to lock it. I turn the few deadbolts and slide the security chain, then pull down on the handle, allowing him in. I turn my back and walk to the kitchen before he enters.
I grab a k-cup from my decaf stash and lock it in place. I turn around to grab a mug from the cradle. Beau looks irritated, his posture stiff with his lips pressed into a tight line. For the first time, his anger makes me nervous. I turn my back to him, placing the cup under the drip.
I walk over to my bed and retrieve my phone to use as a safety net. It's been hours since I left his place, and I don't want to know what he's been doing. If he stayed...I let the thought train off, not particularly interested in exploring it, but it returns. I think back to the alcohol in the fridge and Tasha. I don’t like the combination or what state it may speak to him being in now.
He watches me, not say anything. I grab creamer from the fridge and my mug a bit forcefully, causing a bit of coffee to spill over the side. I hiss as the coffee splashes on my hand. Beau moves forward, but I wave him off and fill the mug to the tip top with french vanilla creamer. I grab a spoon and stir it gently, careful not to spill it again. When I'm done, I look up at Beau. I raise my brows as I take a sip to let him know I'm waiting on him to explain. He disappoints.
"Why didn't you answer my messages or the door?" He questions, his voice gravely like he hasn't used it in a while or has been yelling. The second possibility worries me.
I follow a drip of coffee with my thumb stopping it before it can land on the counter, "I—was—sleeping." I enunciate every word slowly. I’m annoyed and beyond caring if I sound patronizing.
He scowls and curses under his breath, then says, "When did you get home?" It's a demand more than it is a question.
I set my cup down, "Are you freaking kidding me?" I bark, "I got home a little after eleven. Not that it's your concern or business.” I glare at him, folding my arms around my chest, “What the fuck? You wake me up at almost three o'clock in the morning, buzzing at my door, lighting up my phone with messages, and when I do let you in, hoping you will explain to me why a trip to get a change of clothes ended with a naked women in your arms, you’re the one interrogating me, giving me the third degree." I scoff.
Unbothered by my outburst, he asks, "What took you so long to get home? Where'd you go?"
My eyes get big because he's seriously asking me this shit, "I gave you my night run through, now I want a fucking explanation." I throw my hands in the air at his absurdity, his face darkens and his hands fist. I step back, "I went for a walk." I reply quietly, hesitant and trying to predict his response. This angers me. I am acting the same way I did when I was a teen. I have every right to feel safe in my own studio.
"Unfuckingbelieveable!" I say, bewildered. It comes out on a long exhale. I’m exhausted.
I walk around him and open the door to show him out. It doesn't matter. I want him gone, even if there is no way I'm falling back asleep after this conversation.
"Fuck," he spits, slamming his hands on the counter and drops his head down in defeat. "It's Tasha's apartment. She said I could stay as long as I wanted.”
“Now you want to explain?” I roll my eyes but close the door as there is little sense in bringing in a draft with him obviously staying put where he is. I still keep my distance.
He turns to me, tilting his head back to look up to the ceiling. He explains, “She’s usually in California this time of year." He pauses and inhales deeply, "We had a relationship on and off over the past couple years." Beau shuffles around looking everywhere but at me, ashamed. "She's the reason I came to New York."
My stomach
drops and the few sips of coffee I managed feel like lead in my gut.
I shake my head in confusion, “Didn’t you just say she’s usually in California?”
Beaus shoves his hands down in his pockets, "Lauren hated her. She knew about our relationship, if you can really call it that.” He places a hand over his eyes and rubs his temples with his thumb and pointer finger, "After everything with Lauren, Tasha was the first person I called. I knew it would piss Lauren off, so that's what I did." His eyes open, and they’re a little wide, his brows slightly raised. I don't know how to feel about what he just told me.
"I thought you were happy to end things?" I ask confused and shocked he'd stoop so low as to use a woman to get back at an another.
He must read it on my face because he says, “It was incredibly petty, but I wanted to hurt Lauren. They protected her after she killed Ella. Everyone in L.A. sided with her. Tasha believed me, and I knew if Lauren learned about her arm candy straying, she would be pissed.”
"That woman, Tasha, probably has feelings for you, and you used her." I can’t believe I am standing up for the feelings of a woman that just treated me like dirt.
Beau’s hand slaps down on the counter, more loudly this time. I jump.
"I know it doesn't make sense to you. I just wanted to hurt her. I was pissed, I was fucking relieved but, I… I was still pissed.” He seems to be struggling with the right words. “I was a possession to Lauren, even in some ways to Tasha. My feelings never mattered, and neither did my loved ones or Ella. They were tools to manipulate me or punish me with. Why is it so wrong to use myself to punish Lauren?” He sighs, “I asked to stay with Tasha, but I didn’t ask to start up a relationship or sex. I just wanted a place to hide for a bit.” He staggers a bit, holding onto the counter as he finishes.
I struggle to gauge his mood. What I observe is all too familiar: the outbursts of anger, the stumbling about, the alcohol earlier today. I know this, and it terrifies me. I can't know for certain if he's had anything to drink, but the possibility of it makes me nervous.
I keep my phone in my hand and move across the studio, putting more space between us. Beau now falls in the category of men who've hurt me. My instincts tell me he's capable of more.
I fight to not let my fears take over and try not to compare Beau’s anger to Darryl’s delirious rage. I'm overly tired and stressed, and I am unable to separate the two.
"Okay, Beau. I get it," I try to stay calm and hope my words placate him.
He turns, and seeing me on the other side of my studio he questions, "Huh?" He takes a few steps closer to me. I counter his movements to maintain the distance. I have my phone clutched in my hand. "What are you doing?" He asks me.
"Nothing," I answer immediately. "It’s late. We can talk about this another time." I add, hoping he'll just go. He doesn’t move, and I begin shivering. I look down to see shudders run through me. It’s all too much to process. The alcohol, the memory it triggered, then Tasha, and now him here aggravated and intruding on my safe space. I begin to panic. I don’t know how to respond to all the stress. I want to leave, but this is my place and where else can I go?
My breathing picks up, and I can’t slow it. If I don’t get control I will find myself having a panic attack. I need him to leave. My movements feel jerky and slow. I motion for him to leave. My hands are sweaty. I feel cold. I feel the color draining from my face, and Beau responds to it.
"Sammy, are you okay?" He reaches out to me even though we are separated with my living room between us. He keeps his feet grounded but leans towards me. His brows furrowed in concern.
"I'm. Fine." I pant. I can't breathe. I feel a pressure on my chest. Why can my mind process what's happening to me yet do nothing to prevent it? "You need to go," I stammer around the words. I run my hand over my chest to sooth the tightening feeling. With the other I hold on to the back of the sofa. I bend over. My heart is skipping beats, and I’m not breathing. I’m going to die. Time slows to a crawl and every inhale feels like it lasts an eternity.
The dimly lit room softens around the edges, and I think I might pass out. I'm scared of everything. Dying, living, fainting; there are too many things to even comprehend. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to do this with him here.
I feel a warm palm on my back, and I flinch away from it. I curl into myself. I realize I'm sitting on the sofa I was just leaning over. I don’t know how I got here.
Beau’s deep, low voice counts backwards. The first number I register is one hundred and twenty-four. His tone is even. I take my first deep breath when he says seventy-nine. By the time he's at fifty, I start to sit up. He stops at thirty-three but continues to rub my back in slow steady circles.
Embarrassment hits me. I clear my throat, not sure if I should thank him or how to react in general.
His voice breaks the silence, "How long have you had panic attacks?"
"I don't get them often."
"That's not what I asked Samantha," He says gently.
I hang my head. "About five or six years." I don’t even know why they started. "So, sorry about that." I wave my hand around.
“It’s okay, Samantha. I’ve been there.”
My head tilts, and I look over to him, “You’ve been there, like you’ve have them before?”
His lip lifts at the corner, and his eye scrunches up, “Not something I like to admit, but I’ve had my fair share of anxiety. I don’t like crowds, but it wasn’t always that way. Laura isn’t the only reason I left California.”
I'm completely unprepared for his response. I’d never have imagined he would have anxiety.
"Beau, I don't have much experience with all this shit, but I'm pretty sure this isn't how it works." He takes a deep breath, preparing to speak. I stop him by holding up my hand. No matter what he's about to say, I don't want to hear it. "I don't think what I want and what you're willing to offer will work, and I don’t think this is good for either of us,” I fidget with the hem of my shirt, looking down at my lap. “I don't think our definitions of what more is are even close to being the same thing, and this whole thing proves I'm not ready to deal with...with...I don't know, people in general. Simple seems to be what works best for me.” My eyes remain fixed on my knees as I finish with, “Beau, this has been anything but simple."
"Can you at least look at me when you tell me to shove off?" he asks sounding a little hurt. I turn my face. As soon as I make eye contact, he places his hand on my cheek. "I'm not willing to give up Samantha. We need to talk about this and figure it out. I'm not walking away because of misunderstandings."
When I open my mouth to respond, he's the one to stop me this time with his finger over my lips.
He breathes, then says, "Let me explain like I should have when you first let me in.” He pulls his hand back but remains looking into my eyes. “I had no idea Tasha would be there. I haven't seen her once since I came here. That’s the truth.” His palm covers his chest as he admits, “She has called me a few times." He looks away from me, the muscle in his jaw flexes, "I talked to her yesterday, and she knew something was up. She kept asking questions, trying to get me to invite her to come out here to be with me. When I blew her off she must have decided to come out anyway."
He's quiet for a few moments, "I knew as soon as I heard her voice I wanted to get you out of there. When she walked out I was shocked. I just stood there." He says like he can't believe his own actions, "I mean, I just stood there?" He shakes his head disbelievingly.
"I don't really need the reminder. I was there," I whisper.
He doesn't say anything else, just continues to stare at me. He hasn't given me any explanation of his actions, and the shit with him and Tasha is just wrong. I know what expectations I should have when it comes to us, but this is all so new to me. I do know I don't like the fact that he was still taking to her while pursuing me.
Knowing he didn't say anything when she called me names hurts, and it’s not even the first time that she questi
oned him even being attracted to me. The fact that he didn’t respond, hurts more. I don't understand how he can be so assertive one minute and then completely clam up the next.
Tasha was crude with her delivery, but almost all of it was true, and it's not like I don't know I'm on the heavy side. Maybe he didn't say anything to Tasha because there was nothing to say.
"It's late," I finally utter when it doesn't look like he's going to address any of the rest of the garbage that happened. I don't think I'm going to get any of the answers that would have any of this make sense.
I turn my head, stand up, and walk to the door. I turn the handle and pull it open letting him out for the second time tonight, but now I expect him to go. I'm tired of forgiving him and accepting his excuses. He'll continue to treat me how I allow him to, and it stops here.
When he doesn't move I say firmly, "You need to go, please." He finally stands and walks over to the door. I can tell he's reluctant to go. He kisses my temple when he passes. I close and lock the door the moment his feet pass the threshold.
I lean my forehead on the cool surface of the closed door. I blow out a breath, already second guessing my decision to make him leave. Did I want him to fight me to stay? My heart is heavier with him gone. I can’t decipher my own actions and reactions.
Knowing there's little hope of sleeping, I walk to the kitchen and toss my cold coffee down the drain. I head to the bathroom, turning on my radio as I grab a towel. I start the shower, letting the water heat to a scalding temperature.
I brush out my long hair and drop the jeans and shirt I slept in on the floor. My underclothes fall. I stay under the shower head until the water turns my skin pink from the heat. I finally exit the shower with steam surrounding me.
I towel dry my hair and seek out my new fuzzy robe.
I pull it from the dryer that is full of new panties. At least that makes me a little happy.
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