by Alexis James
My doorbell rings. The loud, obnoxious chime echoes over the hardwood floors. I ignore it. I’ve gotten really good at ignoring most things today. Like my phone, which has been blowing up with calls and texts off and on since I arrived home. Thank fuck it finally ran out of battery a few hours ago and died a slow death.
Slow death. Hmm, sounds appealing.
The bell chimes again and this time it’s followed by three hard thumps and a very insistent, “Open the damn door or I’m kicking it in.”
Because I truly believe Cruz will do exactly as he’s threatened, I holler, “No need, it’s unlocked.”
I don’t turn to face him, don’t say a word at all as he settles into the chair next to me and hands me a beer. “Drink. You look like you could use it.”
I take the bottle, twist the cap off, and give it a toss over the railing. I don’t give a shit where it lands or whom it hits. I don’t give a shit about lots of things actually.
“Why’d you do it?”
It was only a matter of time before the questions started, or before one member of the family came looking for me, looking for answers and demanding blood. It’s not like I’ve been among the missing for weeks or anything. I knew full well that once Amita told Mia about what happened, all hell would break loose.
I offer him a shrug and tip the bottle back, draining it completely in a few thick swallows. He takes the empty and shoves another full one in my hand, but this time I don’t bother opening it. I don’t need alcohol to numb me. I’m numb enough.
“Why, man? Why would you split from her?”
My eyes dart to his. “Are you asking because you care or because Mia sent you here?”
He glares at me. “My wife is sick with worry about you and her friend. She got this weird text from Amita saying that you two had called things off. Since then she’s been unable to reach her.” He swears under his breath and takes the beer from my hand, twisting open the cap and taking a long, slow gulp. “Jesus, man, this is a fucking mess.”
“Tell me about it.”
We sit in silence for a good long time, listening to the sounds from the street below and music coming from one of the other condos. It’s oddly comforting having him here next to me, which is unexplainable. I suppose it could have something to do with the belief that I don’t deserve his or anyone else’s understanding, but he gives it to me nonetheless simply by showing up here and shoving beer into my hands. I deserve nothing but contempt for what I’ve done. The thing is, I have a very small grasp as to why I’ve done what I’ve done.
Yes, I was feeling pressure, not from her particularly but more so by the expectations everyone seemed to have about us. If I was alone, I got the questions about where she was, why she wasn’t with me, like we’re one being instead of two single individual people.
Yes, I saw the looks, the “aren’t they so cute together” and “won’t their kids be beautiful” looks. I saw it all, and each and every time a small amount of my armor was chipped away. In the end it took nothing more than what should have been a simple double date with my brother and his wife to turn me into a fucking lunatic.
I gave her no warning. I didn’t even bother to stay long enough to let her attempt to change my mind. Instead, I shot off a few words that she’ll probably spend the next month trying to decipher, almost lost my shit, and started crying, all because the idea of a permanent commitment scares the hell out of me.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her: face pale, eyes large and filled with worry, looking tiny and lost and brokenhearted. I did that. I let her believe I wanted the same thing she did. I let her get comfortable with us. I gave her every reason to believe I wanted something long term. I was—I am a liar.
“Are you seeing someone else?” Cruz asks.
I wish. Being with someone else would make this so much easier; it would give me something to keep my mind and body occupied. This isn’t about another woman, or my need to sleep around. Not this time. “No.”
“I don’t get it. None of this makes sense.”
Why bother confirming his statement? He’s right. It doesn’t make sense. Amita is everything I should want in a girlfriend. She’s fun to be around, she makes me laugh, and we have a good time together no matter what we’re doing. And the sex … damn … nothing is ever going to compare to that or to her. There’s something about her touch that sends me over the edge each and every time; something about us together is deeply personal, highly erotic, and nothing like I’ve shared with any other woman.
Cruz turns to face me, elbows on his knees. “Talk to me and tell me what the hell is going on with you.”
I shrug and keep my eyes averted. “Call it a midlife crisis.”
“You’re only thirty. Try again.”
Slowly, I get to my feet, wincing as my numb ass comes to life and tingles painfully. The spinning in my head is a reminder that I’m going to have to eat something. Otherwise, I might pass out and pitch over the edge of the railing. The idea of nosediving off to never-never land does have a weird appeal, but I shove the thought aside and ask, “Where do you think she is?”
“No idea. Mia has tried the usual places—work, the gym. Currently she’s trying to charm the building manager into letting her have access to Amita’s apartment.” He chuckles, but sobers quickly. “Any idea where she might be?”
I shrug. “Not really. Maybe you should just leave her alone.” Maybe you should leave me alone too.
“Could she be with Vic?”
Stunned and immediately livid, I turn to glare at him and snap, “Why the fuck would she be with Vic? What do you know that I don’t?”
“I don’t know one goddamn thing, except that for some reason that woman scares you to death.” He rises and moves closer, leaning over the railing and looking out at the water, twisting the silver band on his left hand. “I get it. Don’t you remember how freaked out I was about Mia? Don’t you remember how it took you to convince me to get on a plane and go to Hawaii and find her? If you hadn’t done that, I really wonder if we would have ever found our way back to one another.”
“You would have. You guys were meant for one another.” As if I have one fucking clue what the hell that means.
“Let me help you with this, just like you helped me.”
If only he knew that help wasn’t necessary. Nothing anyone says is going to erase the trepidation I feel when I think about meshing my life permanently with hers. Not that we ever got that far, mind you. Hell, we didn’t even get to the ‘l love you’ stage. I probably would have run months ago if she’d popped off with those terrifying words.
“Just take care of her, okay? This isn’t her fault. She needs to believe that.”
There’s a long, tense moment of silence, and then he says, “Why does it matter to you whether or not she believes that? You walked away, remember? Obviously she means nothing to you.”
Enraged, I snap, “Fuck you. You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
He smirks at me. “So, what you’re saying is that she does mean something to you? That even though you walked away and broke her heart, you will worry about her and continue to care for her? Is that what you’re saying?” Leaning into my face, he glowers. “That’s what love is, you idiot. You love Amita and the idea of it scares the shit out of you so you ran.”
“Get out.”
“You’re nothing but a coward, little brother. Grow some balls and man up. She’d give anything for you. Why does everyone understand that except you?”
“Get out!” Finally, he nods once in agreement and with a healthy back slap to remind me whom the boss is, he heads to the door.
Now that I’m upright, after an entire day of self-pity, I realize I need to get my shit together. Spending hours on end staring off into space has solved nothing. I’ve made my bed, now I have to learn to live with the consequences.
That’s all well and good until I step foot into my bedroom. The sheets are still a turbulent mess from Amita’s and
my tearing them up a few days ago. Her favorite lotion is on the nightstand, a pair of flip-flops that she forgot to grab stacked by the bathroom door. She surrounds me on every level, each item a painful reminder of how we’re still oddly connected. Eventually I’ll have to gather up her items and pass them along to Mia to return to her. Or I could do the really creepy thing I want to do and hold onto everything, just to feel like a part of her is still with me.
Cursing under my breath, I head into the bathroom and turn the shower on. While the water heats, I brush my teeth and do my best to ignore her hairbrush on the counter. With a grumbled curse, I tear my eyes away, strip, and step under the spray. Closing my eyes, I let it wash away the grime and allow the memories to come at me like stray bullets, firing one by one.
Us, together in this space, kissing and touching and fucking against the tile wall.
Amita standing in front of the mirror wearing only a pair of lacy panties, washing her face like she always does before she goes to sleep.
The two of us eating burgers together and laughing over some silly story.
Her, spread across the dining room table, dark brown eyes begging for release.
I’m hard just thinking about it, but I sure as hell don’t deserve to be. I don’t deserve pleasure of any kind, not now at least. I deserve to be loathed, to feel like shit for what I’ve done, and to commit to memory the bruised expression on her face as I walked out of her life for good.
My hand slides down, grasping my cock firmly and imagining for just a brief moment that it’s her touch and not my own. I stroke a few times, torturing myself, then pull my hand away and curse loudly.
I finish up quickly, then swipe a towel over my body, toss it aside, and pull on a clean pair of shorts and sleeveless tee. Food is next on the agenda. While I wait for my bread to toast, I drink three glasses of water then refill it a fourth time with juice. I eat standing up, occasionally glancing at the clock. It’s now been twenty-four hours since I last saw her, last spoke to her. Twenty-four hours since I held her hand in mine or kissed her delectable lips.
Tossing the empty paper plate into the trash, I take my juice with me and flop down on the couch, firing up the television. It’s close to midnight, so I really should be sleeping. I do have a job to go to in the morning, though I firmly believe Cruz would understand if I decided to take a mental health day.
Fuck. I don’t deserve a mental health day. I don’t deserve to dwell on how long it’s been since I saw her. I don’t deserve to get hard simply by imagining her in the shower with me. I don’t deserve anything but to live with what I’ve done.
Cruz is right, partially at least. Amita does scare me. She terrifies me to no end. She is everything I could ask for, and yet everything I’ve avoided my entire life. She’s the future, she’s my right now. She’s what I dreamed about as a young boy, imagining my life partner in that whimsical way only kids can.
Amita has proven by her past that she’s an all-in kinda gal. She spent four years with Vic, even though she fully admits now that they were a whole lot of nothing for the last few years of their relationship. Even as bad as it was for her at times, she hung in there and never gave up, not until she’d convinced herself things between them were never going to change or improve.
I, however, have proven my inability to hang in there. I’ve taken off the moment things got cozy between us, even refused to acknowledge for a long time that we were anything more than friends. And now this. I’ve given up too easily after a few months of uncertainty and doubts. I don’t know the first thing about trying harder or fighting for what I want. All I know is that fear is in charge and I’m its bitch.
Hell, maybe she should get back with Vic. He’s the type of guy she deserves—the forever kind. I’m not that and I firmly believe I will never have the capacity to do forever. Who knows, maybe it’s good that I ended things when I did, before more time passed and she started to believe in my ability to stay put. Maybe, in the long run, I’ve done her a favor by saying goodbye.
To be clear, I despise women who go all crazy, hysterical female when their heart gets broken. You know the type. They can’t eat or sleep, won’t go out with friends, cry at any given opportunity—whether it be a sad memory or a familiar song that comes across the radio. Women like that have always seemed desperate to me. Naïve. Stupid perhaps. Women like that drive me nuts and yes, piss me off too. Moping is for losers. Wallowing is for whiners. And since I’m neither a loser nor a whiner, I handle the breakup with Marco the best way I can: I go to work, go to the gym, and I have lunch with Mia.
I might have left out the fact that I have been obsessively listening to the soundtrack to Phantom of the Opera.
When I say obsessively, I mean that in the truest sense of the word. When I’m home, it’s on. When I’m in my car, it’s on. When I work out, it’s on. I watch the movie over and over, have watched videos of live performances on YouTube; after four weeks and two days of this, I know every word to every song. My singing … well, that’s open for interpretation. Let’s just say I’m not going to be getting any jobs on Broadway anytime soon. I may even end up evicted, if I continue to piss off my neighbors with my two o’clock in the morning renditions of “Think of Me.”
Why the fixation on Phantom you ask? Hell if I know. I suppose it could be that the performance is the last good memory I have of me and Marco, though to be honest we didn’t exactly have a good time together that evening. He moped and pouted, I tried to ignore him, and a few hours later he walked out of my life for good.
As I muddle through my obsessiveness, I do try to focus on the positive. At one time he and I were good friends. For a brief blip on the radar we were more than that, but since I’ve made a conscious effort not to think about the more, I’ll attempt to find my happy place with memories about our friendship.
I do miss his friendship, so much so that if I was the type of girl to mope and whine I’d be doing a whole lot of it. I miss the quirky texts he’d send during the day, the obscure questions and sexual innuendo that were so much a part of who he was. Well, I’m sure he’s still that way … he’s just not that way with me anymore.
The song changes and the moment I hear the first strains of “All I Ask of You,” I get this weird, uncomfortable and slightly concerning pain that centers in my chest and spreads outward—the same pain that concerned me the day he said goodbye. The song is a duet; Raoul and Christine sing to one another about wanting to be loved. How sad is it that I can totally relate, wanting one love, one lifetime with someone? Someone that’s most certainly not Marco. How ironic that the words “love me, that’s all I ask of you,” are the mantra for the time I had with him. The truth is Marco might have liked me, maybe even cared for me, but I now firmly believe he simply wasn’t capable of loving. Or maybe he simply wasn’t capable of loving me. I guess I’ll never really know.
The song comes to a gentle, beautiful end, and I attempt to load my dishwasher and ignore the fact that my eyes are starting to tear. Again. Dammit. Must be because of the pain in my chest. Maybe I should see a doctor.
My phone dings and I glance at the incoming text from Mia:
Come out to the house and have dinner with us.
I roll my eyes at her attempt to get me to socialize.
No thanks. I’m busy.
Her response is quick and to the point:
No you’re not. You’re listening to Phantom again.
This time I mutter a curse before stomping across the room and turning off the stereo.
No, I’m not.
The phone dings again just as I start upstairs to see if I have any laundry to do.
You’re lying. Get your butt in the car and get out here. Cruz is cooking steaks. And there’s wine. There’s also tequila.
Well, my bestie sure does know a way to this girl’s heart. Far be it from me to ignore the offer of a well-cooked steak and some alcohol. Maybe the tequila will numb the fact that I’m sitting across the table from Marco’s lookal
ike.
Saying no would be the easy way out, and it’s what I’ve done numerous times in the past four plus weeks, but I can’t avoid my friends forever. It’s not Cruz’s fault that he and Marco share the same blue-green eyes, tousled hair, and perfect hands.
I can’t do this. I’ve managed to only see Cruz twice in the past month and both times it’s been fleeting. How am I supposed to sit across the table from him and not wish that things had turned out differently? How can I look him in the eye knowing that his brother found me deficient and that I somehow wasn’t enough?
Thanks anyway. Not tonight.
I’m not surprised when the phone rings loudly. Mia knows how I like to use texting to avoid real life.
“Hello, Mrs. Moran.”
“Quit stalling and get your butt in gear. I miss you. Cruz misses you.”
How do I tell her that the idea of walking into that house terrifies me? So many memories of Marco and I are tied up there: our first real conversation on the dock last Christmas, my foray with tequila that ended with him putting me to bed. That should have been the beginning of a beautiful, lifelong friendship.
“I can’t. Not tonight.” Not any night in the near future if I have anything to say about it.
“So this is how it’s going to be? You’re going to avoid my husband forever, avoid spending time with us both, just because Marco was an idiot?”
“I’m not talking about him with you.” Strangely enough, I have managed to avoid the subject of my most recent ex. Mia is wise that way, steering clear of the subject unless I bring it up, which I never do. Talking about him isn’t going to change anything, so why bother?
“Fine, then get your ass out here and have dinner with us. Otherwise, I’m mentioning his name every time we talk.”
I hate when she tries to blackmail me, so I heave out a sigh that should give her every indication of my high level of annoyance and growl out, “Fine. I’m on my way.”
“Love you, sister. Drive safe.”
“Yeah, yeah. Love you too.”