Thirty Days: Part Three (A SwipeDate Novella)

by BT Urruela

  I stop thinking about my feelings for Sami, but one thing remains persistent.

  A desire, a need for her—to take her—to make her mine.

  I see myself stripping her clothes off for the first time, Marcus Mumford wailing away in the background as I tug her short shorts over the small peach-skin hairs on her thighs that glisten in the sunlight. We’re in the garden, on a blanket, in the summer. The noise of the city surrounds us, excites us, but we are utterly alone here. Her moans ricochet off the brick as I kiss her down her bare stomach, around her belly button, and then blowing her sweat-coated skin dry.

  I see her on our wedding night, in the same way, with the look of lustful desire, of irreplaceable love in her expression.

  And then I take her, all of her, and I love her like she’s never been loved before.

  I wake up on the couch with a headache playing the bongos on my skull. There’s a clutter of beer cans and the empty bottle of Jameson beside me. A half-smoked joint is snuffed out on the coffee table.

  I smoked inside. I never smoke inside.

  The phone is dangling from my hand and I lift it as I wipe the sleep from my eyes, cursing the sun as it pours through the cracks in the blinds, and ravages my retinas.

  Through my cloudy vision and fluttering eyelids, I can make out a one-sided text conversation on my phone screen, a flurry of blue bubbles stacked neatly on top of each other… one-word text after one-word text, after one-word text.

  My heart sinks as I read the contact name at the top.

  Sami.

  There’s about fifteen sorrys and some jibberish mixed in, made up words likely typed by my ass cheeks, with help from the couch cushion.

  After a quick scroll, I can see my text attack at least started out somewhat normal.

  I told her I missed her. That this was all some big mistake. That I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

  I told her I was so so sorry, with twenty-something exclamation points at the end.

  I told her I loved her.

  It’s those three words that really catch my attention. Not just that, it brings the phone hurdling from my hand to the ground, as if it were infected with Ebola. I grimace, from both the pain in my head and the utter embarrassment washing over me.

  Did I love her? Maybe.

  Did telling her so soon help me out of my current predicament? Absolutely fucking not.

  I groan, dropping my head in my hands and running my fingers through my thick, curly hair, disheveled beyond repair.

  What the fuck do I do now?

  I have little time to comprehend this as a solid knock at the door draws my attention and shoots a surge of pain through my temples. Another knock and Sami comes into mind. It sounds too strong to be hers, and the idea that she’d visit before she texted back is absurd, but that doesn’t matter. In my mind, I’m convinced it’s her, and I don’t give her a chance to knock again. I jump to my feet and charge for the door, swinging it open just as I hear knuckles hit the door again, harder this time. I open it as a goofy smile spreads across my face.

  And then it dies.

  And then, just as quickly, it fades into a jutting frown as my eyes adjust to the beaming sun, and I recognize Javon staring back at me from the other side. He has a funny look on his face—a look of understanding and compassion, mixed with a little bit of nervousness.

  He shrugs, his monstrous hands lifting to his sides. “You gonna let me in or what?”

  I side step and motion for him to enter, not trying to hide the disappointment on my face one bit.

  “Well, shit,” he says, making his way inside and eyeing the coffee table as he removes his jacket. “I thought you’d be a little happier to see me. Or at least fake it.”

  “And why would that be?” I ask, taking the jacket from him and tossing it toward the coat rack, but missing it completely. I don’t bother picking it up; instead, I shuffle to my recliner.

  He chuckles, meandering over to the fallen jacket and placing it where I had intended to put it. As he stands straight, he shoots me a grin. “You don’t remember shit from last night, huh?”

  I eye him, scrutinizing him as I anticipate what kind of ass I made of myself last night, that shit-eating grin still plastered on his face.

  “You want to enlighten me?” I ask, sighing with annoyance much heavier than intended.

  He narrows his eyes on me, though the smile still tugs at his lips, and says, “We talked for a good hour last night. Early this morning, actually. And if you had your way, it would’ve been longer than that.”

  I pick up my phone and confirm on my call log that what he’s saying is true, and I shrug lazily as I toss the phone back on the couch.

  “I’m worried about you, Gavin,” he says, a new look of concern on his face, any semblance of a smile completely faded now. “Real worried.”

  “Listen…”—I draw in a deep breath—“I was super drunk last night. High as shit, too. You can’t take anything I said too seriously.”

  “How do you know if you can’t even recall what you said?”

  “I just know I wasn’t in the right state of mind last night. A lot’s been going on.”

  “Bobby told me,” he says, scooting over a bit closer. “He told me what happened with that Sami girl. He told me how he thinks you’re feeling.”

  I roll my eyes and shake my head, exhaling as I respond, “Does Bobby ever shut the fuck up, or is it just you guys’ thing to talk about me behind my back.”

  He scoffs, tilting his head, a pained look in his eyes. “Is that what you think? You think we’re just talking about you behind your back. Getting a good fuckin’ laugh out of it? Really?” He hesitates, and I’m about to respond when he continues, “You think I wanted to get woken up at three am to you crying, hearing how much you’ve been hurting? Having to call Bobby afterward to make sure I didn’t need to come revive your ass?”

  “I told you both, I’d never try anything like that again…”

  “Fuck that,” he says, pointing his finger at me. “Fuck that, Gavin. I listened to you vent for a good hour last night. I listened to every damn word, and you know what I heard?”

  “What?”

  “I heard myself… Years ago, in my grandma’s house, begging the Lord to help me feel anything else but what I was feeling. I heard all the pain, and hate, and jealousy I once possessed. I heard a man at the end of his rope.”

  “You heard a man on a bottle of Jameson and without an ounce of clear thought. I was just drunk, man. That’s all,” I say, forcing a laugh.

  “Gavin, listen to me. You’re falling, man. You’re trapped, and a part of you, maybe a tiny little part of you, is screaming for help. And then there’s this…” He motions to me in all my hungover glory. “You’re so unwilling to accept that maybe all this is outside of your control. And Gavin, let me fuckin’ tell you, it is. It’s completely out of your hands. I know, because I’ve been there. Do you know how long it took me to even realize I was depressed?”

  “I know I’m depressed,” I respond, though I know he meant more than that.

  “It’s not just depression, Gavin. The way you were talking last night… it was bad, man.”

  “I’m not going to kill myself, Javon,” I say defensively, hardly aware of the snarl etched on my face.

  “Who are you trying to convince,” he responds, sitting back into the couch and crossing one long leg over the other. “Me… or you?”

  I lean back too, my focus shifting to the window and the sounds of passing vehicles and pedestrians, and for a moment, it all makes sense. For a split second, I can see my toes dangling over the edge of the bridge, my gaze fixed on the ocean water splashing against the support beams below. The wind whips my face, the motorists screaming down at me from the road above, and then I swan dive.

  Maybe, I’m not so different now than I was then.

  Maybe, I’m exactly the same.

  “You can say what you want. You can deny how you’re feeling to yourself. Bu
t I’m not going to turn my back on you, Gavin. Neither’s Bobby. We’re here for you, whether you like it or not,” he says, standing and making his way to the coat rack. As much as I didn’t want him in my house, to be talking to him about my problems, I feel saddened by the sight of him on his way out. I want to tell him to stop and stay as he whips his jacket around his wide shoulders and slips his arms in. I want to tell him I need him to stay. That I need to hear it’s going to all be okay. That I’ll be okay. That I’ll wake up tomorrow, and just like him, I’ll be a new man.

  I’ll just be normal.

  But I don’t say a word.

  He passes me a quick two-finger salute, his eyes somber as he makes his way out the door. I want to follow after him. I want to ask him to help me figure it all out. But I don’t.

  It’s hard to see Javon—the man he is now—as the man he was then. Not much different than me. For as long as I’ve known him, he’s been about the happiest guy I’ve ever met. He’s exuded this confidence I’ve never seen before. He spoke freely and truthfully, with conviction and care. He’s not someone I would’ve guessed had dealt with the same things I have. He’s not someone I ever pictured with the barrel of a gun in his mouth, his fidgeting pointer caressing the trigger.

  But he was that man. He sat in the corner of his bedroom closet, the pictures of his parents scotch-taped to the wall. The last one’s he’d ever taken with them before they were gone, their lives stolen from him by an errant drunk driver. He did clutch his braced knee, the one that would keep him from his NBA dreams. He did find his grandpa’s old Ruger and bought the bullets that awaited his decision.

  He did want to end it all.

  But he didn’t. And he turned it around. As he’d tell me later, only after getting help from Dr. Thresher—after rediscovering himself and who he really was. Only after the fall did he find a way to get back up again.

  Just like now, sitting alone in my loft, the proof of my alcoholism sitting right in front of me, I often view myself through the microscope of Javon’s life. I see him, the old him, as I see myself now. And then I watch myself grow and learn like he did. I watch my future books bring in new readers, readers not expecting more of the same. I watch as Sami and I go on our fifth date, and our tenth, and our one hundredth.

  I should be taking this as my opportunity to learn from him, to heed Dr. Thresher’s advice, to change my way of thinking, but I don’t. The depression is crippling. The anxiety feels like it’s ready to burst from my chest, and all I want to do is make it stop. All I want to do is end the pain.

  Yes, I should chase after him, and tell him how much I need his help, but instead, I grab the bent-up joint from the coffee table, light it, and flip the TV on.

  The View will do.

  “Do you really think I can turn it around?” I ask into the phone. I’ve fought calling Javon back for a bit since he left my loft yesterday. I didn’t want to hear the truth, but I couldn’t fight it any longer—needing to commiserate.

  “Yes, of course,” Javon says, his voice hitching, as if trying to convince me of his certainty. “Of course,” he repeats. “We are one in the same, man. I have been where you are. I’ve felt what you’re feeling. I still do sometimes.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah, of course. It’s not something that just goes away. And it probably never will. But you will feel better. You’ll learn from these days and you’ll be a better man because of them.”

  “How long did it take you. I mean really. To feel completely fulfilled.”

  “Fuck, man. I’m still not completely fulfilled. Is anyone ever, really, outside of Mr. and Mrs. Retired and traveling, sitting on a beach and sipping piña coladas? You work toward that kind of fulfillment. And you don’t stop until you get it. Fulfillment, it’s the end goal. Happiness, persistence, levity, love… they form the road that takes you there. It doesn’t happen overnight.” He pauses. “Nothing good ever does.”

  “I really wouldn’t ever try it again. I need you to know that, Javon. You and Bobby both. I learned a lesson that night. A very valuable one. Death isn’t the answer for me. I’m just trying to figure out this whole ‘living’ thing.”

  “Don’t settle for nothing but happiness. Just keep fighting, getting better day by day. And know that you got a squad behind you ready to take it on with you. You aren’t in this alone.”

  “You sound like a fucking self-help guru, Javon,” I jest, breathing a sigh of relief, though I had not intended on it.

  “Maybe that’s what you need,” he says with a laugh. “A tall, black, beautiful guru to guide you through the troubled times.” A preacher twang has taken up his speak and he laughs again at the sound of it. “Feel better, man. And you call me anytime. I mean it. Three in the damn morning or not, I’m here for you.”

  “Alright, man. I will.”

  “You better,” he says. “Talk to you soon.”

  “Yeah. Talk to you soon,” I respond, and a dial tone takes over the line. Processing the conversation I’ve just had, I catch myself smiling; a foolish, hopeful smile that I quickly shake away as I lock my phone and toss it away.

  I decide at once that it’s time to get out of the house. I need to read, to be taken away into a fictional world. To become someone else for just the afternoon. And then I’ll write. I’ll type away until the thoughts stop running.

  I don’t even make it to the writing portion of my pipe dream. Hell, I only make it a few chapters into Renee Carlino’s Lucian Divine, my ass numbed by the Washington Square Park bench, when the call comes in. I know right when it does, it’s not good.

  Jackie never calls unless it’s serious.

  She takes a deep gulp when I answer the phone, without words at first, only heavy breathing, which worries me even more.

  “Jackie, what’s up?”

  “Gavin…” she finally says, concern thick in her words. “Gavin, Gracie isn’t doing too well. I’m worried about her.”

  “How worried?” I ask, still believing she’s just being overly cautious.

  “She’s not eating much. Sleeping most of the day. The doctors may need to do a feeding tube soon. You just need to come in here. You need to see her. You need to be with her.”

  “Is this it? Is this the end?” I ask, though my voice sounds distant, foreign.

  “I don’t know. You just need to come in. Spend some time with her,” she whispers.

  “I’ll be over there in a few. Promise.”

  Grandma’s not all that different than normal when I enter the room. She sleeps, her frail, veiny hands folded together in front of her. Her wrinkled lips jut into a frown.

  “Well, she looks okay,” I mutter, walking into the room with Jackie coming in behind me.

  “She’s been sedated for a bit. She’s had these anger fits the past few days. Ends up throwing stuff. Scratched another nurse this morning.” She hesitates, and I can hear her swallow thickly, can almost hear her working through what exactly to say next in her head. “I just thought it’d be a good idea for you to spend as much time with her as you can. Just in case.”

  “In case, what?”

  “Gavin, your grandmother is very old. She’s battling here, but you need to be ready. Spend some time with her. Read to her.”

  “I will, of course. Thank you, Jackie.”

  She nods, passing me a compassionate smile before shuffling off toward the nurse’s station, hunkered over as if she’s carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. All the loss and pain she must’ve seen in this place over the years.

  I turn back toward Grandma’s feeble body swallowed up by the covers, her frazzled hair looking thinner than it did just a few days ago, after a closer look. I inch toward her, reaching her side, and reading the fine lines in her face, the slight rise and fall of her chest. I’m struck with the terrible thought of it falling once more and not rising again. I envision her tiny body, wrapped in a white sheet as she’s rolled out of here and onto a coroner’s truck.

  �
�Gracie, dear. Will you wake up for me?” I ask, needing to say something, anything, to ease the tension in the room, a tension all my own. Grandma—she looks at peace, reserved, ready. “Gracie, we have a book to read. Don’t you want me to read it to you?”

  Nothing.

  “Gracie.” I say it louder now as I pull the chair to her side. Her eyes move rapidly beneath her eyelids, more so this time, and her hands fidget. “Gracie, wake up.”

  Her eyes crack open. She’s dazed at first before her eyes open wide. Her wrinkled lips form a large O, spittle stretching across the open space, and she lets out a light gasp.

  “Hi, Gracie,” I say with a broad smile.

  She screams. A bloodcurdling scream that forces me back in my chair, the small hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. And then she screams again, and again, and again, until Jackie comes barreling into the room, a frantic look in her eyes.

  “No, no, no!” Gracie cries, bringing her hands to her eyes. “No, Daddy, no! Leave her alone. Leave her alone!”

  She shakes her head beneath her shriveled hands as they cling to her face, hiding her eyes from a world that isn’t there.

  I flit my eyes over to Jackie, who now leans over Grandma with concern etched on her face.

  “Y’alright, baby. It’s just a dream. Just a dream,” she says, her voice soft and warm.

  “Jackie…” It’s all I can manage as her eyes drift over to mine, saying so much without a word escaping her lips. “Jackie, what is this?”

  Her bottom lip droops, frown lines jutting down her chin. “I’m sorry, Gavin. I didn’t think she’d wake. These fits she’s been having have been bad. She goes somewhere else. An ugly place.”

  My eyes trail back to Grandma. She’s shaking, her hands still blocking her face, tears escaping from beneath them and running down her neck.

  “No, Daddy. No!” Grandma’s eyes shoot down to the mattress, fear thick in them as she scans the room, but missing us completely as if we’re not even there. She swipes the vase from her nightstand and it lands in shattered pieces on the floor at my feet. Water spreads out around me and the flowers I got her last visit are splayed out on the floor.