I felt myself flinch. My heart skipped a beat or two. “No, I’m not.”
He jerked his hands away, as if I’d burned him. “You cringed like you thought I might hit you.”
“I…did?” My face warmed. My body chilled.
“Do you really think I might strike you out of anger?” His gaze searched mine, as if he didn’t trust me to speak the truth. “You do.”
Did I? I wasn’t sure. “No.”
He shook his head and staggered back. “I don’t know why I thought it would be different this time,” he mumbled as he loped toward the door. His shoulders were back, head held high, but I still got the impression he felt defeated.
I watched him walk toward the door, and in my mind I asked if I would be okay if he walked out and never came back. My initial gut reaction was no, I wouldn’t be okay. If he left, he would take a huge piece of my soul with him. I would be empty. Lost.
“You look so angry. Can you blame me?” I muttered to his back.
Slowly, he pivoted around. “I’ll be in touch.” He left me standing there, wondering how long it would take for him to call.
An hour later, my phone hadn’t rung.
Jill hadn’t called.
Shane hadn’t called.
Five hours later, I was sitting in bed, unable to sleep, checking my phone for messages.
None.
The next morning I checked for messages. None.
I dragged through my morning routine. It was quiet in my place. Too quiet. The silence made all the voices in my head unbearable. I kept thinking about what Shane had said, and what Jill had said, and how I had reacted to him, how I felt when I discovered he’d broken into my condo.
I felt as if my insides had been bathed in acid and run through a wringer. By noon I had suffered enough. I was exhausted from lack of sleep and an emotional wreck. I took some sleeping pills and curled up on the couch. Some old movie played on the TV, the drone of voices easing the tension from my limbs. Gradually, my body became heavier and I let the darkness carry me away.
* * * * *
I woke up confused, disorientated. I was on the couch. It was dark. The TV was on. Then I remembered everything and I started feeling sick again. I grabbed my cellphone.
No calls.
I checked the time. It was after eight o’clock. I’d slept all day. I eased upright. The pills hadn’t totally worn off yet. I was a little wobbly, dizzy. I was thirsty too. I checked my refrigerator. There was some cola, some water, and some wine. I opted for the wine.
One glass in, and I was feeling even worse than before. I sat on the couch, crying like an idiotic schoolgirl who’d been dumped by her first boyfriend. Dammit, this wasn’t the end of the world. Shane and I had an issue to work out. That was what couples did when they faced a problem. They worked it out. We could do that too.
There was no need to freak out. Or check my phone every five effing minutes.
Still, I couldn’t stop checking my stupid phone. Neither could I keep the tears from flowing. I cried until my head was pounding. Then I downed some pills for my head, washing them down with a bottle of water, and staggered back to my bedroom. I flopped into bed and laid there, forcing myself to think about happier things, about the new job I would start on Monday.
The job that Shane had given me.
I prayed, as I once again felt the tug of sleep, that I if I saw Shane on Monday I wouldn’t fall apart. That was the last thing I needed.
* * * * *
Monday morning, I dressed for work. I couldn’t eat breakfast. I couldn’t even handle some toast. My stomach was twisting into knots, coiling then uncoiling. If I didn’t throw up it would be a miracle. I managed to get some coffee down. The little zing of caffeinated energy propelled me forward. With no time to spare, I dashed out the door and jumped into my car.
Jill called me as I was driving to work.
I answered, “Hi.” I switched my phone to my left hand.
“Hi. Are you excited for your big day?” she asked, avoiding the subject of Shane.
“I’m anxious.”
“Does that mean you haven’t made up with psycho?”
My hackles went up. Yes, Shane did things that made me mad sometimes. But then so did other people. Including Jill. That didn’t mean he deserved to be called names. “It means I haven’t spoken to Shane. He isn’t a psycho.”
“No comment.” Jill cleared her throat. “Good luck today.”
“Thanks.” I steered my car onto the freeway, heading north.
“Call me on the way home. We’ll go out for dinner. My treat.”
My stomach protested. Loudly. “I’m not sure I’ll be up to it. I’m feeling pretty crappy this morning.”
“Oh, hon. I’m sorry. I hope you’re okay today. Will you see him?”
“I don’t know.” I hit the gas at the end of the cloverleaf entry ramp to speed up and merge. I was going to have to squeeze my car into a tiny space between a semi and a big, gnarly pickup truck. I said a little prayer and steered to the left.
“I hope for your sake you don’t see him.”
I didn’t know what I wanted. A part of me missed him terribly. I missed the sound of his voice. I missed the sparkle he got in his eyes when he was goofing around with me, having fun. I missed the tilt of his lips when he was giving me one of those lopsided smiles I found so cute and charming. I missed the smell of his hair, the sound of that little growl he gave me when he was in the mood.
That part was definitely bigger than the other part, the one that believed what Jill said, that Shane was too damaged to love anyone.
I wished I knew where all those scars had come from. He’d talked a little about his past. But he’d avoided going into any detail. I wanted to understand him. More than that, I wanted to help him heal so he could live the kind of life he deserved.
That was the real issue, I realized, as I sat there, phone pinched between my shoulder and ear, car speeding down the freeway. The reason why I was struggling with this apparent semi-breakup was because first, I had no closure. And second, I felt I had failed Shane. But I wondered if I somehow could have found the strength to stick it out if I had been the one who would make the difference in his life.
“Earth to Bristol,” Jill yelled in my ear.
“I’m here.”
“Are you going to be okay?” Jill asked. In her voice, I heard her say, you aren’t going to be okay.
“Yes. I’m fine.” The sign warning me about my exit flew by at roughly seventy miles per hour. “But I should let you go. I’m almost there.”