their stomach, when I read her text. Girls may have a silly way of articulating it, but what they said was dead on. Those fuckers were flapping their light-hearted, winged asses off in there.
However, since it was my story and I’m a man—I’d say it was like someone stuck a power drill in the base of my spine and let the son of a bitch go, full-speed. It wound me up from the inside out. There was an invisible, indefinable feeling she always gave me. It was powerful and punctual, showing up the instant our bodies were in the same room together. Every piece that made up the physical me knew all the places on the physical her where they truly belonged. And those bastards weren’t quiet either, every square inch of me wanted to get to her in the worst way, that very second. Every pore screamed her name.
I read her message again. Thought about screen capturing it and emailing it to myself so I could look at the text whenever I wanted. No one likes scrolling through a thousand pictures.
Me: I love you. Are you all right?
My phone rang.
“One more day,” I said when I answered.
“One more day,” she repeated and exhaled loudly over the line. The breath shook and sputtered uneasily. I wondered how to talk to her. I was in uncharted territory. I didn’t know how or what to say. She might be frustrated or excited. Or sad. Or thrilled. The gamut of what she was thinking cluttered my thoughts. I wanted to say the right thing, but fuck, in that moment, I didn’t know what that was. I hopped up on the island in the kitchen and sat there cross-legged, waiting for her cue.
She bailed me out when she began, “I didn’t really have that much stuff.” She was downhearted and I heard it in her voice.
“You’ve got stuff,” I reassured. “It just didn’t seem like much because your dad and brother were there, helping you lug it all.”
“No, really. I have my office stuff. My clothes. A few pots and pans. Knives. My mugs. That’s it.”
“What about furniture?” She surely had more things than that. “And there’s got to be more kitchen stuff you want.”
“I don’t want any of it. I only want what I have.”
“Isn’t half of the house yours?” Like she could just take a half of a house. I pictured a dude with a chainsaw cutting the roof down the center.
Then I reminded myself, this wasn’t a joke or a time for celebration.
It was the first time, after all of those months, that it hit me. She was leaving her home and everything. She had to get a divorce. And there I was, all but skipping around my fucking house fantasizing about going down on her. It wasn’t an honorable feeling, being elated when someone you care about is going through some major shit. Add that to the Casey-needs-to-get-his-shit-together-for-her list.
I climbed off the counter and sat in a chair like a normal adult and started taking seriously the gravity of her situation as she spoke.
“It’s his house. I never paid the mortgage. I paid other things, but that’s his house.” She paused and I waited patiently. “He’s been working on it, fixing it up the way he wants it. Does it seem dumb that I don’t care about it at all?” Her voice was flat and the lack of emotion showed her unease.
Yeah, I’d play the Devil’s advocate.
“Blake, you deserve whatever it is you want. All right? But if you don’t want anything else, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that either.”
“I really don’t. How awful am I? I was picking up my things and all I could think about was being with you. It was so bad.”
I think she was in shock, like when you are in that buoyant state right before you realize what actually happened. That shit actually hit the fan. The few seconds before everything catches up. She was there.
Maybe I was pushing her too hard. I’d wanted things my way, and as fast as possible, but she’d wanted to take her time. I didn’t want to cause her any more damage.
People say rip a Band-Aid off
However, since it was my story and I’m a man—I’d say it was like someone stuck a power drill in the base of my spine and let the son of a bitch go, full-speed. It wound me up from the inside out. There was an invisible, indefinable feeling she always gave me. It was powerful and punctual, showing up the instant our bodies were in the same room together. Every piece that made up the physical me knew all the places on the physical her where they truly belonged. And those bastards weren’t quiet either, every square inch of me wanted to get to her in the worst way, that very second. Every pore screamed her name.
I read her message again. Thought about screen capturing it and emailing it to myself so I could look at the text whenever I wanted. No one likes scrolling through a thousand pictures.
Me: I love you. Are you all right?
My phone rang.
“One more day,” I said when I answered.
“One more day,” she repeated and exhaled loudly over the line. The breath shook and sputtered uneasily. I wondered how to talk to her. I was in uncharted territory. I didn’t know how or what to say. She might be frustrated or excited. Or sad. Or thrilled. The gamut of what she was thinking cluttered my thoughts. I wanted to say the right thing, but fuck, in that moment, I didn’t know what that was. I hopped up on the island in the kitchen and sat there cross-legged, waiting for her cue.
She bailed me out when she began, “I didn’t really have that much stuff.” She was downhearted and I heard it in her voice.
“You’ve got stuff,” I reassured. “It just didn’t seem like much because your dad and brother were there, helping you lug it all.”
“No, really. I have my office stuff. My clothes. A few pots and pans. Knives. My mugs. That’s it.”
“What about furniture?” She surely had more things than that. “And there’s got to be more kitchen stuff you want.”
“I don’t want any of it. I only want what I have.”
“Isn’t half of the house yours?” Like she could just take a half of a house. I pictured a dude with a chainsaw cutting the roof down the center.
Then I reminded myself, this wasn’t a joke or a time for celebration.
It was the first time, after all of those months, that it hit me. She was leaving her home and everything. She had to get a divorce. And there I was, all but skipping around my fucking house fantasizing about going down on her. It wasn’t an honorable feeling, being elated when someone you care about is going through some major shit. Add that to the Casey-needs-to-get-his-shit-together-for-her list.
I climbed off the counter and sat in a chair like a normal adult and started taking seriously the gravity of her situation as she spoke.
“It’s his house. I never paid the mortgage. I paid other things, but that’s his house.” She paused and I waited patiently. “He’s been working on it, fixing it up the way he wants it. Does it seem dumb that I don’t care about it at all?” Her voice was flat and the lack of emotion showed her unease.
Yeah, I’d play the Devil’s advocate.
“Blake, you deserve whatever it is you want. All right? But if you don’t want anything else, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that either.”
“I really don’t. How awful am I? I was picking up my things and all I could think about was being with you. It was so bad.”
I think she was in shock, like when you are in that buoyant state right before you realize what actually happened. That shit actually hit the fan. The few seconds before everything catches up. She was there.
Maybe I was pushing her too hard. I’d wanted things my way, and as fast as possible, but she’d wanted to take her time. I didn’t want to cause her any more damage.
People say rip a Band-Aid off
Similar Books
