“I can see that. You look awful.”
“How can you tell? You can’t even see my face.”
“Umm, because it’s pressed into the carpet. I imagine it must look awful. Do you want me to get a stick and pry you up?”
“I’d actually really like to see that.”
“You’re different. Last night and today. You’re not so mean to me.”
“I’m not mean to you.”
“Yes, you are! Well, maybe not overtly, but you’re like…it’s like you’re always waiting for me to fail or something. You look at me like you find pleasure in all my mistakes. It gives me freaking performance anxiety, and you’re also mean because you know so much about me while I know nothing about you.”
“You know lots about me. Everything that matters anyway.”
“No, I don’t. I don’t know anything.” Her foot taps in impatience. “I seriously don’t, which is fine. I can deal with that. But I want to know what you know about me because maybe you haven’t been told correctly. You seem to have some pretty big assumptions about who I am, and I think you’re wrong.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes!” Her foot taps again. “Are you going to get up now?”
“No.”
“Argh!” Spinning around furiously, she goes and sits down hard on the bed. I can almost hear her footsteps with my cheek pressed into the floor, even with the carpeting.
It’s not that I don’t want to. I’m just physically so exhausted and worn-out that I need a few minutes to pick myself back up. I almost want to take her up on the offer of a good prying, but I’m not sure she’d find anything appropriate to pry with. It’s not like we have any spare lumber lying around. If we did, a two by four would probably work wonders on my inert ass.
“Tell me something about you. Something I don’t know.”
“My dad hates me, and Britt’s parents don’t like me either. It’s exhausting. I can’t please either of them. I’m never going to be good enough for my dad—classic—and for Britt’s parents, I’m doing too well.”
“But it’s…it’s been…it’s been two years!”
“I know. It doesn’t matter. I’m always going to do too well, and it makes me feel guilty. No matter what I do with the company or the money, it’s never enough for Dad. I’ll never be successful enough because I didn’t choose to follow in his footsteps and be a mechanic.”
“Your dad’s a mechanic?”
“Yeah. He can fix anything while I can’t. And he hates that. I was always hopeless when it came to fixing anything. I was shit at maths and science in school, but I liked History and writing shit. Somehow, I still took Business in college because it’s what Dad wanted. He wasn’t going to pay for it otherwise. And somehow, I still passed, but it was a struggle, and every elective I could, I took other shit—shit I actually liked. I can paint, you know that? Well, Britt knew, and she loved that about me. She fucking loved that I was artistic, could write, and liked to read. We used to share books and read to each other at night from the same book. When she didn’t want to do that, she’d read first, and then I’d read the book, and we’d discuss it—our own personal book club. She didn’t give a shit that I couldn’t fix the car when it started making noises or that I didn’t even know what the noise was. She didn’t care that I wasn’t good at economics. She didn’t care when I started my own company and did not work for someone else like everyone does. She was the one who encouraged me to keep going, to be better, and to come up with my own ideas, which I did. And it paid off. Without her support, I would never have done it. We struggled together, and she was with me all the way. She loved me for who I was, and it gave me courage.”
“I…shit…I don’t know what to say. That’s really, really honest. And painful. You’re making me want to cry.”
“Yeah? Me too.” And fuck, it’s true.
I don’t give a shit if it’s not manly. Maybe if men were allowed and encouraged to let their emotions out in a healthy way, the world wouldn’t be such a fucked up place. Not that I’ve done a very good job of dealing with them in such a way. I haven’t. I’ve never talked about this with anyone because I never had a reason. People who knew Britt knew us, and they already knew all of it. Everyone else doesn’t want to talk about her because it gets real awkward fast.
I grind my fingers into the carpet. Why the fuck can’t I just get up and get out the door? Why am I still lying here talking? It’s like now that I started, I don’t want to stop. I don’t want to get up. I just want to lie here, and if moisture starts leaking out of my eyes, nose, and freaking mouth, then at least Feeney can’t see it, and at least it’s out. The carpet will absorb it. It was a good place to land.
“What do you do now? For a living, I mean.”
“Publishing.”
Feeney inhales sharply. “Oh. That’s…that’s what my dad does too. Then you’ve probably heard of him before you even met me.”
“Yes, of course. Who hasn’t? He’s a massive player in the industry. Everyone knows the Hardington name.”
“That’s…wow. I feel like I know even less about you now, and you think you know everything about me. You think I’m spoiled and had everything handed to me my whole life. You also probably think I didn’t have to live in the real world and only have champagne problems, whatever that means, and that I went to fancy schools and then an Ivy League college. That I drove fancy cars and lived in a mansion in the best part of the city. “
“Yes. It’s all true.”
“Yeah, I know.” Feeney sighs. “It is all true, all of that. But it still doesn’t mean you know me. Can’t I grow up with that and turn out okay? Can’t I have turned out a nice person and not a snob?”
“Maybe, but you sure can’t cook worth shit though.”
“Hey! I’m getting better!”
“We didn’t burn anything yesterday, so it’s a good start.”
“There you go then. Proof. Anyway, I might have lived a cushy life, but that’s all over. I do have real-world skills, and the ones I don’t have, I’m freaking going to get. I don’t have a choice now.”
“Is what Sam said true? Did your parents really ask you to marry someone you don’t even know? That’s why you left? That’s why you were looking for work and a place to stay?”
“Yup.”
“Who was he?”
My fingers curl even tighter into the loose fibers of the carpet now. It’s new. When I bought the house, I had all the carpets changed out because the old ones were disgusting, but I shouldn’t say new. It’s only a few years old. I wait, holding my breath because that was way too bold a question. What am I even doing asking her this shit? What am I playing at this? It’s not right, and it’s going to blow up on me because starting to actually like Feeney was never part of the plan. I thought I could just get what I wanted and convince her she wanted it too. I wasn’t allowing any room for actual human emotion to get in the way.