Within minutes, I’m approaching my destination, but of course there’s nowhere to park because the house sits on a busy street. I circle the block with satisfying thoughts of banging on the front door running through my head. On my second pass, to my utter frustration, there’s still nowhere to stop, so I double park and hit the hazard lights. A glimpse of the house shows me the curtains in the front room are partially open and I catch sight of movement in the window. I pause with my hand on the door handle. There’s more movement. I see Rosa and then Lolita. They’re laughing. What the hell are they doing? And then I remember Rosa’s excited chatter about their plans to play Just Dance.
Like someone’s pulled the plug, my outrage and resentment begin to circle the drain. What am I doing? I’m not thinking straight. Heaving out a breath, I let my head fall back on the headrest, and slowly the scattered pieces of the last hour coalesce into a fully formed picture of . . . an uneducated jackass.
Fuck.
I’m a fool. And I’ve done it again. I lashed out at El for no other reason than she was there. I don’t even bother to fight the shame that fills the void left by my dwindling outrage.
A car honks behind me, forcing me to throw my truck into gear. I drive around blindly for a while, letting my self-disgust distract me from where I need to be and what I need to do. I’ve never been very good at owning up to my shortcomings. In fact, before Ellie, I’d been content to sit on my high horse. People look up to me anyway; I’m the oldest sibling, I’m the boss at work, I’m the most responsible of my friends . . . I’ve always taken care of everyone and everything, secure in the knowledge that I rarely take a wrong step. But now, with Ellie, I seem to be messing up a lot and having to return to her with my tail between my legs.
I pull over when my phone vibrates in my pocket. Digging it out, I read the screen with trepidation.
Opal: I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said any of those things.
I shake my head, recognizing full well that I don’t deserve the apology. Why can’t I learn not to use her as a target? If I don’t watch myself, I’ll end up hitting a spot that won’t just hurt her, but will show her how much better she deserves. My mouth goes dry at the idea.
I check the time. I’ve been gone for almost an hour.
Scott: I’m the one who should apologize. Coming home now.
My breath seizes in my chest at the word home as I hit send. But that’s what she is to me. Home. I’m such an idiot. Afraid that another apology for another fuck-up isn’t going to be enough, I run to the corner store to get her some flowers and a pack of Twizzlers.
When I’m finally outside her apartment door, I falter, almost wanting to knock instead of using my key. But that’s not a precedent I’m going to set. I want this thing behind us. I’ll grovel if I have to.
The sound of the lock turning and the door opening brings her to the entry hall. We stare at each other across the five feet that separates us. Standing there with the mass of her curly brown hair pulled over one shoulder, running the opal pendant I got for her nervously along the chain, she’d be more beautiful than ever if it weren’t for the uncertainty in her stance. Uncertainty that I put there.
Hesitant to speak, I hold the flowers out to her, hoping they convey the depth of my remorse. Thankfully her expression softens enough that I can fill my lungs again before she crosses the distance between us and puts her arms around my neck.
As my arms fold around her, I whisper, “I’m sorry. So, so sorry.”
She nods against my neck, squeezing me tighter. After a few moments, she pulls back. “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have opened my mouth. None of that stuff is my business.” Taking the flowers from me, she turns and I follow her into the kitchen.
“It is your business, Opal.”
“No, it’s not,” she says, grabbing the vase – the one the roses I got for her came in – from the cupboard and filling it with some water. “Sometimes, I forget that my unsolicited opinions are just that, unsolicited.”
I’m shaking my head, but she keeps talking as she cuts the plastic from around the flowers. “You needed to vent, and I should have listened instead of judged.”
I snort, prompting her to look up. “You’re wrong. If you don’t tell me I’m being an ass, who will? It’s part of your job description as my girlfriend.” The word girlfriend suddenly sounds hollow, almost transient . . . frighteningly transient, which sets my mind off in search of a more permanent version; fiancée, wife . . . even a corny soul mate makes an appearance.
She interrupts my wandering thoughts with, “My job description involves supporting you, not stuffing my opinions down your throat.”
“Please, sweetness,” I say, feeling my lips tug at the corners. “Let’s not pretend that any girlfriend worth her salt isn’t going to stuff opinions down a guy’s throat.” My smile gets wider at the stilted guffaw that slips from her lips. “And I expect nothing less from you. I want nothing less. All right? Your opinions are more important to me than anyone else’s.”
“They are?”
“Yeah, they are.”
“Which is why you walked out while I was expressing them?” she asks with an arched brow.
I pull my lips between my teeth. Touché. “About that . . .” I falter, watching her finish arranging the flowers. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left. I was frustrated and angry and I took it out on you . . . again. And, yeah, I’m sorry.”
She nods, then makes her way around the island. “You don’t really think that I don’t care about Rosa, do you?”
“What? No.” I pull her close. “I never said that.” Did I?
With her forehead resting on my shoulder, I feel her warm exhale on my collarbone. “Okay, I just wanted to make sure you know that I lo– that I really care about the girls.”
“I know you do, sweetness,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to imply you didn’t.”
She pulls back, studying my face as if to confirm my story. Whatever she finds there must satisfy her because she plants a chaste kiss on my lips and then slips from my arms to the stove to stir our dinner. “Where’d you go?” she asks.
I groan. “To get Rosa.”
Swiveling around, she sends me a disbelieving look.
“I didn’t go in. At the last minute, I realized I was making a mistake.”
She tilts her head in a gesture that very much suggests she’s in agreement with my assessment of the situation. I’d laugh if her expression didn’t turn serious. Leaning her hands on the island that separates us, she taps her nails a few times before she says, “Since you claim to like my opinions, can I tell you something you probably won’t like?”
Repressing a sigh, I nod. I have to learn to take my lumps.
“I think your dismissive attitude toward addiction is pretty shitty.”
Surprise manifests itself as a tsk. “I’m not dismissive.”
“Yes, you are. Just because you’re not affected by it, doesn’t mean that others aren’t. Including Lolita. Including me.”
The censure in her voice irks me. “I may only deal with it second hand, but that doesn’t mean I . . .” I’m trying to weigh my words carefully when I realize that she’s probably right. Exhaling heavily, I meet her gaze. “Okay, you might have a point. But even before I met you, El, I was tired. Watching my mother self-destruct when I was a kid, and then watching Lolis go the same way? I’m sorry, but I don’t have any patience left.”