“Was it John?”
She doesn’t say anything. I glare at her, looking for any kind of sign to confirm or deny my suspicions. She just stares at the floor—still topless—and now I’ve been upgraded to horny asshole.
“Was it John?” I repeat with more bass in my voice.
“If I told you the truth, it would only make things worse. But no, he had nothing to do with it, and it’s not important. What’s important is that I know, and it doesn’t change things or me.”
I can only muster a sad smile, if only because the idea of us hitting a lower point than this is laughable. I had allowed myself to believe in this pipe dream of the possibility of starting a new life, one that included Melody, John, Lily—and even my mother after tonight. But if life was that simple, the world wouldn’t be such a shitty place.
“I didn’t sign up for this,” I say, the cold reality that the fairytale is over.
“Neither did I, but I rolled with it and found something I didn’t think was even possible.”
“Please don’t throw that in my face.”
“Throw what?”
“Your whole ‘let the universe figure it out’ schtick. Life is too real to believe magical shit happens on a whim.”
“It led us to each other Miles. I know what you’re recovering from is tough, but I also know that what we have is real.”
She takes my hand in hers, but I pull away. My mind takes me back to our first date under the bridge, and the sadness I had in the pit of my stomach wishing I had met her without the baggage. That first date feels an eternity away right now, like we’d been dating for years and skipped to breaking point that happens in every relationship.
I get up from the floor and pull her up into a long embrace, taking in her scent one more time before kissing her forehead. Looking in her eyes I want to tell her everything, or at least fill in the gaps, but I can’t bring myself to do it. “I’m broken Mel, everything I touch turns out worse than when I found it.”
“That’s a chance I’m willing to take.”
“But I don’t want you to, and I’m not sure I can handle whatever this is,” I say, gesturing between us. “I’m sorry.”
The only positive in this situation is that being fully clothed allows me to escape before she can talk me into staying and dealing with this like a mature adult. I grab my coat and head for the door, knowing that my life will never be the same once her door shuts behind me.
“Miles,” she calls as I open the door. “If I told you everything … about me … would you stay?”
The question stops me because this whole time I’ve been the one holding something in the dark. She’s throwing me a life line, one more chance to figure this all out.
“Let’s not do this,” I plead. “This is hard enough already.”
She gets up from the floor but doesn’t come any closer. Her shirt stays on the floor, a cruel reminder of a night wasted. “Look me in the eye, Miles,” she demands. “Look me in the eye and tell me there’s nothing here. Because we both know that would be a lie.” She starts slowly moving forward, and I match her by taking a step back. “I know you’re scared, believe me, so am I. But you can’t let fear control you, because even if it’s comfortable now, it’ll eventually abandon you. Picking up the pieces hurts more when you’re alone.”
“You were a distraction,” I blurt out. It was the only thing I can say that will get me out of her apartment. It hurts because I don’t mean it, but I’m out of options. If I don’t do something drastic, she’ll convince me to stay, and one day, when I least expect it, Melody will come to her sense and leave like everyone else. For once, I want to know how it feels to be ahead of the curve.
When I was about eight, one of my mothers boyfriends left her in a bloody pulp after one of their fights. He’d left the house and, as I held the ice pack to her forehead, I asked her how a man could treat girls like that.
“When you become a man, you’ll realize there’s always an easy way out,” she had told me. “But taking the easy way doesn’t mean you’ll be the better man.”
That’s stuck with me my whole life. Outside of the suicide attempt, I’ve tried my best to ignore the easy way out. In the interest of being a better man, I have stretched myself in every way possible. But being the better man only seems to benefit everyone else, and honestly, I’m tired of trying.
“Goodbye Melody,” I said, closing the door behind me.
I lean against the wall in the hallway, listening to her cry on the other side for a long time. I fight the urge to knock on the door and try again. She’ll pick herself up and eventually forget about me. One day, for all I know it could be tomorrow, the universe will send her someone worthy of all she has to offer. As for me, I will take the fact that I left her before having sex as a sign of growth. It’s not much, but it’s all I have to suppress the heartache.
Riding back to the hotel, I’m annoyed by my cab driver and his incessant need to have conversation. It feels like New York City cab drivers have a sixth sense for detecting despair in their clients. I grunt standard one word answers until he leaves me alone with my thoughts. About halfway through the ride sadness turns to disbelief, as I mull over the idea that John could do this to me. This is the problem with being alone in the world after a traumatic event. You stew in the same negative thoughts without anyone there to talk you out of irrational solutions. The same thing happened the night I tried to kill myself. Having someone there would probably lead to a different outcome.
We hit a snag arriving at the hotel when Mark informs me that his credit card machine isn’t working. An argument ensues as the alcohol and testosterone that were earmarked for sexual activity reroutes itself into anger. After minutes of bickering culminate into me dramatically opening my pockets to demonstrate a lack of cash, I find forty bucks in my left pocket that leaves me confused. Embarrassed, I attempt to save face by giving him all of it to cover the twenty dollar ride.
Maybe my luck is changing for the better.
Sixteen
Session 3: Sins Of A Father
“You didn’t have to do that Miles. Thank you,” Dr. Felt says, genuinely appreciative of the sandwich I brought for her.
“Well, I figured since you were so gentle in making love to my fragile psyche, the least I could do is buy you lunch,” I reply, but immediately felt like a jerk. “Sorry, today’s topic is is a rough one for me.”
“These sandwiches are from Passkey?”
“Is there any other option?”
She shakes her head and takes a bite, humming to herself and mulling my anxiety. “So I was thinking, what would you think about putting the notepad away for this session?”
I wasn’t sure if she was being serious, or testing my mettle. I’d had sleepless nights wondering what her observations were. Maybe she thought I was broken beyond repair and she’s drafting a nice way of telling me to just play the string out, or she’s planning to recommend more sessions because my situation has the potential to be her golden goose.
“Are you being serious, or is this a test? You love torturing me with that thing,” I said, nodding to the notebook sitting on the coffee table. Her pen of choice this week is from a real estate company that advertises everywhere and has a B- rating from the Better Business Bureau.