Page 44 of Tell Me Lies: Manlove Edition

“Mind games?” We’d watched a movie and I fell asleep on him.

“I know you tanked after you ran into him Thursday. I run after the VA meeting too, and when you didn’t come home that night and wouldn’t answer your phone, I put together where you were. Then he comes here on Tuesday and goes up there to break into your apartment.”

“I invited—”

“I told him you weren’t there,” Jude protests and the bruise gleams in the bar lights. “What the fuck was he doing even going to the door?”

I can’t deny it or defend him. “I … so, he’s not coming tonight?”

“He’s not coming back at all, Chard.” She sighs. “You’re a match made in Hell, dude. You see that, right? He spends every second with you thinking about how ugly and broken he is and that makes him meaner than spit. You spend every second you’re with him trying to earn the approval or affection that he does not have the capacity to give, and it’s going to make you hurt yourself. You’ve been off-kilter for months.”

“So, you forbade him from coming to your bar?”

“No, Chard,” Jude’s voice softens. “I took him for coffee. Talked about what I’ve seen in him and what Paul’s seen in you. He decided he wasn’t coming back.”

“Oh…”

Well. That’s a different kettle of fish.

Jude says after a moment, “Sean’s here. Take the night off.”

“I don’t…” I look back at her solemn eyes and think about the last time she’d offered me the chance to not work—the first time I’d been really off-kilter for the man.

“Yeah, that’s probably for the best.” I nod. “Probably all of it … for the best. Thanks, Jude.”

That’s it? Aren’t you going to fight for this shit? Just…

I didn’t deserve a goodbye.

But I fucking want a goodbye.

Chapter Eight

As winter thaws into a chilly wet spring, I take longer and longer bikes rides. It’s become my habit to go to the intersection by the beach and explore the bike paths along the residential neighborhoods. Looking for a lawn full of flags.

Sometimes when I pass one of those cliffs I think about aiming the bike and pedaling as fast as I can and not turning. The cheerful little voice in my head screams: Yes! You can do it. The end of suffering is near. There’s the finish line. Show Laur you have the determination to die!

And there’s another voice in my head, a collected scoff that sounds remarkably like Laur. Why the fuck would you do that? Don’t be so dumb. Go home, eat some ice cream, and start over again with someone new. You’ll do better next time.

Since the meaner voice seems like better advice I would go home.

Still, in less than a month, I find it.

That’s right--939 Cypress.

At first, I’m hesitant. There’s no name on the mailbox. No mail in the mailbox. But that border of flags, lining his perfectly manicured lawn like a fence. The roofs of the neighbors on the next street down. The view of the ocean in the distance.

I have found his house.

Now, what would a sane person do?

Not look for his house in the first place. Not be in love with a man who has the emotional range of a clam, fucks you like a prescribed dopamine rush, and refuses to have a real conversation except on special occasions.

Certainly, a sane person wouldn’t be parking his bike and walking up to the front door.

Well, like I said, I’m not exactly sane.

He draws the curtains after dark, like there’s some secret inside suburbia. I’m certain he’ll see me on my way to the door. And probably yell at me.

---