Page 40 of Roses in Summer

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“God, it feels so good to be home. I get they’re your friends, but, ugh.” Gemma shivers, toeing off her shoes at the apartment’s entry. “They just talk about the dumbest things. And the tattooer guy looks like a serial killer.”

I don’t respond to her remarks on my friends, ignoring her comments in favor of power walking to the kitchen to grab a beer from the fridge. Popping the top off, I chug the beer and drown out her words until the bottle is empty. Staring into the dark glass, I continue to tune her out until her feet step into my space.

Like a snake waiting to attack, Gemma grabs the bottle from my hand and throws it against the wall, shattering the glass and causing splinters to scatter across the room.

“What the fuck, Gemma?”

“You’re not listening to me,” she seethes, her face a study of anger and rage.

“And that means you should start destroying the apartment?”

“You’re not listening to me, and I’ve been speaking to you since we got in the car from that awful restaurant. You deserve better than that;Ideserve better than that.” She stomps her foot, emphasizing how badly she wants to get her way in this, how she wants me to concede to her mood and apologize for tuning her out.

“You’ve been complaining about my friends, my job, this apartment for the last fucking year, Gemma. What do you want from me? You want me to pretend that I agree with you, that I’ll quit my fucking job and stand behind a camera instead of in front of a stove? You want me to what? Ditch my fucking best friends because they don’t bow down to what you want? You’ve been shitty to Ava since you found out she was a personal chef, acting like she’s beneath you. I told you to stop, but you didn’t.

“We keep going around in a fucking circle, Gem. This is going nowhere.” I sigh, dropping my voice. “We have this conversation, or a variation of it, after every night we go out. It’s either I’m not paying you enough attention, or I work too much, or I breathe too loud. I can’t do this anymore;wecan’t do this anymore.”

“What are you saying?” Her voice shakes, though I’m not sure if it’s from anger or anxiety. “We’re not breaking up, Lincoln. You will not leave me.”

“Gemma,” I groan. “You can’t say you’re happy right now.”

“I’m not happy because you’re ignoring me!” she yells, pointing her finger at me. “You’re always too busy, always in that fucking kitchen. You’re not even a head chef; you chop vegetables, Lincoln. Vegetables! How do you expect anyone to take you seriously when they find out you make fucking soup for a living?”

I rear back as though slapped. I have so many things I want to say, so many ways I want to go back at her and yell and bellow that she’s fucking wrong. But one look at the clock, one glance at the fragments of glass scattered around my kitchen like confetti, has all the fight draining out of me. Running a hand over my face, I shake my head, knowing that whatever I want to say isn’t worth it.

“It’s one a.m. Go to bed, Gemma, and we’ll talk about it in the morning.” I walk to the hall closet and grab the broom and dustpan that have never gotten much use. Keeping an eye out for glass, I start sweeping the remnants of Gemma’s tirade.

“You can’t dismiss me, Lincoln. We need to talk about this.”

I continue my cleanup, keeping my back to her as I answer, “Fine, Gemma. In the morning. Take the bedroom, and I’ll stay out here tonight.”

“You’re not coming to bed with me? You’re going to make me sleep alone?”

I shake my head, not dignifying her with an answer. If I respond to her, it’ll only restart the fight, wake up the neighbors, and cause me a fucking headache.

“Fine. Be a pussy,” Gemma seethes from behind me before stomping down the hall. The sound of a door slamming alerts me to the fact that she’s not coming back out.

Sweeping up the last of the glass, I toss it in the garbage and turn off the lights in the kitchen. Checking the door and engaging the deadbolt, I grab a throw blanket my mom forced me to buy when I first moved in and settle on the couch. It’s deep-seated, comfortable enough to watch a movie on, but too damn tight to spend an entire night.

Yet, when I weigh my options—sleeping in that bedroom with an irate Gemma or on the couch where I can lose myself in my thoughts and get some semblance of sleep—the choice is easy. I’m not sure what it says about me that I’d rather sleep in the living room than in bed with my girlfriend, but I can’t deny that the quiet feels good.

Real fucking good.

When we first met, Gemma was vibrant and fun, and her independence intrigued me since my hours at work were so difficult. But that vibrancy became self-centered devotion, the fun became too many hangovers and missed events, and the independence became a wedge. We’ve found ourselves in a relationship that exists but just doesn’t fucking work, one we keep coming back to again, and again, and again, despite the fact we’re toxic together. And besides the obvious disconnect between us, how she dismissed my friends tonight left a skewer in my gut.

“Fuck,” I whisper into the living room, sick with the knowledge that shit has to change.

Maybe not tonight, but definitely tomorrow.

16

Seraphina

“Ser, let me in,” Bianca calls from the other side of the bathroom stall’s door, banging on the wood to let me know she means business.

From my position sitting on the closed lid of a toilet in the middle of a crowded venue, I don’t have much room to argue. But still, I shake my head, despite her inability to see me, and refuse. “Bianca, I’m fine. Go back to the table.”

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