Page 62 of Delayed Intention
“Okay, fine, what?”
He leans forward, with nothing behind his eyes, saying, “I’ll have sex with you.”
“Josh!?!” I whisper-shout as my eyes dart around the room. This bar appears to be ideal for this conversation since no one shows interest in anything besides the drinks in front of them.
“Really, Josh? First of all, I wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole right now. Second, I’m your friend. We’ve been friends since we were babies. Your text worried me. Michelle felt worried. For now, I want to make sure you get home safe, and we can talk more about the rest tomorrow.”
“Lily. I don’t wanna talk with you, okay? I don’t know why the fuck you drove up here. It was for nothing. I can’t handle your shit right now. I’ve got my own.”
Okay, now I’m angry, an emotion I can use to speak up. “My shit? Josh, I have a psychiatrist, I have a therapist, and you’re not it. I have my shit handled.”
“Right.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” The words are out of my mouth before I’ve thought them through—I don’t know why I’m asking him anything right now. He’s clearly in a mood; he knows all my insecurities and tender spots. He’s angry and drunk and trying to push me away. But, like when there’s roadkill on the side of the road, I can’t seem to look away.
“Look, Lily. You’re fucked up. It’s no wonder, with your narcissistic mother, your absent father, both of them pimping you out for their friend’s pleasure.”
At his words, I make an almost inhuman sound, somewhere between a gasp and a sob. Before, I had felt the shock of his words like a slap. This was more like an evisceration, but he’s not done. “Now you’re a thirty-something-year-old-prude, desperate for my attention. You drove seven and a half hours to fix me and maybe get some more of that repressed sexuality worked out. It’s clear you have your shit handled.”
And there is my breaking point, as the tears in my eyes blurt everything in front of me. Looking down, I’m unsurprised when a few of them drop into my Shirley Temple. I take a sip anyway. The sweetness of the drink is a direct contrast to everything Josh is spewing at me.
“I drove here,” I grind out each word, trying to push down the urge to sob, unwilling to show him any weakness, “because you matter to me, Josh.” And then it comes out, “I love you.”
What in the hell am I doing?As soon as I say it, I realize several truths at once. I love Josh; of course I do.But I’m also in love with Josh.At the same time, I recognize how little self-preservation I have. In the last ten minutes, he has been nothing but cruel to me, and I pick now to confess that I love him. The third thing is I love him so much I’d sacrifice myself, let him hurt me, to be whatever he needs. Every part of me that has worked hard to try to get well, to be better, is screaming at me to run from this table.
When I finally dare to look up, Josh is staring at me. There’s no warmth in his expression, and the floor feels like it’s shifting under me.
“You love me? I told you—” With that, he stands up, pointing a finger in my face—the other hand is in a fist at his side—raising his voice to a volume that carries across the entire bar, “I don’t do that!!!”
Josh is still glowering and pointing at me, for what seems like forever. Closing my eyes, I want relief, and instead, images of Ellen, Kellerman, and bullies at school all float behind my eyelids.
I force myself to look back up at him, staring down his accusing finger.
“Josh, you’ve made your point,” I say in a soft voice.You’re breaking my heart into a thousand pieces.
After about ten seconds, I realized people weren’t as self-absorbed in this bar as I had thought because James and two other men had appeared at our booth. They have the look of people who are ready to intervene.
“You should take a step back from the lady now Doc,” James warned. Josh looks around at the group of men and back to me and seems to have sobered somewhat in the last several seconds.
“These fellows and I are going to get you home now, Doc.” James’s tone brokers no argument. Josh is looking at his hands now, as if they were foreign to him. He turns and looks at James, deflated.
“Sure, James, whatever you think,” Josh stammers.
I wipe my eyes with a cocktail napkin, leave a twenty-dollar tip, and follow the group out of the bar.
The Divide
Josh, Estes Park, March 2025
James ended up staying behind, electing the two lumberjack-looking patrons to escort me home, with Lily leading the way. Lily had taken my keys from my coat and unlocked the door of my house without even glancing at me. The two men asked her if she thought she would be okay with me.With me.Of course, they were asking that. I had been towering over her, telling her off, shouting at her. My friend, who is sweet, kind, and wounded by life. I cringe, replaying some of the things I said to her in the bar. Not to mention what she said to me.
She said she loved me.
As a friend? As more? Maybe she meant it as a friend, and I overreacted. I was so drunk, and I felt sobriety flip on like a light switch from the shock of my behavior, and the things I said to her. As I sat down on my sofa, one of the men gave her his cell number in case she needed help.
I’m an actual ruiner of good things.
I am my father’s son.
