Page 82 of Rebound With Me
“Can you see them?”
“No. The door’s closed and the windows are papered-over most of the way. This is dumb. You’re getting all worked-up and it’s probably nothing. Let’s go over there.”
“I can’t move. I can’t breathe.”
“Honey.” She comes over to rub my back. “Come on. In. Out. In. Out. Good girl. You got it. Sweetie, I hate to see you like this.”
“I knew this was going to happen.” I bend forward and rest my hands on my knees. “I knew it.”
“Okay, I’ll go look first.”
“Marnie, no!”
Too late.
She jogs across the street and slinks up between the front door and the window, peering inside through the glass of the door. When I see how quickly she jerks her head back, and the look on her face, I want to die. The feeling in my chest is unbearable. The only thing worse is the feeling in my stomach. She jogs back and grabs my arm. “Let’s go.”
“Just tell me.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Marnie, just tell me.”
“Let’s just go over here, hold on.” When we get about a block away in the opposite direction, she pulls me around the corner and pulls no punches: “She was trying to kiss him, but he was resisting her. I promise you, he was resisting her and pushing her away. She was all over him, but he was pushing her away and that’s what matters. Look at me, honey. Look at me.”
I somehow manage to raise my eyes to her concerned face. It’s the same face she has when one of her kids or students has fallen down. She’s not denying that it might hurt, but she doesn’t want to make it worse by freaking out.
“It’s okay,” she says. “I would tell you if I thought it looked like he was into it and he was not. Definitely not. I’m sure he will tell you about it later and you’ll laugh about what a little drama queen you were about nothing.”
I try to concentrate on Marnie’s face. I do trust her. I don’t trust Sadie. I don’t know if I trust Vince, and that’s what’s killing me. She wraps her arms around me when I collapse into her, sobbing. I don’t care who sees. It’s too much.
* * *
I told Vince that I was too tired to do anything last night, which was certainly true, but I was mostly exhausted from crying so much.
I got no sleep.
I’ve agreed to meet him for lunch at the Italian restaurant where I gave him the Rumi book. I didn’t want him to come to my apartment. There are too many places he could kiss me there and make me lose my resolve.
I can control a room full of six year-olds, it should be so much easier for me to control my own brain. Not since I first laid eyes on Vince Devlin.
These eyes, my eyes, have puffy grey bags under them today. There isn’t enough cover-up in the world to hide them, or enough lip gloss to detract from them. All I can do is wear my sunglasses and hope that I don’t burst into tears as soon as I see him while shooting snot out of my nose.
I get to the restaurant five minutes earlier than our agreed-upon time, so I can get settled and calm myself down.
Un, deux, trois, fuck.
He got here before me. The hostess points me towards him, sitting at a corner table on the patio. He looks nervous. Nervous and beautiful and completely capable of breaking my heart with one look.
He sees me and smiles, stands up. I let him kiss my cheek and hold out my chair for me. When I sit down, a small sad sigh escapes my lips.
“Hey you,” he says. “I missed you yesterday.”
I don’t remove my sunglasses, because I’m already tearing up. I nod. “I missed you too.” The words come out soft and gravelly.
“Are you getting a cold?”
“Maybe.”
