Page 94 of Whiskey Throttle
I knew Em was the life of every party, but the constant flow of worried visitors trying to take my place is surprising. If he weren't still in the ICU, I wouldn't be limited on time and pushed out, but I am, and when I leave, reality crashes down on me.
Em doesn't know what happened in the waiting room. No one seemed to want to tell him. He has enough to worry about without dragging him into my shit. Massi's been more subdued. Almost a bit lost without having to babysit his brother. As if that, school and riding bikes are all he knows how to do, outside of being a gym rat.
He’s been going every day to blow off steam. The school has given both of them a pass for now. He's not riding, considering what happened to Em. I still don't know the whole story since no one wants to press Em for details, including his parents.
I don't know why exactly, but I'm still holed up at Diego's place. He says it's not good for me to be alone. It's probably true. Surprisingly, it's allowed me and his woman to get a bit closer. Smooth over the lingering resentment she has for me.
We're not sitting on the couch, chatting like chicks, but she doesn't leave the room to avoid me anymore. Probably relishing in the fact that I've been double dumped and humbled.
I am staring at the ceiling in the guest bedroom. The fan twirls on high as it always does. I've called and texted both of them. The endless silence and stubbornness are exact mirrors of each other. Neither knows how alike they can be at times. Without any of my supplies here, I can't sketch her, so I turn to staring at my phone. When I'm especially sad, I reread our text chain and the multiple texts I've sent her that show as delivered, but I've no way of knowing if she's read them or not.
Call.
Text.
Text.
Call.
I alternate depending on my mood and what I want to say. But tonight, it's painfully lonely. Replaying every micro moment from this weekend. When I close my eyes, I'm inside her. Thrusting, drenched in her wetness, watching her face break when an orgasm overtakes her. Those dark eyes stare into my being. Reading everything I want from her, want to do to her, and have her take from me. How much I long to get back to that. So sure that we're over, yet hope keeps me wishing otherwise.
My thumb hits her name, then it calls. I'm not even sure it rings before going to her voicemail. I exhale into the phone after the beep.
“Barbara.”
Pure exhaustion, frustration, and sadness bleed into her name. I've said everything I can. Apologized about a hundred times. Offer solutions and compromises. Anything and everything I can think of, but nothing. The silence grows louder each passing hour.
“If you're listening . . . if you aren't deleting these the second I leave them. Then just know it's real. For me, at least. I know I've said that already. Many times.”
I switch the phone to speaker, lay it on my chest. A social media post I saw today in the hospital, while Em was asleep, came up. Someone saying, 'Speak from the heart.' I thought it was lame at the time, but now I'm giving it a chance.
“Barbara, I know I sound like a broken record,” I whisper, in case Diego or his woman happens to walk by.
“Maybe this is easy for you. You've been through harder stuff. That divorce, Dom, and whatever is going on with your daughter. Maybe you and Dom have made up. Maybe you've taken his side. No, forget I said that. It's not taking sides, I don't know what I'm saying. Just . . .”
My exhale is sharper this time. Sitting up and staring at her name at the top of the screen. The sketch she saw on the terrace is her profile picture. My eyes trace every line, memorizing it all over again.
“Just don't be hard on me if this is the end. If we are really over. Just don't hide behind that armor you wear if you see me at another event. It's not who you are. Not how I want it to be between us. That would kill me.”
My nose starts to burn, and my throat gets scratchy. I can't help the thickening of my voice. Nor do I care if she hears it. If this is the last time I call, the last message I leave, I want to lay it all out there. Leave it in her hands.
“Because I'll always remember the woman who ran naked on the beach. Played in the waves with me and let me eat her like it was my last meal. Sorry if that's too vulgar.”
It's probably not what she wants to hear. Yet, I have to speak my truth.
“You challenge me. Tennis, crochet, and archery. You get this look about you. A fierceness. It's sexy. I've thought about it, and I did overreact about the edging. I'm sorry about that. Hell, edge me all you want.”
My laugh is hollow, not bitter, just hopeless. The more I talk, the dumber I sound. That chick on Instagram was wrong. This is making me feel worse. My eyes water, and the scratchy throat turns into a damn lump that's hard to swallow around.
“I'm captivated. I've fallen for you, Babs. Not for the idea of you, but for the woman you are. The one who challenges me. Sees me for who I am and not what my name can do. For the woman who gives as good as she takes. Who's sweet and warm once she lets me in. I want to be with her. However, she'll take me.”
Tears drip down my face. I wipe them away with my fist. Take a few breaths before ending this, knowing I sound like a damn baby.
“I don't expect you to call me. If you wanted to, you would have. But when you're ready. If you'll ever be ready. I hope you'll remember how I made you feel. How free and alive you said I made you. I'll be here, Babs. I'm not going anywhere. Just waiting. Waiting for you.”
The phone drops to the bed. Silence settles around me again. But this time, amidst the sadness, the truth of everything I can't stop wanting is mixed in. Needing to get my shit together and stop crying, I stand and walk to the en suite, splashing cold water on my face.
A knock on my door, and then it opens. Diego leans against the frame, already zipped into his jacket, helmet in hand. His expression says he heard enough not to press, but not enough to pretend everything's fine.
