Page 89 of Last Love

Ryder

- “I’m always trying my hardest.” -

Time is an interesting fucking concept.

Some say it’s an illusion.

Some believe it can be manipulated.

What do I know about it?

That when you need it to move fucking faster rather than the slower, the shit adapts to a snail like speed.

The buzzing of my phone in my hands once more causes my heart to jump in hope that it’s Pres.

Shelly: We should binge Community next.

Shelly: Do you think that Presley would enjoy that one?

Hard to say what my girlfriend will do any more.

Never thought she’d just fucking disappear for the entire day without a single goddamn word.

Only reason I know she’s alive is because all six times I called her office, Clemmy said she was “unavailable” rather than “dead”.

New surges of frustration have me shoving the device back in my pocket and diving a hand into the jar of Jolly Ranchers wedged against me on her couch.

Like fun toothpick holders that are all around her townhouse, there are strange, shaped jars constantly filled to the brim with hard candies for the instant a craving for something different strikes. And to make it more comforting rather than mocking, I’m not entirely sure what type I’m gonna find when I reach into one. Pres mixes them up to keep me on my toes. To keep the practice of reaching for a treat rather than poison fun.

Uplifting.

Fuck, where is my woman now to help rescue me from the substance siren who is doing everything in her powers to convince me that one little cigarette won’t hurt?

One quick bong toke won’t be the end of the fucking world.

One tiny little pill won’t ruin all the months I’ve put in.

I yank my hand out of the jar and throw the handful of candy I had collected elsewhere, allowing the hand to meet the other in my unwashed hair.

I tug.

And tug.

And pull, looking for the reprieve I know is there if I just anchor onto it.

Rocking on her couch slowly begins while the FRIENDS audience laughter mocks me.

Fuck!

It’s really me they’re laughing at.

How pathetic I am.

How pathetic I’ve become.

How I fuck up everything I love.

All of a sudden, I hear the sound of the front door opening and my head snaps that direction.

Relief that she actually came home is the first emotion to fill me while undeniable rage is the next. “Where the fuck have you been?!”

Her tone remains surprisingly even. “Work.”

“Not since fucking three o’clock when I last called your office.” I’m up on my feet wanting to be close to her. Needing to be. “Where the fuck did you go?!”

She heads for the kitchen to place down her bag in one of the barstool seats. “Out.”

“Out?!” I swing myself wide so that I’m on the opposite side of the island. “Out where?!”

Her hands wind around the back of the chair. “A place.”

“Pres.”

“Oh no,” her voice takes a mocking tone, “do you not like having only part of the fucking information to a situation?”

The verbal punch lands in the chest like she intended.

“I went to a late lunch.”

“It’s almost fucking nine.”

“And it turned into enjoying the first two performers of Piano in the Park.”

Irateness makes the craving for something stronger than candy deepen. “That sounds like a fucking date.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Who the fuck were you with?” Folding my arms across my white t-shirt is done in unhappiness. “It wasn’t Katherine because she’s out of town for work, and it wasn’t Jo because she sent me picks of the newest McCoy to be born.”

“Xander.”

“Xander?!”  His name tenses much more than all of my muscles. “As in your fucking ex-boyfriend?!”

“Yup.”

The casualness of her attitude claws at my dangerously unstable conscience. “Why the fuck would you go on a date with your ex-boyfriend?!”

“Wasn’t a date.”

“That shit sounds exactly like a fucking date!”

“And you having a naked fucking female on your couch looks exactly like you cheating on me!”

“I’m not fucking cheating on you!”

“And I didn’t fucking go on a date with my ex!”

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