Page 75 of Submissive Lies

EIGHTEEN

I flew home the next morning.

I had a direct flight from Chicago O’Hare. A little over four hours’ time in the air. I made it out of the hotel, to the airport, and all checked in with plenty of time to spare. I was still in damage-control mode, though. Still in a sort of mental free-fall where I kept waiting for the parachute to deploy, wondering if it would.

I was sitting in the departure lounge when I felt my phone vibrate. I pulled it out idly.

A text message. From Thomas.

Your flight gets in at 11. I’ll pick you up in baggage claim.

A surge of rage shot through me. Seriously? Now you can text? You fucker! When I arrived home, I’d every intention of taking an Uber to my apartment. I had no desire to talk to Thomas right now. I was still raw. Clenching my phone as I read the message, my teeth set on edge.

Having second thoughts about your little snit fit, aren’t you? Fucking asshole. Well, fuck you. You started this, not me.

I began typing out a reply. Sorry, Thomas, but I don’t want a fucking ride from the airport. I don’t want a fucking anything from you. I paused, my thumb over the SEND button. Wait. No. No, that was exactly what he wanted. Sending that made things easy on Thomas. Gave him the perfect out. Turned everything he’d done from his problem into my problem. Screw that shit. Change in plans. I deleted the message. I sent him nothing. He’d wanted to have his teachable moment. That’s what it feels like not being communicated with, Jen. Not fun, is it? And now he was having second thoughts. Too fucking bad. If that was his strategy, it failed. I had my own lesson plan. And when I got home, this was going to be finished. A surgical strike that ended it once and for all. Over.

Thomas met me in baggage claim. He approached, coming up to give me a hug. I flinched as his arms came around me, and the glee I felt when he hesitated, almost jerking back, was the most joy I’d had in days. To Thomas’ credit he followed through, but the awkwardness of it was undeniable. I brought my arms up, hugged him—if you could call it that—in return. The stiffness between us was palpable. A tension that pushed us part like magnets in polar opposition.

“Hey.” he murmured, pulling away. He stared at me, and the assessing look in his eyes spoke volumes. Did you learn your lesson?

“Hi Thomas.” I gave him a tight smile, and then turned to the carousel, ignoring him as I watched for my bag. I did, but not the one you’re thinking of.

During the car ride back to the apartment we rode mostly in silence. There were brief moments of strained conversation, followed by longer periods where the only sound was the road noise.

“Good trip?”

“Yes.”

“Show go well?”

“Mmhmm.”

I kept thinking I should say it now. Tell him. At the very least start the conversation. I glanced at him once, twice, each time intending to begin. But I didn’t. The words wouldn’t come. My inner demon chortled.

-I knew it. I knew it! You’re going to give in, aren’t you? You fucked things over with Steve, and now you’re going to lie to Thomas and try to salvage something out of this mess. Aren’t you?-

I am not.

-Then do it, Jen. Say. It. SAY IT!-

My anger from earlier was still there, but now there was another layer added to it. The growing irritation I had with myself, my sudden inability to ‘just say it’, became an acid burn. It aggravated me that I was hesitating. I should just tell him he was an asshole. That his little game had achieved nothing because we were over. Had been for some time, as he would have known if he hadn’t begun behaving like a dick. Not only that, I rationalized to myself, I wasn’t the only one who could start a goddamn conversation. He was just as capable as I was. And he sure as fuck had something to say. I didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to sense that.

In the end, nothing happened. Beyond the trivial two to three-word questions and answers that went back and forth between the long silences, neither of us said anything substantial. We were with each other, but we couldn’t have been further apart.

He took me to my apartment. It was a surreal situation. We were like two gunfighters staring each other down. Waiting for one to make the first move so the pistols could come out and the shooting begin. I went to my bedroom, unpacked my clothes. Thomas stayed out in the living room, doing something on his laptop. Half an hour went by, then an hour. I grew more and more angry, more and more frustrated, and more and more determined that he would be the one to fucking blink. Not me. No. He started this fucking game, but I’d sure as fuck show him how to finish it. I could do this. I’d pretend like nothing was going on. Just another day in the life. I put the last of my things away, grabbed the basket of dirty laundry, and walked out into the living room. Thomas looked up as I came in.

“I’m going to start a load of laundry. Did you want lunch?”

“Sure.”

Goddammit.

I marched to the alcove where the washer was and dumped in the dirty clothes. Okay, he’s going to match you tit-for-tat, isn’t he? I slammed the door closed.

-Well then, do something about it, Jen. Go in there and finish this. Tell him the truth. Tell him it’s over.-

No! He needs to break! He needs to go first! He started this! Not me!

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