Page 67 of My Debacle with De Lorenzo

“Neither does she. I’m working on it.”

I think about it before I reluctantly give a nod of approval. “Alright...but if you hurt her—”

“You’ll cut my balls off.”

“Glad we have an understanding, Dipshit.”

After we’re done in the kitchen, I go back up to my room and pick the piece of crumpled-up paper out of the waste basket. I toss onto my bed belly first, then just stare at his number, debating if I should call him or not. Half an hour passes before I finally settle on a text.

Me:Why did you give my sister your number?

I can see he’s online and I wait for him to read the message. My phone starts ringing not even three seconds after the ticks turn blue.

“Hi,” he says casually.

I cut past the pleasantries because I want answers. “Don’thime.”

“You know, I actually asked Scott if he wanted to go surfing earlier because I was convinced you threw my number away. He had guitar lessons, though, so he couldn’t make it.” He pauses. “I’m really glad he said no now.”

I don’t correct him about Scott’s true whereabouts because that’s not my concern right now. “Stop beating around the bush. Answer my question. Why did you give my sister your number?”

“I wanted you to call me.”

“Why?”

“I was thinking we could compromise. Go out with me tonight.”

“Like, an actual date this time?”

“We’ll decide what to call it after we compromise.”

I know what Cat said and I can understand his wariness, but the lack of a definitive answer is still frustrating. “You know, De Lorenzo, you keep doing this?”

“Wait. Hang on a second. I feel a rant coming on.” I hear some taps and beeps. “Okay, I got my timer ready. I’m gonna give you five minutes to go off on me, tell me everything that annoyed you, frustrated you, hurt you. I wanna heareverythingfor five solid minutes...and then I never want to hear it again. Say whatever you need to say because, after that, we’re putting this fight to bed. Okay...Ready? Go.”

For the first ten seconds or so, I’m silent because...did he just put me on a timer? Like, I’m supposed to condense all my feelings into a mere five minutes? I do go off on him. First about this five-minute thing then I move on to what he said to me on Wednesday. A lot of it is a repeat of what I told him last night, but I don’t care. I remind him that what he said made me feel worthless, and that I was only good for a measly ten minutes. I tell him that he made me feel like my friendship meant nothing to him. Oh, and by the way, it’s not even a friendship.

He says nothing during the whole onslaught except throwing in an occasionalyes,okay, andI understand. I wait for him to argue, and he doesn’t. I say things to purposely piss him off, but he doesn’t interrupt to enforce his point. I keep going until I can’t go on anymore, and he listens until I have nothing left to say.

“Are you done?” he asks, and I’m quite surprised at how calm he sounds. “You still have forty-seven seconds, and I want to make sure you got it all off your chest before I speak.”

I think about it and there isn’t anything more to add. “I’m done.”

“Okay. I’m going to speak now, but what I’m about to say is not up for debate. I heard everything you said with no argument. I would like the same courtesy. Before I continue, do you confirm that you will not contest anything I say? These aremyfeelings;myopinions, and you can’t redirect them in any way. You don’t have to believe me. You don’t have to agree with me. But you’re not allowed to argue these points because this is howIfeel, and you can’t change that. Do you accept this?”

It feels like I’m installing a new app and it’s asking me to accept the terms and conditions, but I haven’t read them, so I’m nervous to click on accept because I don’t know what I’m signing up for. “Yes,” I answer warily.

“Alright. Here goes. I care about you. You mean a lot more to me than just ten minutes. What I said was thoughtless. I never should’ve said it. I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

I wait for him to tell me how irresponsible I was, how I shouldn’t have gone to the party with David, how I was wrong to get so drunk, but after a few seconds, he’s still silent. “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say to me?”

“Yes. You still have forty-seven seconds if you have anything else to add.”

I want to say something. I feel like I need to say something, but I already said everything I wanted to say earlier. He basically addressed all my issues in six short sentences, and I accepted that I wouldn’t argue any of his points, so that leaves me with nothing to say.

“I have nothing to add.”

“Then that’s the end of this fight. Will you go out with me tonight?”

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