This morning, I woke to a text message from Whitney telling me she was sick and wouldn’t make our date. She didn’t take my calls and never responded to a single text I sent after. Something in my gut tells me this is bad. She’s having second thoughts about us. I shouldn’t have used the word “boyfriend.” I should have kept things light until she was ready. Until we’ve talked more.
One of the suggestions Carmen had was for me to take Whitney to the club during off hours. Let her see the unfiltered look. The cracks in the façade we all put up every night. That was going to be a topic I planned to broach tonight.
I know my job is a problem for her. Sure, I could quit and take on more student loans. If it’s a choice between my job and Whitney, the choice is simple. Debt sucks and something I’ve tried to keep at a minimum. But my life is better having Whitney in it. She’s more than my girlfriend, she’s my best friend, and I love her.
I’m in love with her.
My feelings are more than the teenage puppy love of high school. I look at her now and I see all the great things that are possible. I see a future. Then I go to work and guilt consumes me. I put on a good face and do my job, but I’m miserable. My mom is always talking about fate and destiny. Finding your one true love and knowing immediately it’s meant to be. She’s teased me for years that I set my standards too high and will die a lonely man. I have argued it isn’t that my standards are too high, it’s that I am not willing to settle, to go through the motions.
That’s why my job hasn’t been a problem before. It isn’t like I’ve been living life like a monk. I date. I fuck. I have friends. But until Whitney, I’ve never seen the possibility for a future.
I refuse to allow her to sabotage what we have. I know it’s good and means something. So, instead of trying to call her again, I am standing on her doorstep with a cooler of food. I chopped, seasoned, and marinated at home and packed everything up in a cooler, stopped for wine, and just in case she’s really sick, some ginger ale and chicken noodle soup.
Knocking for a third time, I wait impatiently for someone to answer the door. When it’s clear she’s not going to open any time soon, I pull my phone from my pocket and dial her number. Smiling when I hear the phone ringing on the other side of the door, I knock while it rings.
“Dammit to hell.”
Laughing louder at her response on the other side of the door, I shout, “Whitney Wheeler open this door.” Seconds turn to minutes and still nothing.
I try again. With my hand resting on the door frame, I lean forward and say into the door, “Baby, please open the door. I have food for you. And wine. Unless you’re too sick for wine. Then I have chicken noodle soup and a chick flick.”
There’s no chick flick but she doesn’t need to know that. After a long pause, the lock clicks and I sigh in relief. When the door opens, my heart sinks. Her beautiful caramel colored eyes are red around the edges. Puffy doesn’t properly describe her eyes and her normally tanned skin is blotchy. She really is sick.
“You really are sick,” I say quietly.
Instead of answering, she shakes her head before walking away from the door toward the kitchen. I take that as my cue and follow her. When I reach the kitchen, I see a few empty bottles of wine on the counter and a few shot glasses in the sink. Maybe her sickness is less contagious than I originally thought. Hangovers are sometimes worse. Placing my cooler on the counter, I open it and begin unpacking the food to place in the refrigerator.
“What are you doing?”
“Unpacking the food I prepared. If you aren’t going to come to my house for our date then I figured I’d come to you. Now, are we eating soup or this stir fry I planned on making?”
“What kind of wine did you bring?”
Tilting my head, I assess her for a minute. She’s wearing a pair of low slung sweats with the waist rolled a few times. Her tank top is tight and by the way her nipples are greeting me, I assume there’s no bra underneath. Instead of a messy bun like she usually wears around the house, her hair is in two braids, one on either side of her head. Her eyewear choice is a bright purple pair of glasses and I smile a huge grin.
“You look like teenage you.”
Rolling her eyes, she pushes me out of the way and takes the wine from the cooler. A small smirk appears on her face as she reads the label. Her favorite. When I reach around her to pull a second bottle from the bottom of the cooler, her smirk widens. I spy a stemless wine glass drying on the counter.
“Here,” I say unscrewing the top and pouring some in the glass I found. That’s right, my girl likes a wine with a screw top. During one of our late night conversations, she proudly proclaimed the screw top an efficient wine drinker’s best friend. “Now, go enjoy that while I get this dinner going. Where’s your wok?”
“Wok?” Her face scrunches in confusion, and I bark out a laugh.
“Fine, a large skillet?”
Whitney points to the cupboard next to the stove before turning on her heel and walking out of the room. Left alone, I go about preparing our dinner. As the meat sizzles in the skillet, I pour myself a glass of wine before placing the bottles in the refrigerator. Alone in the kitchen for the next few minutes, I tap out a text to Carmen with an update.
Me: She let me in.
Carmen: That’s a good sign.
Me: She’s isn’t sick. She’s been crying. She looks awful.
Carmen: LUKE! Do not tell her that.
Me: I’m not a moron. But I feel like shit. I don’t know what’s wrong or what to do.
Carmen: That’s why you’re there. Be honest with her. Talk to her. Tell her how you feel.
Me: You said not to. I’m supposed to be wooing her.
Carmen: Yeah, that ship sailed the minute she told you she was sick. Maybe it’s you she’s sick of.
Me: Shut up.
Carmen: *shrugs* It could happen. You’re kind of annoying.
Me: Goodbye.
Carmen: Good luck!
Stirring in the vegetables, I hear a door close down the hall and the shower turn on. Lowering the temperature of the pan to allow Whitney time to shower, I enjoy my wine and a little game of breaking up candies on my phone.
Thirty minutes after I sent her off with her wine, Whitney reappears in the kitchen. Her hair is damp and piled on top of her head. Her glasses are still on but her skin looks less blotchy, and her eyes aren’t nearly as puffy as they were. Instead of the low slung sweats she was wearing before, she’s in a pair of black workout leggings and a baggy tank top. The strap of her red bra peeks out of the side of the tank. My mouth goes dry at the thought of seeing her in only that bra, and I take a long drink of the wine. The tartness does nothing to quench my thirst.
“Smells delicious. I didn’t realize how hungry I was,” she says, leaning over the pan and taking a long sniff. Something about that move does something to my dick because it twitches not once, not twice. Three times.
“It’s all done. I also heated a little rice if you want some.”
“That sounds great,” she says while pulling two bowls from the cupboard and handing them to me. I scoop some rice into each and then dish out the meat and vegetables.
“Will you grab my wine glass? I’ll carry these to the living room.”
Nodding, Whitney grabs my glass and then pauses at the refrigerator before opening the door and pulling the open wine bottle out. Of course she did. When I look at her questioningly she only shrugs her shoulder in a “What can I say?” way before also grabbing a few napkins and walking ahead of me to the couch.
Once we’re both settled on the couch, we dig into our meal. Silence fills the room but for the clanks of our silverware on the bowls. After a few bites, I can’t hold back anymore.
“Did I do something to upset you?”
She’s either ignoring me or contemplating a response because for what feels like an eternity, Whitney doesn’t answer. She’s completely enthralled in her food. After a few more bites, she sets the bowl down on the table and wipes her mouth with a napkin before taking a sip of her wine. Turning her body toward me, she floors me when she speaks.
“Jessi and I went out last night.”
Dread hits me over the head. What if she met someone when she was out last night? Our conversations over the last few weeks run on rapid replay through my memories, and I know I’m not alone in this relationship so I doubt she met someone. Then again, she could have reconnected with Trenton. Needing to ready myself for this conversation, I mimic her movements from a few minutes ago and set my bowl on the table before leaning forward, my elbows on my knees, head in my hands as she continues.
“I didn’t want to go. I was happy to stay home and watch a movie and wait for you to call me when you got home. Then I realized we’d already talked and you probably wouldn’t call. She had a crap week and wanted to unwind so I agreed to go. I told her about our earlier conversation. Excited for us, she wanted to go to . . . to the club.”
The last part drops to a whisper and my stomach drops as I lift my head to look at her. The club. Shit. Whitney is looking off in the distance, her eyes on something riveting across the room.
“Whit—” I begin, but she cuts me off with her hand.
“It was fine at first. No big deal, really. Even when the lights flickered and you started dancing. It was hot, Luke. God, you’re so talented. I was mesmerized.” A laugh escapes her but it isn’t one of humor; it’s full of sadness. Her tone is flat, no emotion evident.
“I watched the other guys dancing behind you, never taking a spot in the front. You owned that stage, and I was so turned on. God, was I turned on. I remembered what it was like to have you close to me on that stage. As horrified as I was that night, I was well aware of how you affected me.”
Reaching for her wine, she takes a large sip before setting it back down and continuing. “One of the guys placed a chair in the middle of the stage, and I knew what that meant. I knew it meant a woman would sit there. She’d sit there for you to perform for her. On her. Around her. I thought I could handle it. Seconds felt like an eternity, and it was then that I realized I have never been more wrong. I watched you dance, take your shirt off, and whisper in her ear. I tried to block it out. To not think of what you may be saying to her, but I couldn’t help it.”
A sniffle escapes her and I watch as Whitney wipes a tear from her cheek. I want to reach out and touch her. To hug her to me, but I know I can’t. I know that if I do, she’ll recoil. As much as every part of me wants to comfort her, I won’t.
“I felt like a fool the entire drive home. I was that woman a few months ago. Heck, I’ve been the first to stand up for female dancers in a “do you, girl” kind of way. But sitting there, watching you dance for another woman. Take your clothes off for her, it killed me, Luke.”
“I was with Trenton for years and walked in on him a week before our wedding with another woman, and my reaction to that was only a fraction of what I felt last night. That made me realize something that had me drinking two bottles of wine last night.”
Reaching my hand toward her, I place it on top of hers as she continues. “I shouldn’t have reacted like that. Luke, I don’t think I can do this.”