That Pill They Call Pride
Kenna
He really left.
Damn, I just let him leave.
There was more than enough time to stop him. I should have gone to him.
Two hours have passed now, and I don’t know where he is, what he’s thinking.
Bastard. I actually called him one. Never, in all the fights over all this time, have I ever called him that.
Once, when we were in high school, I called his house, and his aunt asked me what I wanted with a bastard child like him. When I asked him about it, he told me his mom, her husbands, and his whole family gave him that label.
I sorely regret spouting such a disgusting word in the haste of an argument. Way to go, me. Way to prove I’m nothing like his mom. That one word just put me in a category with her that I will never be able to take back or get out of.
After five hours, Jake still hasn’t come home, called, or texted. My emotions are all over the place. I’m angry that he left me, regardless of the fact that I told him to. I’m heartbroken to be fighting with him. I’m uncertain of where we go from here. And at this point, I have cried so much my eyes are swollen and burning.
The right thing to do would be to call or text him.
On one hand, I want to reach out to him, but on the other, I want him to come back to me. That pill they call pride is hard to swallow, and I’m currently choking on it.
Saturday evening passes in a blur. I attempt yet fail to eat. Apparently, I spend the night on the couch because I find myself waking up there late Sunday morning. A quick glance at my phone shows me that Jake is still on radio silence.
Out of worry, I go online to check our accounts and credit cards, finding relief that he is okay when I see that he stopped for gas about two hours ago. There are no additional charges to any area hotels. In fact, there are no other charges at all. So where did he sleep last night? Is he hungry? Has he eaten?
Sunday quickly fades into Monday with no contact from Jake. I check my phone countless times, and each time, the temptation to call him eats at me. I never manage to hit send on the call or text, though.
Blindly, I go through my morning routine. Regardless of what goes on in my personal life, I have a job and responsibilities.
On my way to the office, I drive by the garage to find Jake’s bike parked in his usual space. Relief and anger engulf me. I’m glad to know he’s okay, yet pissed that he hasn’t come home.
Where has he been? Why won’t he come home? Certainly, he knows, when I kicked him out, it wasn’t for good.
***
Jake
The distinct sound of that Mazda’s exhaust is one I would recognize from anywhere. Ryder and I spent two days installing the custom pipes a week after I bought the car as a surprise to Kenna. We voided that new car warranty within the first month with all sorts of after-market modifications.
Watching her car slow down enough to see my bike makes my chest ache. She told me to leave, so I did. Until she wants me home, I will sleep here at the shop.
“Your woman is drivin’ by,” Harrison comments, coming over to me.
“Yeah,” I retort, feeling my stomach churn.
“You gonna let her keep going?”
“If she wanted to stop, she would have. She didn’t. I’m not chasin’ her.”
He shakes his head in disbelief. “Women like to be chased. It shows you care, dickhead.”
“Kenna and I do shit our own way, Lawson.”
He raises his hands in surrender. “Looks to me like your way ain’t workin’ no more. Don’t let something good slip through your fingers because you want to be a stubborn jackass.” He walks away before I can respond.
I look outside to see she hasn’t turned around. I feel like I could vomit as my emotions twist me up inside.
How do I fix this?
Space.
We need space.
Ryder’s been joking about installing a shower here at the garage. Over the last couple of months, Brayden, Ryder, and I have all found ourselves staying here for different reasons.
It’s a bit immature of me to stay away from Kenna. The best thing for me to do is go home, face the consequences, and make a decision together for the future. I just can’t bring myself to.
What if it’s over?
Knowing Kenna is gone, I leave work to go home. Walking through those doors, I’m filled with anger.
I take the stairs two at a time, ignoring the hole in the wall from Saturday morning. I need to shower, change, and get the hell out of here.
Standing in the closet, drying off, I decide to pack a bag for a few days, just in case. After all, Kenna may not be reaching out because she doesn’t want me here. She certainly knew I was at the shop and didn’t stop.
Space.
She wants it, too.
Thoughts flood me, Kenna’s voice ringing in my ears. I have to get out of here. I’m thankful we are so busy at work because it’s a much-needed distraction.