CHAPTER THIRTEEN
We catch up on the day as we eat and cool off from sex. We lay naked on my Murphy bed with the air conditioner blasting.
“You’re never going to believe what happened,” I say.
“Rachel is out with Matthews right now, the guy from the other night.”
“Really?” He seems only remotely interested. “Cass will be happy about that. One less heart to break.”
“Yeah, that honor now passes to Rachel,” I say.
“Sounds all kinds of wrong,” he says. “I really don’t like that guy.” He takes a big bite of his burger. “This thing is awesome,” he says through a full mouth. “You. It. Just what I needed.”
I get the sense that he’s tired. “How’d it go at the shop?” I ask.
“Long day,” he says. “Too many lately.”
“The plight of a busy man,” I say. “Demand is good, though, no?”
“Yeah,” he says, stuffing a sweet potato fry in his mouth. “Better too much work than too little.” He gets quiet.
“Everything else okay?” I ask, pouring myself another glass of wine.
“It will be,” he says.
I hold up the bottle. “Refill?”
“Nah,” he says.
I see that he’s still working on his second glass. Or is it his first? I pour the last of the bottle into my own glass. “One down, one to go,” I say.
He smiles, but I can see that there’s something else. I get quiet when I’m tired and usually just want to be left alone. I think it’s a guy thing and I assume that’s the case now. We didn’t get much sleep last night, after all.
I put the glass of wine on the table next to the bed and rid the covers of burger wrappers. Patrick moves to help, but I insist that he stays there and let me play host. It takes less than five minutes but he’s already dozing.
I get back into bed and sip on my wine. Besides a shower, booze also gets my mind going—not that that’s always a good thing.
He’s fallen asleep sitting up and I nestle up beside him. It’s barely half passed eight, too early for bed but about the right time for a power nap. I’m not sleepy though, so I grab my laptop and start going over some stuff for work. Looking over things brings Rachel and Kevin back to mind. I grab my phone and send Rachel a text asking how dinner is going.
No response.
I’ve somehow downed my last glass of wine already and get back out of bed to pour myself another. I remember then that we/I already finished the bottle. To open another bottle or not? Decisions, decisions.
Halfway through the first glass of the new bottle I decide it was a good decision. He’s got good taste in wine, like everything else.
I send Rachel another text, which she also ignores, so I go back to doing some work. I think about the upcoming trip and exactly what I’ll have to do. The thought of it in my mental state bores me and I wonder if I should find a new job. I decide to go into my LinkedUp account and update my profile and look for jobs. This will be much more exciting with another glass of wine.
Patrick wakes up as I’m pouring.
“Did I miss anything?”
“Nope,” I say, “perfect timing actually. Thirsty?”
He smacks his mouth a few times. “Yeah,” he says, “how about some water?”
“Pre or post miracle?” I ask.
“Huh?”
“Like in the Bible,” I say, “turning water into wine.”
“Oh,” he says and laughs politely. “Pre miracle, please.”
“Oh you’re no fun,” I say. I pour him a glass of water, and a glass of wine, just in case.
“How long have I been out?” He asks.
I look at my watch. “It’s almost 10,” I say.
“I’m going to have to get out of here soon,” he says. “I’ve got a really early day tomorrow. My first job is at 7.”
“You can sleep here,” I say.
He smiles. “I wouldn’t get any sleep,” he says. “You’re welcome to come back to my place.”
I’m not sure why that agitates me. Probably because it makes no sense. If he wouldn’t get any sleep here, how would that change if I went there? My thinking is somewhat fuzzy though, and past bouts with drunken logic tell me to just shut the hell up. But I’ve been known not to shut up when I should.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I say. “If you want to leave you can just say it, you know.”
He gives me a long stare.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say. I flash my pearly whites, which are probably now a slight purplish from wine. I expect to see his dimples but I don’t.
“Come over here,” he says.
I make my way over, half afraid of what he will say, half ready to challenge it.
“You shouldn’t drink so much,” he says. “You know it can kill you.”
I laugh. “What are you, the Surgeon General now?”
He gives me a look that’s not angry but sad.
“What?” I ask.
“How much have you had?” He asks.
I laugh. “A couple of glasses, maybe. You have great taste in wine, you know.”
“Clearly,” he says. He just looks at me for a moment.
“What?” I ask again.
“Nothing,” he says. “Can I hop in the shower?”
I smile with excitement at the idea. “Of course,” I say. “Come on.”
“I’d like to just shower by myself if that’s okay.”
I’m taken aback by the request. Does he need to do some thinking? “Of course,” I say, trying to play it cool. “It’s here. Let me get you a towel.”
He kisses me then closes the door. I can hear him also lock it.
I make my way back to the kitchen and start cleaning up the mess from earlier. I pour myself another glass; this time only half full, as I realize the new bottle is about half gone. The bottle makes a thud when I put it back on the counter.
Something inside me is bubbling. I suppose I don’t really have any reason to be angry, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling this way. Why does he need to lock himself in the bathroom? Does he think I’m going to come in there with a butcher knife and go all psycho on him?
I take a couple of deep breaths and a couple of tiny sips then get the idea to try Rachel again. She still doesn’t respond. She’s probably busy sleeping with the enemy.
I throw the phone on the counter and go back to cleaning.
The food makes splatters of protest as I fling it into the garbage. It’s a waste of food, time, and money—which I still don’t have much of—literally going down the drain. The dishes seemed determined to go into the dishwasher as loud as possible, plates and silverware clanging and clattering, refusing to go into the dishwasher like I want them to.
Water splashes from the sink, gushing way too fast and hard from the faucet. Nothing is cooperating and it’s making me angry.
A glass breaks. “Son of a bitch!” Another decides to fight against me and also ends up broken. I throw the pot and skillet into the dishwasher instead. They’re don’t break, but they also refuse to go into the dishwasher without force. “Come on you stupid ass sons of bitches,” I tell them.
“Need any help?” Patrick is standing there with a towel on but soaking wet.
“I know how to wash my own dishes,” I say. I go to put a plate in the dishwasher but it also ends up broken.
“Come here,” he says. The kindness in his eyes has been replaced with something else. Maybe dread, maybe concern.
I grab my glass of wine and go over to him, determined to find out.
“May I?” He asks, wanting my glass of wine.
I hand it to him.
He takes the glass and downs it, then puts it aside. He leads us to the bed and we sit. “Look,” he says, “I love a drink, but hate a drunk.”
“I’m not a drunk,” I say.
“I know that,” he says, “if you were I wouldn’t like you. But you’re acting like one.”
I start to defend myself but he stops me.
“Let me finish,” he says. “The night we met I was open late doing a job. I didn’t finish until midnight and there you were, waiting outside, insisting I give you a tattoo. I tried to tell you there wasn’t enough time but you insisted the job would be easy. You just wanted a quick one. Do you remember what you wanted?”
“I don’t even remember going there,” I say.
“Broken,” he says.
“What?”
“You wanted me to tattoo the word ‘BROKEN’ on you.”
Part of me doesn’t believe him, but the lump in my throat does. “Why would I want that?” I ask.
“That’s what I wanted to know,” he says. “When I asked you why, you got emotional, so I refused to do it.”
We’re both quiet for a moment.
He clears his throat and continues. “You were a little belligerent—had some choice words for me—but they were wet words, lubed with liquor and tears. I had to finally make a deal with you: sleep it off at my place and if you still wanted it in the morning, I’d do it first thing.
“We got back to my place and talked for a long time. You talk a lot when you’re drunk, but you had a lot on your mind. You finally fell asleep after I promised to wake you up in time for the tat. And after you gave me your breakfast order.”
He skips the part about me puking all over myself.
“You told me something else: that you weren’t a drunk, just broken.” He pauses for a moment. “My dad used to say the same thing,” he says.
“He died when I was 20, a lawyer and a broken drunk.”