40
Slater
I remember standing outside Alina’s door again at one o’clock this morning and thinking that knocking probably wasn’t my best move, yet I couldn’t give any fucks. After her revelations yesterday at the space centre, I had to see her.
After catching a Canucks playoff game with the guys from Sicken Union this evening (with Oliver and Charlie in tow, of course), I’d had enough. Despite their grumblings, I ditched the guys as soon as the limo dropped us back off at the Opus Hotel. I’d passed on their invitation of going to drink in Rain’s suite, and party with a few fans we’d met at the arena. Even after some good-natured ribbing from the guys about being whipped by Alina, I still said no.
I remember being pretty drunk, thanks to it being Rain’s birthday, and I remember the fuckers making me feel guilty for not partying. I remember taking the elevator up to the seventeenth floor and standing outside her door, swaying, trying to work up the nerve to knock. I remember feeling nervous, worrying I was coming on too strong by being there, but shrugging it off because things have been incredible between us since yesterday after our talk at space centre. And I remember thinking that the last thing I wanted to do was fuck things up. But I had to see her.
I remember raising my hand and knocking, once.
Twice.
And a third time, before I heard her rustling around on the other side.
I remember her opening the door, and the sound of her sweet voice as she said my name: “Slater?” She looked sleepy, and fucking edible. A fluffy white terrycloth robe was wrapped around her, her hair a dark, tangled mess. For a second, I remember feeling like a complete tool for disturbing her, until she rubbed her eyes and looked at me as if she couldn’t believe I was there.
“Hey, Shadow.” I’d leaned against the doorframe for support, drunker than I thought. “Did you know you’re my Shadow now?” I asked before going on. “I came to visit. I missed you.” Then, “I wanted to smell you,” fell from my mouth before I could filter my drunk-assed self. Fuck me, I remember thinking. I’d clearly had more than I thought. I knew I needed to reel it in, thinking that we hadn’t even kissed yet, and here I was telling her I wanted to fucking smell her?
Thank fuck she giggled at the sight of me before uttering, “I’m not so sure about jumping into sniffing so soon in our newly-formed relationship, but, yes, I like the thought of being your shadow, so I’ll let it slide. Would you like to come in? I have water. I think you need water.”
And I remember saying, “I’d love to,” and working hard not to stumble over her as she leaned against the door to let me pass.
What I don’t remember is what I might have done to make her freak out, the way she is right now in the light of the morning.
I had awakened feeling warm, my head nuzzled deep into the crook of her neck, her robe open and my hand resting on her hip over the boyshorts she was wearing underneath. And now she’s standing beside the bed, tears streaming down her face, and I feel at a total loss.
“Ali, please, tell me…what did I do?” I ask, confused, getting up and moving towards her side of the bed.
“No! You need to stay right there, Slater. You can’t, I can’t…oh God,” she sobs, tying—then retying—the plush robe more tightly around her body.
“I don’t know what I did…” I whisper, shaking my head, totally confused. “All we did is sleep, Ali. I swear that’s it.”
“I kn—know,” she stutters, “but your hand…it was there. You—you f—felt it.”
“I didn’t feel anything, baby. I swear. I’m sorry, my hand must have slipped in my sleep. I wouldn’t ever touch you without your permission.”
“You don’t get it!” she yells, and I freeze not knowing what the hell to say, or how to comfort her.
“You’re right. I don’t understand what’s happening at all.” I run my hand over my buzzed head, at a total loss. Her blue eyes flare with hurt…anger…regret? I have no fucking clue.
“I need you to leave. I need space. Time to think,” she says.
“Ali, please don’t shut me out. Talk to me,” I say, sitting on the corner of the unmade bed, the white sheets soft, like the memory of her skin.
“I can’t do this right now. Please, Slater, go. We can talk later. Right now, I need to be alone,” she pleads, walking over to the dresser and picking up a small wooden box, one I’ve seen her looking through before, that night on the rooftop in Regina.
Rising from the bed, I reluctantly agree to give her what she needs. “I’ll go. Know it’s killing me to agree, but I’ll give you space. I’m sorry I upset you—”
“Don’t you get it?” she cuts me off. “It isn’t you, it’s Her. I’ll never shake Her. I’ll never be normal, or what you deserve,” Alina shouts, throwing the wooden box against the wall. It splinters as it crashes to the floor, its contents scattering all over. Watching her running to where it lies broken, and falling down on the floor beside it on her hands and knees, almost breaks me. The last thing I want is to leave her like this, but I honestly have no clue what to do. I’ve never felt so useless before. I’ve seen a lot of fucked up shit in my days, but seeing Ali like this shatters something in me.
“Ali, let me help you,” I try, taking a step in her direction, wanting so badly to pick her up into my arms and promise her everything will be all right, but she stops me.
“Just go, Slater, please. I really need space.”
And with that, I leave her confused and pissed about something I’m not sure I’ll ever understand. I do it for her. And I hope to Christ that whatever darkness has pulled her under gives her back to me when she’s ready.
Instead of going to my room, I find myself knocking on another door, waiting for what feels like forever for it to open.