When I get back to the room, it marks two hours that I have been gone. She is on the couch, dressed and makeup done. She rushes from it as if I have scared her.
“Where did you go? I’ve been worried.”
She is close to me now, a space of only about six inches separating me from the fantasy I wish I could live.
“Sorry, it was my dad. Chat didn’t go too well, so I ended up at the bar.”
“Oh.” She isn’t fully convinced, but she accepts it, her red lips pursed. “You should have told me. I’d have come with you. I tried to call.”
“I didn’t hear it. Sorry.” I rub her arm, giving her reassurance that I am okay, that nothing is wrong—that last night wasn’t a possible mistake. I am not used to this anymore—belonging to anyone, having to tell someone where I am going. Of course, I was cognizant of the fact that I was leaving her hanging. It seems no matter which way I turn, Dickhead Street will be the road I am traveling.
“It’s okay. I’m just glad you’re okay.” She hugs me, and I can’t help but hug her back. I can’t help but wrap her in my arms, because it feels like what I should do. But I know that sometimes wrong seems right and right seems wrong. If it weren’t true, there would be no divorce.
I cup her face in my hands, memorizing her eyes and the swell of her lips. I kiss her forehead, because kissing her mouth will ensure I do what I want to do versus what I probably should do, as Isabel said. If I kiss her, I will fuck her again before we leave. I have to give myself time. I have to think.
“Get packed. We have to be out in a half hour. I arranged for the maid to come.”
“What?”
“We’re leaving.”
Confusion brims in her eyes. “I don’t understand. I thought we were leaving tomorrow?”
“Yeah, I’m—I’m just not feeling so hot. I am ready to get back home.”
Her shoulders sink, her lips moving in what looks like the beginning of a sentence, but no form.
“Get your stuff,” I repeat. “I’m gonna take you back by to see your grandmother before we go.”
She shrinks away from me, like I have just insulted her. “But I saw her yesterday...”
I glare at her, not understanding her hesitation. “Yes … and you will see her today, too. Is that a problem?”
I move past her and walk to my room, gathering my things, stuffing my shit into my suitcase, and she enters behind me. She is staring at me, her eyes burning a hole into my back. Maybe it’s too much for her to deal with, but when we left, we had said we would come by again before heading back to Atlanta. It would be terrible if we didn’t.
“What?”
“I just don’t understand why we’re leaving. You seemed fine before that phone call. Was it Deacon again?”
I don’t like her questioning me. I don’t like the doubt in her voice. That was something I absolutely hated about Eliza—always doubting, always questioning, and never believing. I know it is weird that I was gone for so long, however, so I try to keep my cool.
“No.” The word is terse on my tongue. “It was my dad, like I said. He bitched at me, and then I drank some, and I mixed alcohols. I’m ready to go.”
“How much did you drink? How are you going to drive if you’re drunk?”
She has a good point. I zip my suitcase, and then stand it up. “You can drive to the nursing home, and then I’ll be good to drive back. I’m sure we will be there for a couple of hours. I didn’t have that much.”
Her tongue clicks. “You’re being weird.”
I comb the room, checking for anything I may have missed. “I am? No, I’m not.” I lift the covers, find a sock, and stuff it in the suitcase. I roll it toward her, aware that I am puzzling her, but unsure as to how to fix it. To fix it, I have to act on my emotions and not on my wants, and maybe I should act on thoughts and on needs. And the truth is, I don’t need Emily. I want her, but I don’t need her. Nobody needs anyone.
She blocks my exit from the room, and we stare at each other for a long time. Her arms are still crossed, and hurt flexes her jaw.
“Get your stuff.”
“Okay.” Her hands fly up in half-surrender, half-what the fuck. “Whatever you say.”
“Hi, how are you today?” the chipper female voice from the drive-thru speaker asks.
“Great, how are you?” Emily’s response sounds happy, but she certainly doesn’t look happy. She raised her voice in the high-pitch that women always use at drive-thrus, but her blank expression says she is very much pissed at me.
“I’ll take the number seven,” I mumble to her.
Emily leans closer to the speaker. “Yes, let me get the number seven, please, and that’s it.”
“What?” I whisper. “You have to eat something.”
“No.”
The woman blares over the speaker again, rattling off the order and the total.
I speak over her. “Get something … what about the salad?”
“No.”
“Emily, you’re getting something.”
“I said I don’t want anything.” Her fingers tense on the steering wheel, and I give up.
“Okay.”
When she pulls around the corner, I hear my rim scrape against the curb. “Fuck!” It keeps scraping as she keeps driving. “Oh my God. My fucking rim.” I drop my head into my hands, running them through my hair and then clenching my fists.
The car jerks to a stop. “I’m … I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t be driving this. I’m a terrible driver. Awful.”
A car horn sounds from behind us and doesn’t stop. “Just go,” I whisper.
She pulls up to the window, and takes the food. I hold out my card to her, and we wait for the cashier to run it before we’re on the road again. I want to get out and check my rim, but fuck it. It’s scraped all to hell, and I don’t even need to look at it to tell. I can’t even be angry at her. She shouldn’t be driving my car, like she said. But I am extremely irritated, mainly with myself. I should have stopped this situation long ago.
I eat my food on the drive to the nursing home, because I might as fucking well. I am about to drop God knows how much money on the rim, anyway.
“It’s okay,” I tell her, finishing off the last bite of my sandwich.
“You’re just saying that.”
“Dammit, no I’m not. Stop contradicting me.”
Her eyes cut to me, and they are scared eyes. “I’m sorry, it’s just that I feel really bad about it. First the drink, and now this.”
I sigh. “It’s just money.”
She starts to say something, but stops herself. Less than five minutes later, we coast into the nursing home parking lot.
Her body turns to me as she shuts off the engine. “Do you think you could stay here this time? The whole time?”
I want to say no, want to tell her I am going to be there to support her again, but I know she needs this time alone. She needs this time to say goodbye, because it could very well be the last time she ever sees Sarah. “Take all the time you need.”
She smiles, the tension fleeing her shoulders. She gets out of the car, and I watch her walk inside, her dress flowing behind her. For some reason, I think about how sad it would be to watch her walk away for the last time, and it dawns on me once again.
I literally have no fucking clue what I am going to do.