31. Thirty-One
Thirty-One
Noah
I bring the beer bottle to my lips, gulping down the amber liquid in an attempt to wash away whatever shit I said to Lennon.
The stinging at the back of my throat feels like retribution. It’s also keeping me from continuing to spew emotional shit at Ryan, something he doesn’t deserve.
Noises from the bar echo across the polished concrete floors. Games sound along with cheering, drowning out the steady thump in my chest–the pained beating of my heart.
“I didn’t realize you were engaged.” Ryan grips his own beer bottle, swirling it between his thumb and finger while staring at the wooden table, our usual bar spot.
I set my drink down harder than I originally planned and wince. “Yeah, well. It didn’t seem important. Five years ago is a long time.”
Ryan’s dark eyes cut to mine, clearly seeing through my charade. “You almost married the woman. That’s a lifetime of commitment engulfed in fire. Also, you’re allowed to be hurt, you idiot. It doesn’t make you more of a man to act like shit doesn’t bother you.”
“Hm.” I take another sip, avoiding his gaze.
“Speaking of that, what about Lennon?”
My stomach drops, and the entire room feels heavy. “What about her?”
“You said dinner was terrible, you knew you shouldn’t have gotten into a relationship, to begin with, and you also referred to the entire holiday as a massive shit show that ended exactly as you expected.”
He waits for me to respond, but I don’t.
Ryan runs a hand down his face in frustration, the new tattoo on his hand standing out more than the others. “So,” he starts. “What actually happened?”
I take another drink of beer, knowing I should slow down, but something about the bite of it helps. The bubbles burn, and that distracts from the burning in my chest.
Ryan presses, and I cave, rehashing the whole thing in what is probably too much detail.
“Anyway,” I continue, nearing the end of my long venting session. “I walked the fuck out. If she doesn’t think I’m equipped to be in a relationship, then I might as well not be in one. It’s served me just fine for the past five years. I’ve had no complaints.”
“You’re hurt,” Ryan says, and I scowl.
“I mean–” There’s no sense in lying. “Sure, yeah.” I look away, briefly sucking on my teeth. “Whatever.”
We sit in silence, and I can feel his gaze on my face, analyzing the situation in a way that makes me uncomfortable. It spurs me on into speaking more bullshit.
“You know,” I start, leaning forward and gripping my beer by the neck of the bottle. “One thing goes wrong, and she just implodes. Like a fucking bomb. She attacks everyone with little regard for them. You should hear the way she spoke to her father–how cold she got.”
“Yeah, dude,” he says, so calm in the wake of my heightened emotions. “She hurt you, so of course you’re pissed. What was it you said to her at the end? I didn’t get the full scope of that. Something about her father being a raging asshole.”
Guilt slams into me unwelcomed. I look down at the table. He knows he’s got me. “I told her she was just like him.” The confession burns more than anything thus far. “I told her she hated herself.”
Ryan sits back, staring at me, and it’s as if I can feel everything he’s thinking from where he sits.
His judgment drowns out the sounds of the bar, narrowing my focus on whatever advice he has to offer. I suppose that was the point of this meeting–to seek advice. Or maybe it was to hang out. I honestly can’t remember.
When he finally says something, it takes me by surprise. “You’ve spent this entire hangout being an insufferable sulking asshole who can’t stop talking about Thanksgiving. I’m actually kind of sick of it.” Ryan places his elbows on the table. “I did an awesome fucking back piece at the tattoo shop, and I was going to show that shit to you. You’re ruining this entire hangout.”
I scoff. “Yeah, thanks.”
“Noah, it might be insensitive of me, but you have to get your shit together. Okay, she shouldn’t have taken it out on you, but her family insulted her for an entire dinner. You escalated the situation trying to be noble, and then when she lashed out, you made it about you.”
My face falls, the color draining completely.
Yeah, I do think that. Because you are, Lennon. You absolutely fucking are.
“She–” I don’t know what I’m saying, but it doesn’t matter because he cuts me off.
“Reacted? Yeah, that usually happens in tense situations. People are wired for self-preservation, you asshat. She probably grew up with one mechanism to protect herself, and you pulled that rug out from under her. She was selfish, sure, but so were you.”
I lean back in my chair, looking at the bright lights of the bar hanging overhead. The industrial ceiling scratches over the entire place. “It’s whatever, now,” I mumble. “She hates me.”
“Does she?” Ryan raises a brow. “It seems like she cares just as much about you as you do her. You both knew the exact thing that would hurt the most. How do you suppose you guys knew that?” He takes another drink of beer before continuing. “I know exactly what to say to Wyatt to hurt him because I pay attention–because I know him.”
“Okay,” I say, blinking.
“To be loved is to be known.”
That word– love –has me bouncing my knee beneath the table. I’ve thought about it–I’ve thought about it a lot, actually. And while I don’t know if we’ve been together long enough for that to be the case, I do know what direction things are going– were going.
I wouldn’t have asked for a relationship if I thought myself incapable of loving her.
Pulling out my phone, I draw up her contact, staring at the last string of messages we sent in Minneapolis. Sometime between last week and this weekend, I’ve memorized every word and hilarious gif–unable to conjure up anything to say, but now I think I have something. It might be hopeless, but it’s worth a shot.
Noah: I think the grout needs to be cleaned in the kitchen. The backsplash would look better.
Noah: I’m happy to help.
Noah: For a chance to talk to you, of course.
She doesn’t respond, and I second-guess the entire thing. I should have apologized now. I should have sent paragraphs about how I fucked up, how I said the worst thing I could think of.
When the three dots pop up, hope sparks in my chest.
Lennon: I need to hang some shelving in the kitchen, too. Tomorrow at nine?
Noah: I’ll be there.