chapter 16 #2
She smiles, unfazed by my tone. “You need a wake-up call. Here it is.” She wiggles her phone in the air. “I’m going to text this to you. Think about ways you can do things like Scrooge did. Then maybe, just maybe, you’ll feel like a changed man.”
“There’s nothing wrong with who I am,” I defend.
But wasn’t that the crux of things? I’d asked her if she believed people could change, because something happened to me. I feel different, unsettled, anxious for . . . something I can’t quite explain to myself, let alone to her. Now, she’s turning that confession into an assignment.
Fuck that.
While white-knuckling the steering wheel, a notification pings on my phone, announcing the arrival of her list.
I need coffee before I can tackle this shit. Real coffee. Not the fake stuff. Like a fake girlfriend telling me how to change my reality.
“You’re right, Jude. There isn’t anything wrong with you. But you . . . the real you . . . is buried somewhere inside you, waiting to be a better you.”
I’d told her last night I wasn’t a great man. Not even a good man. I didn’t see how I could transform into a better one. I wasn’t a fucking butterfly.
And I hate that she’s turning what I said against me.
“So, what’s on the list?” My back teeth snap as my jaw tightens. I don’t even know why I ask. I’m going to ignore the list and delete it from my phone. Still, curiosity has me in a chokehold.
“Just read it later.” Her voice is too cheerful, like she’s really proud of herself for coming up with something special.
There’s a list for good boys and girls. A list for the bad ones. And the list of ways to make a change.
I huff again and press my elbow to the edge of my driver’s side door, resting my temple against my raised, fisted knuckles because I suddenly have a headache. Coffee is the only solution for this discussion.
Eventually, Angelica dozes with her head against the opposite window, and I’m grateful for the silence.
Don’t you leave me, Jude. The voice whispers through my head again.
I sneak a glance at Angelica, wondering if she’s playing with me by whispering in her sleep.
Ruling out the absurdity, I think about that voice and remember again the promise I’d made to turn over a new leaf. Flip the page on the old me and start a new chapter. A better one.
“Fuck,” I quietly exhale. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I do need help.
As we pull up in front of her apartment building, Angelica slowly rouses, glancing out her window before sitting up straighter.
She stretches her arms forward and curls her back before looking at me.
Those blue eyes remind me of my mother’s favorite porcelain coffee set, matching the roundness of the saucers and the brightness of the cups.
God, I feel obsessed with the morning liquid gold right now, and if I only had a cup, I might be able to think straight.
Instead, I struggle for words. “Angelica, I—”
She startles me by quickly shifting in her seat and reaching for my jaw. Her thumb strokes along the bristly layer of hair that has grown thicker overnight. Her palm is warm from being tucked into her coat pocket. Her touch is soothing.
“Jude.” She smiles hesitantly. “I’m not a very good liar, and while we might have pulled off a fake relationship with your board, I don’t want to lie to my family. I’ve made a mistake wishing for a date to my brother’s wedding.”
“What?” I blink, not sure I fully comprehend. This sounds an awful lot like she’s breaking up with me, when we aren’t even officially together.
“I won’t need you as a date for my brother’s wedding after all. In fact, I’ve decided I don’t need a date period.” She removes her hand from my jaw, and I want to beg her to put it back.
Just give me a minute to think.
“But we had a deal.”
She wrinkles her nose. “And deals can be broken, especially fake ones.”
“But, I can be there for you.” I said that I would, and I plan to follow through.
“But . . . I don’t need you to be.” She sets a quick kiss on my cheek before popping open her door. A cold blast of crisp winter morning air fills the car as she hops out, and I follow from my side, reaching the trunk as it springs open.
Where is this rejection coming from? Is this because I didn’t have sex with her? That can’t be the reason. So, what just happened here?
Instead of asking these pertinent questions, I reach for her bag at the same time she does.
“Allow me.” It’s the least I can do after she just broke things off. I don’t know why I’m upset. We aren’t breaking up. We weren’t anything to one another. She’s been a means to an end.
My chest clenches, knowing that isn’t true.
What did she say about lying? The other night, she said pretending was like covering the truth.
The truth is, I don’t want there to be an end between us. Not yet.
“I got it.” She smiles weakly, meeting my eyes only briefly while taking the bag from me and pulling up the handle on the rolling case.
I step to the back passenger door, where her dress is hanging inside.
Angelica shakes her head. “Maybe you could donate it to a good cause. I won’t be wearing it again.” She sounds sad, almost disappointed, like never wearing the dress again is disheartening.
Or is that disappointment about me?
“Take care of yourself, Jude. You and that precious heart of yours.” She smiles again, but her eyes are cloudy. “Live a good life.”
I’ve been living a good life. I’ve had a great life. Travel and parties. Dinners and dates.
But good isn’t what she means. She means live a better life.
One that isn’t full of extravagance, wealth, and hanger-ons telling me only what I want to hear. She means a better life than the lonely life I’ve been leading.
But I don’t need this shit. She’s breaking up with me. My fake girlfriend is stomping on my weak heart.
“Yeah. You, too.”
I watch as she walks through the small courtyard and disappears through the entry door without a glance back in my direction.
Yeah, fuck this, Angel.
I slam my car door shut, pound my hand on the steering wheel, and tear from the curb with a heavy screech from my tires.
I don’t need a better life. I don’t want to volunteer or give up my time. I certainly don’t wish to donate a thousand-dollar dress to a charity.
When I get home, I toss my bag on the entryway floor and head for the coffee machine. My head is suddenly pounding. My heart races. Caffeine might be the last thing the ticker needs. Maybe I should just start day-drinking. A strong whiskey might calm me down.
Only as I open the fridge, a white bakery bag stares back at me.
One that I’ve been holding onto for a week.
Each day since I’ve returned from the hospital, I’ve treated myself to one chocolate mint.
The truffle-like candy was a secret reward.
I’d been alive another day. Plus, eating only one a day prolonged their existence.
Hastily, I reach for the bag, ripping the top of the folded-over sack open to find the bag empty.
I’d eaten the last one on Friday before I picked up Angelica and must have absentmindedly returned the bag to the refrigerator after my silent wish to pull off a fake relationship to appease my board members.
A fake relationship with a real woman.
A beautiful woman.
One who visited me in the hospital and brought me chocolates.
One who agreed to a deal but has broken the pact. Selflessly taking nothing in return for being my date. Not even keeping the dress. She could have sold it on one of those repurposed dress sites herself. She could have kept the money.
Angrily, I crumble the bag into a tight, waxy-paper snowball before tossing it toward my trash bin.
I miss the shot.
What the fuck?
Next, I whip my phone out of my pocket. The text notification from her practically glares at me. My thumb hovers over the message before eventually pressing it. Her list fills the screen.
Where can you make a meaningful donation?
How can you gift time?
Who do you need to make amends with?
Who deserves an apology from you?
How can you show compassion for another?
I slam the phone face down on the countertop and brace my hands wide on the edge. Hanging my head, I curse again.
I don’t need this.
Then I flip the phone over and read through the list one more time, noticing one important question is missing.
A question I can’t quite form yet but have an answer to already.
The one thing Scrooge didn’t get in the end . . . the girl.
My eyes close. My chest pinches. I flatten my palm over my left pec, feeling my heart galloping. I catch the time on my watch.
“Fuck it,” I shout to the empty room, then snag my keys off the quartz and stomp to the front door, telling myself I’m heading out for coffee.
Screw waiting for the machine.
Back in my car, I ask my phone for a certain church’s address, then punch it into my GPS, and fifteen minutes later, I’m parked on a side street in a northside neighborhood, without having gotten any coffee.