Chapter 82
Even before he says it, I know something’s off when I walk in the door. The air’s being pulled taut. There’s a land mine somewhere, bound to be tripped on one way or another.
“You’re home late…” he says, scratching the spot behind his ear that always seems to itch when he’s irritated.
I dump my backpack on the floor and try to sound as casual as possible. “Yeah, I stayed a bit after my shift to help out. The place was a wreck from the summer sale…”
He shakes his head, apparently taking the news of the sales floor’s disarray to heart, then lets out a sound somewhere between a scoff and a snort.
“I’m getting paid overtime,” I shrug, kicking off my shoes. “It’s not a big deal.”
He brings his glass of scotch to his lips and downs the last sip pointedly, as if to assure me that, yes, in fact, it is a big deal. I’m guessing it’s his third glass, based on the glossiness of his eyes and the fact that he’s been on his third glass by this time every night this week.
“Well, I’m gonna wash up and watch some Survivor in bed.”
It’s hard to say what came first. His nightly alcohol indulgence or my nightly Survivor indulgence, or whether they began at exactly the same time, our respective forms of avoidance in sync, an annoying irony considering the thing we’re both avoiding is how out of sync we’ve become.
“It’s a waste of your time,” he says.
“I know.” I yank out my hair tie and rub out the sore spot on my scalp. “But it’s fun, and actually a pretty good testament to the human spirit. Plus, I need something to help me unwind after a long workday.”
“Not Survivor,” he says sharply. “I mean, that too, but I was talking about your job.”
The fight before the fight. The thing that isn’t really The Thing, but that is A Thing.
A smaller thing. A more manageable thing.
A thing that we can both agree to disagree on and talk in circles about for the time being until the braver one of us is able to say the realer, uglier thing. But, for now, this is our placeholder.
“I don’t think it’s a waste of time,” I say with a put-on air of smugness.
“Really? You think you’re learning pivotal life lessons monitoring some clearance rack of tacky lingerie?”
“Actually, yes, I do,” I say. “I’m learning about consumerism. And the loneliness of women. And the human condition.”
It’s not not true. My shifts at Victoria’s Secret have given me a peek into a woman’s psyche that is both valuable and depressing. Still, it’s a low-wage retail job. It has its limitations.
“Well good then,” he says, “glad to hear Victoria’s Secret is such a solid replacement for college.”
“I have no interest in college.”
“You’re going to piss away your potential,” he says, his words slurred. Might be his fourth glass.
He looks at me with clinging, bloodshot eyes that I want to look away from, but don’t because that would be backing down, so instead I force a staring contest. Whoever looks away first loses. What they lose, I don’t know, but they lose something.
“Your future is important,” he says. “You need to make time for your future. Prioritize your future.”
“My future is putting too much pressure on me,” I say, adamant, and he looks away, admitting defeat.
“You know…” I say, “maybe I’m just not what you’re looking for.”
There’s a heavy, suffocating silence between us.
Korgy is motionless, his face blank and unreadable.
Then he shuts his eyes and for a second I think he’s letting the tranquility ripple through him as he realizes he agrees, but then he opens them again, and they’re blazing, and he slams his fist down on the end table next to him.
“Fuck!” he yells. “I knew this would happen. I knew this would happen. You’re a pursuer. A chaser. You want and you want and you want, and you’re fucking ravenous about it. It consumes you. But then once you get what you want, you don’t want it anymore. It’s the most immature thing about you.”
“Well I’m sorry I’m so immature. I guess that’s what happens when you date an eighteen-year-old.”
He smirks a scorned, ridiculing smirk and bites his lip, biting down his anger. “Right. Of course. Convenient, isn’t it? You’re an adult when you want me to leave my family, and you’re a kid when you want to leave me.”
There’s a flash of something new in our shared look, a certain disgust that hasn’t been there before. A glimpse into just how much resentment has stacked up, and it’s unnerving.
I grab my backpack and hurl it over my shoulder. “I’m going home.”
“Hey, wait, wait a second.”
“What?” I ask, and I’m proud of how aloof I sound.
“I’m…drunk,” he says. “I’m drunk and stressed. It’s been a bad week of writing. I have no idea where to take the novel. Gwen won’t let me see Gregory. I feel bad about myself and I’m taking it out on you. I’m sorry.”
I set my backpack down again and sit at the edge of the couch next to him. He pulls me in for a hug, draping his arms around me and stroking my back with his big, warm hands.
And then, not out of respect, but out of pity…
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m sorry too.”
And we look at each other with a sad, knowing forgiveness. Sad that there’s anything to forgive in the first place. And knowing that it won’t be the last time.
I glance up at the Clockwork Orange poster on his wall, its corner still flapped over itself.
“Needs Command strips or something,” Korgy sighs. “The putty’s not enough.”