Chapter Twenty #2
“I thought so, yeah. He said he’d see me later, kissed my cheek, and left. Only, I then barely heard from him for a few days, and when I went to his house to surprise him with dinner, there was a girl there in his clothes fresh from the shower.”
Exiting the changing room, Carrie guides me to the prop section, where she then begins to pick out a pair of flimsy handcuffs.
“So he was cheating the whole time? How did you let a man pull the wool over your eyes like that, Eli?” she prods, and I groan, watching her rack up my costume bill by the second.
“He wasn’t cheating. For one, we never agreed to be exclusive. For two, he came by my house later and said that she was his friend visiting from out of town and that he’d been busy with work and housing her.”
Carrie heads to the register, and I pay a ridiculous amount for the cheap costume and props that were picked out for me.
We walk across the parking lot and load the two bags into the trunk of her Honda Civic.
“Okay,” Carrie begins as she starts the car. “Then I’m confused again. What’s the problem? You’re mad he prioritized his long-term friend and his job over the guy he just met a few weeks ago?”
She’s making me sound like an angry teenager, holding Rowan to unfair standards.
“No, dipshit. The first time I slept with Rowan was at his house. Yet, the next time I came by, he said he doesn’t let people inside because he likes his privacy.
But she can go in? And if he’s so serious about me, why doesn’t he trust me in his space?
I also feel like no matter how busy you are, you should make time for the people in your life who matter. ” My tone is snarky as I speak.
Carrie snorts in response, as if to say the pot is calling the kettle black, but I don’t get any further argument as she pulls up to a Starbucks across the street from where we were shopping.
“Can I get a venti White Chocolate Mocha, hot? And—”
“A tall Vanilla Latte,” I add.
“A tall Vanilla Latte,” she concludes.
The speaker crackles as the worker on the other side responds. “That’ll be twelve dollars and ninety-eight cents, please pull forward.”
“Thanks.” Carrie pulls her wallet from the middle console between us, effectively shoving my elbow away in the process. “If I’m honest, Elijah, it sounds like you’re making excuses.”
“What?!”
The barista who has just opened the sliding drive-thru window startles at my outburst, but Carrie just wordlessly hands the woman her card with a gentle smile.
Out of respect for the employee, Carrie waits to respond, and I take the brief interlude in our conversation to check my phone—mostly out of habit—and find no new messages.
I’m not sure why it hurts; I’m the one who has been ignoring him. It makes sense that he would stop trying to make contact and give me some space.
But soon enough, Carrie’s card is returned, and our drinks are passed through the small window space.
“Have a great day,” the barista mumbles, and Carrie grins further.
“You too!” We pull away from the window, and I sigh in defeat. Today has not been my day. “I’m just saying,” she continues. “It sounds a lot like you’re finding reasons to run.”
“So you’re saying his actions are normal? That you would have been completely fine finding a drenched, hot woman with her nipples on display at your man’s front door?” I demand, and Carrie rolls her eyes as she takes a large sip from her coffee.
Only, she immediately regrets it and pants as her burnt tongue hangs loosely from her mouth.
“Ugh, hot. But no, I would not have been fine with that. But I would have been fine after hearing his explanation, considering he—Rowan, you said?—has given you no reason to doubt him.”
I blow into the small opening the lid of my latte offers, frowning. “Okay, sure. But what about letting me into his house? Or barely messaging me?”
Carrie shrugs. “You of all people know what it’s like to have weird quirks or needs, and to have no one understand you. Maybe he really is weird about his space. This friend of his is probably someone he’s learned to trust over a long period of time—that’s different from a guy he’s courting.”
“Ew, don’t say courting. I’m not a princess.”
“And the messaging thing? You’re grown men. He got busy with work and his guest, so what? When he came to explain himself, was it right away, or did he make you wait?"
“It was right away,” I grumble.
“So clearly, you’re important. Rowan probably figured you would understand that he was busy and didn’t think much of it. You’re ultra-sensitive and overthinking things because this is new to you, but it’s not new to him. He’s probably wondering right now what the hell is going through your head.”
“I don't know,” I sigh once again. Everything she’s saying makes sense, but there is still something sitting heavily in my stomach. Something that is nagging away and screaming at me. “I really feel as if he’s hiding something from me.”
“You want to run,” Carrie repeats her earlier statement.
“You’ve never had feelings for someone before, so you’re scared of being hurt.
Normally, you go through this as a teenager, when it makes sense to be irrational and freak out over meaningless things.
But you’re an adult now, and you’re finding whatever you can to use as ammunition.
You don’t want to allow him to hurt you, so you’re finding reasons to dip out now. ”
That… actually makes a lot of sense. Is this how a teenager feels when they first fall in love? Fuck, I’m glad I was unswayed as a child.
“But how do I know he won’t manipulate me or lie to me?” I ask.
“You don’t,” Carrie sighs. “That’s the risk you take when you give yourself to someone.
It’s scary and painful, but that doesn’t mean you villainize their every move.
That’s not fair to them. If you can’t find it in yourself to take a chance on Rowan, you should straight up tell him you’re not ready for this. Otherwise, you’re the bad guy here.”
“Huh,” is all I say.
“I think you need to take a chill pill and let that man fall in love with you. Stop freaking out. Let your feelings naturally develop and talk about your fears and your feelings with him.”
“That’s easier said than done.”
“You’re telling me,” Carrie laughs. She pulls up to our parents’ house and parks her car behind Jess’s SUV. “It’ll be okay, Eli.”
Her small hand rests on my shoulder, and I take in her long, curly blonde hair and her big hazel eyes.
She continues, “I think we both know surviving tonight is going to be a lot harder than whatever emotional hurricane you’ll be flying home to tomorrow.”
Carrie, as always, was absolutely right. As the day passed into night and Jeff and Kyle got increasingly more intoxicated, more socializing was demanded of me.
Jeff ran his big mouth about my date, and the whole family had a billion questions—that I expertly dodged—and then Dad got in on their game of beer pong and ended up ‘lovey drunk’ as he kissed my head and told me how much he missed me.
Eventually, I found my escape sitting in a lawn chair next to my mom, handing candy to the kids who found their way up our driveway to our open garage.
“Happy Halloween!” Mom squeals, tossing a few small, wrapped pieces into the pail of a little mummy.
“I’m already exhausted,” I complain, and my phone screen reads 9:49 p.m.
Somewhere behind me, Jeff is trying to wrestle Kyle as Jess spurs them on with laughter and bets.
“I’m so happy you’re home, lovebug,” Mom coos, leaning over to pinch my cheek. “My little policeman.”
“Have you been drinking?” I ask, and she giggles, her dirty-blonde hair brushing her chin where it’s cut into a bob.
“Only some wine.”
“You’re a lightweight, Ma. Who gave you wine?”
“Your father did, so I’m allowed!” she responds proudly.
My mother is so sweet by nature, and so dependent on my father. It’s adorable in a lot of ways.
I got my dad’s height and looks, while my mom stands at 4 feet 11 inches. And though she has her dirty-blonde hair, her green eyes were only given to Jess.
“Alright,” I comply, and I give her a soft smile.
“Are you doing okay, Eli? You seem a little out of sorts.”
Other than Carrie, my mother is the only other person in our family who is equipped to read me. She’s not quite as good at it, but she can still guess when I’m a bit off.
“I’m fine. Probably just tired from the plane ride,” I lie, and she tilts her head at me.
I don’t feel like getting into the Rowan situation twice in one day. Plus, I have a feeling Mom would just insist I fly him here to mediate with the family.
“Okay. Well, you know I’m here if you need me. You know how much I love my little lovebug.”
Her nickname for me has been around my entire life, yet it never fails to amuse me. All things considered, lovebug is the last thing I am.
“I know, Ma. Thank you,” I answer softly.
“How has your anxiety been? Are you still taking your meds when you need them?” Mom suddenly inquires.
I’m almost startled by her question. Now that I think about it, I haven’t had to take my medication since I moved to Fort Myers. I’ve even begun drinking a bit more when out with Rowan—although I still refrain from getting drunk.
Surely there is no correlation between the two, right?
“It’s been okay. The meds work well,” I offer noncommittally, and Mom smiles.
Her wrinkled hand rests on my knee just as another group of kids approaches our driveway, and I prepare the prefilled bowl of candy.
Her concern for my mental health is admirable, and the fact that I’ve been doing so well that I’ve barely even thought about my anxiety when I’ve battled it for so long is slightly alarming.
But it’s nice—having people who care about me enough to ask.
They may be exhausting, and I may feel a bit excluded from time to time due to my condition, but even I can see how lucky I am to have such a loving family.
I know there are people in this world who aren’t given such supportive families, or families at all. And I’m grateful for mine, even if I can’t love them how I wish I could.
I would rather have an overbearing, excessive family than no family at all.
Being that alone? That would be miserable. I can’t even imagine it.