84 Rhys
84
Rhys
The hardest thing I’d ever done in my fucking life was putting up with that awful meal in the private dining room of a fancy restaurant with tiny portions of bullshit. The situation was killing me. Everything was killing me. The way I’d felt in those months, lonelier than ever, more lost than I’d ever been. My stomach shrank when I saw James wrapping his arms around her, resting a hand on her knee, gawking at her like an idiot. I think that’s the first time I ever felt real envy, the twisted kind that fucks you up inside. Envy of stability, of how clearly I saw what I could have had if I’d known how to do things right.
“Ginger told me you’re putting out a record.”
“Yeah, that’s the plan. If I can ever finish.”
“I don’t understand much about electronic music. It just sounds like noise to me. But I guess it’s not easy; there must be a knack to it, like everything. It’s interesting.”
I nodded, distracted, trying to figure out what the hell this slop on the plate in front of me was. I’d ordered something with potatoes, and either they were invisible or they were green. I could feel Ginger’s eyes piercing me. Pleading. Shouting in silence. If only I knew her less and couldn’t read her face…
But I couldn’t fake it, I just couldn’t.
I wanted to go.
Disappear.
Turn to smoke.
Nothing.
“I’ll be back in a minute.”
I got up and went to the bathroom. It was just as pretentious as the food. I closed the door and looked at myself a few seconds in the mirror before taking out my wallet and the baggie. I grabbed a credit card and cut a line on the red marble counter. When I came out, five minutes later, I felt cooler, more chipper, more prepared to put up with that torture.
“We were about to order dessert without you,” James joked.
“Don’t worry about it. I don’t like to mix chocolate and lines,” I murmured. I felt Ginger tense up and regretted my words. Shit . I wanted to see the guy in front of me as a straight-up dickhead, but really, I was the only one at the table acting like one. “The apple pie looks good though.”
I decided to make an effort.
Took a deep breath.
Rubbed my nose.
Tried. Tried.
“Should we share something?” she asked James.
“Sure. Cheesecake sound good?”
“Yeah, for sure.” She closed the menu, satisfied.
As we ate dessert, James and Ginger talked and talked about the Anne Cabot case, the success of the launch, the upcoming catalogue, which she was working on now…
I tried to listen. I really did.
I don’t know how long the meal dragged on, but it felt like an eternity. James said goodbye at the door to the restaurant. He had to hurry back to work. He shook my hand firmly. Told me he was happy to meet me after hearing so much about me, and hurried down the street to a taxi stand.
We stuck around a while longer. Five minutes? Ten? Maybe. Just standing there in front of one of those red phone booths you see all over London, watching the traffic pass by on the road. I had a knot in my throat.
“You’ve gotten some new tattoos…” Her voice was barely a whisper.
I looked at my left hand and moved my fingers. I had a musical note on my ring finger and a little anchor on the back of my hand. I looked up at her. It had never hurt so much, just the mere act of looking at her. I forced myself to breathe, but the air that reached me wasn’t enough to bear it.
“What’s the anchor mean?” she asked.
“Nothing. I need to go, Ginger.”
“Rhys, I’m so sorry about all this…”
Her eyes were full of tears. I just wanted to escape. I couldn’t console her. I just couldn’t. I had to leave. I had shown up here not knowing what I was looking for, meaning to surprise her, just following an impulse. An impulse named Ginger. And there was nothing here. But that nothing was everywhere, on the island, on every continent, in the lights of every city.
“I’ll write you soon, Ginger Snap.”
I bent down, kissed her on the cheek—it tasted salty—and walked off down the street. I tried to breathe. Breathe. Breathe. I felt her behind me before her arms surrounded me. And I stopped. And she came around in front of me. Her eyes were red, her lower lip trembling. I could tell she was trying to find the words.
“Promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”
“What do you mean, Ginger?”
“Just…promise me.”
“I’m fine. I’m great.”
“That’s not true, Rhys. And I can’t stand not being able to do anything about it, feeling like it doesn’t matter what I say, because all I can do is make you angry at me.”
“Look, don’t be sorry.” I kissed her forehead and brushed her slightly shaggy hair away from her forehead. “Try and be happy, okay? He seems…like a good guy.”
She nodded, still crying.
I didn’t want to drag the moment on any longer. So I left her there. I walked off, getting lost among all those strangers who seemed to know where they were going, whereas I was adrift as always, wandering, stumbling, running into things, crumbling…