Chapter 6 #3
She woke up in the morning, feeling slightly hung over from the brandy and the lack of sleep, and seven days of anguish before that.
She made herself a cup of coffee, made sure the barn door was locked, and hoped he didn’t show up.
She couldn’t stop herself from reading his messages.
There were eleven of them, begging her to let him explain.
She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction and erased them all without responding.
She tried to work on a painting, and couldn’t, and went for a run on the beach, far away from where his house was.
She wanted to clear her mind and she didn’t want to run into him.
He had humiliated her enough, and genuinely hurt her.
He called her six more times, and sent seven texts.
She stopped reading them, and didn’t answer his calls.
His calls made her feel anxious, but she tried to ignore them.
He called her six more times that night, and left messages, begging her to just speak to him once and after that he’d leave her alone.
She thought about it, and wondered if she was being cowardly.
She hadn’t done anything wrong, he had. When he called while she was drinking her morning coffee, she answered, and braced herself for whatever he was going to say.
“Stop calling me,” she said for openers. “You had no problem ignoring me all last week. Pretend it’s last week. I don’t want to hear anything you have to say. Leave me alone.”
“Devon, I understand. Truly, I’m sorry. I ended up with a crisis at the meeting last week, it went on for fourteen hours, and I was exhausted afterward.
I was going to call you. I flew to California the next day, and was in meetings all week.
By the time I got out, it was too late to call you every night. ”
“That’s terrific, but unless they cut off your fingers, you could have sent me a text.
Five words would have done it. ‘I’m okay.
I love you.’ Or two words, ‘I’m OK.’ That’s four letters.
I thought you were dead for half the week.
After that, I knew I was. You screw me blind like a booty call, and then you walk out of here, and I never hear from you again?
What kind of shitty thing is that to do to someone?
Don’t call me now and tell me you want to see me. I don’t want to see you ever again.”
“I’m sorry. I really am. I do that. I get single-focused and concentrate on what I’m doing to the exclusion of everything else.
I’m not good at communicating. Or at answering to anyone.
And we’re new. I didn’t realize you’d be this upset.
I’m flying back from California tonight and I want to see you. ”
“I don’t want to see you. Wouldn’t you be upset if I did that to you?
Just vanished and didn’t answer anything?
And how’s your noncommunication working out for you?
” She could see why his wife hated him, if he did that to her.
“And besides, you’re married. I’ve never slept with married men before, and I think I’ll stick to that plan.
Married men are supposed to treat you better because they feel guilty, not treat you worse because they don’t give a damn about you or their wife.
Sell that to someone else. Or do it to her. ”
“I did, for twenty-three years,” he said, sounding morose and sorry for himself.
“That’s none of my business. It’s yours,” she said harshly.
“Charlie, what you see took me years to glue back together. Everyone I ever loved died. They abandoned me by dying. It wasn’t their fault, but they left me here alone to deal with my life by myself, and I have.
I created something I can live with. I can’t afford someone like you, playing games with me, shutting me out for no reason because you’re ‘not good at communicating’ or you don’t tell people where you are, or you want to prove how independent you are.
You can prove that to someone else. I can’t take a chance on someone like you.
The price is too high, just to prove to you and myself that I can survive it.
I can’t. I know that about myself. So be nice, go away, and try this routine on someone else.
Thank you for calling me. I’m glad you’re alive.
It makes for a nice change, and I hope you work your crisis out.
Now you don’t need to worry about calling me back or answering my texts.
Have a nice life,” she said, and ended the call.
He called back and she didn’t answer. Two hours later, three dozen red roses arrived at her front door from a florist, with a card from Charlie that said, “Please give me another chance. I really do love you.” She threw the card away, and left the roses in her garden.
She didn’t want to see them in the house.
She hoped the deer would eat them, and stay away from her flowerbeds.
She was just as upset as she had been when he was stonewalling her the week before and not responding to her messages or texts.
Either he was as big a bastard as she had thought him, or a bigger mess than she had imagined.
He seemed so whole and sane and sensible, but he wasn’t.
Whatever his reasons, his behavior wasn’t acceptable and it upset her too much to stay involved with him.
She couldn’t let him destroy her, and he could, if she let him in, and he did it again. She didn’t want to play.
—
He left her alone for a few hours then, and she didn’t thank him for the roses.
They were blood money, as far as she was concerned.
He had put her through seven days of hell because he was busy.
She didn’t even know he’d gone back to California.
A relationship with him didn’t look like a bright loving future to her.
And the roses didn’t make up for the pain he’d caused her.
She was sure he would do it again if this was his standard M.O.
She didn’t want to try again, no matter how handsome and sexy he was and how appealing.
What he had done for the past week didn’t appeal to her at all.
She went for a run on the beach that afternoon, and when she came back, there was another text from him, begging her to have dinner with him the next day, or go for a walk on the beach with him to talk things out.
She didn’t answer, and turned off her phone.
She didn’t want to give him another chance to hurt her again.
She didn’t want to go through another week like the one she’d just been through.