Chapter 32 #3
If I had paid attention to my phone instead of blocking out the world to drown my sorrows in whiskey, well, it’s safe to assume Lois wouldn’t have seen my asshole this morning.
I type and erase three different drafts of apologies. The first is too defensive, the second too pathetic, the third too… I don’t know.
I hate all of them. I set the phone down and stare at the cooling coffee until the skin on top shimmers. My head throbs once in solidarity.
The doorbell rings again.
“No,” I yell at the door. “Absolutely not. Go away.”
It rings again.
I shuffle to the door more carefully this time, crack it open, and there—because apparently the universe likes to revel in my humiliation—is Lois.
This time on my porch, a grocery bag in her hands, a knit scarf thrown over her robe like she’s decided apparel is a buffet and you can add whatever you want to an outfit. Mixed genres allowed.
“I brought you a towel,” she says, blithe. “And muffins.”
I blink. “Muffins?”
“Blueberry. Your favorite.”
We have never, not once, discussed my preferences in muffins. “Thank you, Lois.”
“And a towel,” she says again, pressing the bag into my hands.
I peek inside. Towel, muffins, and—for reasons beyond me—a travel-size bottle of aloe.
“Figured you might need that,” she says, eyes perfectly innocent.
I close my eyes and accept that I now live in a daytime comedy written by a benevolent assassin.
“You are a saint.”
“You looked distressed,” she says, as if that covers the spectacle of my ass and nuts to our entire street.
“Also, there’s a piece of glass sticking out of your hair.”
She reaches up, plucks it, and drops it into my palm like a fairy godmother handing over a crystal.
“Thank you,” I say again, because the alternatives are to laugh or cry and I don’t have the energy for either.
“Is your girlfriend mad at you?” she asks, completely unbothered.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I say, and wince because that’s a technicality my heart resents.
“And yes. Maybe. I don’t know. She was mad at me before she told me she divorced her husband and then left before I could say anything worthwhile.”
“Hmm,” says Lois, which is a full treatise coming from her. “Women don’t get loud unless the quiet has been ignored too long.”
I stare at her. “Did you just… quote Socrates at me?”
“Eat a muffin, sweetheart,” she says, patting my cheek twice before leaving my porch and toddling back across the snow to her house, robe and scarf both fluttering like a flag.
I do as I’m told and eat a muffin. It’s still warm and it’s perfect and I hate that my eyes sting because Lois Schneider, that strange and inappropriate old woman, just surprised me with so much kindness after my morning from hell.
I drain the coffee, as much water as my stomach will hold, and then I text Dexter because that seems like a safe first move.
Leo, 7:06 a.m.: locked myself out. keypads dead. broke my own dormer. frostbitten toes… and pride. also maybe a testicle. neighbor saw my naked ass. please prepare to never speak of this again.
Dexter, 7:07 a.m.: on my way
Leo, 7:07 a.m.: do not come here
Dexter, 7:07 a.m.: coming with bagels
Leo, 7:08 a.m.: i swear to god you cannot read
I set the phone down, then pick it back up. I scroll to Tori’s name and stare at it until I mutter fuck it and just do it. Then I type, because if nothing else, the morning has taught me that silence will not save me.
Leo, 7:10 a.m.: I’m sorry for this morning. Not for what you did—please keep yelling at me when I’m an idiot—but for what I didn’t do. I let you believe something because I was angry. Then you told me something huge and I ignored it. I’m proud of you. Are you okay? Do you need anything?
I stare at the phone, waiting for bubbles that don’t appear. I don’t deserve a response. I send another, because if I’m going to be honest, I might as well be honest all the way down.
Leo, 7:11 a.m.: Stephanie showed up uninvited at 6 a.m. I didn’t invite her in. I didn’t sleep with her. I will never choose that again. I know saying it doesn’t earn your trust back, but I didn’t want you to spend the day picturing the worst.
I put the phone down and pace, then regret pacing because my left thigh decides to repossess all the pain from its testicular neighbor. I stop, lean on the counter, and let the hangover and the grief rehearse their grim duet.
George would hate this. He would have stood in my kitchen, filled the coffee mugs, and waited me out.
“What do you actually want, son?” he’d have asked, and I would have tried to make a joke, and he would have let it die. He was like that—gentle in a way that made you tell the truth.
What do I want? I want to stop getting in my own way. I want to stop making the easiest words the first ones. I want to keep choosing the person who keeps choosing me, even when I’m unbearable. I want to knock and then wait until invited.
I want to hold space without filling it with noise. I want a life where I don’t have to write sentences like I love her in my head without ever actually saying them out loud.
I want Tori on my couch, stealing my throw blanket and telling me my taste in movies is both impeccable and embarrassing.
I want to be the man who hears “I went to get divorced, you dumb idiot” and replies with, “I’m sorry you had to do that. I’m so goddamn proud of you. What do you need?”
Another text arrives—not from her, but from Skye.
Skye, 7:19 a.m.: if you hurt her again i will end you
I type three drafts, land on:
Leo, 7:20 a.m.: Understood.
When Dex shows up twenty minutes later he doesn’t knock, because—oh, look—he has a key.
He steps in, eyes take one sweep of my pathetic form—hoodie, limp, bandaged hand, dark circles under my eyes like a raccoon—and sets a paper bag on the counter.
“Bagels, juice, and an apology doughnut,” he says. “And I brought a pack of AAAs for your keypad.”
“You’re a good man,” I say, voice thick with relief that I pretend is about carbohydrates.
“You look like you wrestled a yeti,” he observes, taking in the general aura of a man who has recently courted gravity.
His gaze drops. “And you’re walking like someone angry kicked you in the gonads.”
“Pergola,” I confirm, grim.
He winces, then, because he’s a good friend, doesn’t joke. “You want to tell me why you were roof-crawling at dawn in February?”
“Locked myself out. Dead keypad, remember?” I take a sip of juice and make a face.
“Lois saw my entire ass.”
“Lois sees all,” he intones, then nods at the phone. “You text the Mrs?”
“Tori?” I swallow. He nods.
“You mean the Ms. Turns out assuming really does make an ass out of me. And, to answer your question, yes.”
“Yeah,” he says, sympathy aimed at my stupidity lacing his tone. “I just found out this morning.”
Dexter unscrews the battery compartment on the keypad like he owns the place. “You going to text her again?”
“After a bagel? Yes.”
He grins. “Good man.”
I take a bagel from the bag, chew, breathe, and brace for whatever comes next.
Tori’s name sits at the top of my messages. I don’t know what she’ll say. I don’t know if she’ll come over or tell me to give her space or send a single period that means heard. I don’t know if I’ve done too much damage with my shitty words, terrible timing, and stupid porch pantomime.
But for once, I’m willing to sit in not knowing. To wait like a man who understands the difference between wanting and deserving, between love and possession, between noise and care.
My phone buzzes.
For the first time all morning, the coin behind my eyes cools, just a fraction, like maybe, just maybe, the worst thing I’ve done today won’t be the only thing that defines it.
Tori, 7:25 a.m.: Your neighbor saw your naked ass?
I yell at Dexter, “You fucking told Alis?!”