Chapter 7
seven
. . .
Armin
She pries the bottle out of my hand and slams it down on the counter. “You’re drunk.”
“Drinking: yes. Drunk, no. I’m trying to get there.” I reach for the juice glass I’ve refilled with a cheap tequila I found buried in the back of the top cabinet over the fridge.
I’d been judicious since Mia left. Reserved. I called the marina, the cops, and the guy who rented me the boat, and everyone picked up the phone only to mumble something incoherent about dirty fuel rags and a stray spark.
Was this whole town in Harvey’s pocket?
I called the office, but they didn’t have any intel to share.
So I had settled in to worry and wait, and I did a lot of both.
I restrained myself from chasing after her, though every part of me screamed about it twelve different ways.
I didn’t search anything, except the kitchen.
Then she stayed out way too long, and though I’d never tried to settle anything with booze, imagining where she’d gone and what she might have gotten up to, or worse, got my hands first to shaking and then to pouring.
I’d downed a quick half-shot, waited a moment. Looked out a window that faced the parking lot. Not one of Sunbreak Harbor’s best apartments, her place. I paced back and forth.
It didn’t look or feel like a woman’s home, that was another thing. Yeah, Mia had only been here a short time. But I’d never known a woman not to hang up a single picture or bring home one little potted plant.
How long was I going to wait for her to come home?
I poured another shot. A full one, this time. Fooled myself into thinking I was starting to like the way it burned.
How long was I going to wait for her to tell me the truth, about anything?
I poured a tall one this time.
Then she walked in, and got in the way of my drinking.
I’ve never been so relieved.
Instead of saying so, I blurt out, “You don’t give a damn about anything, do you?”
She flinches, and then hides herself from me by taking my stinking double shot and throwing it back. “Oof,” she says. She shakes her head, but I don’t know if it’s at me or the bad tequila. “That’s not true.”
I lean heavy on the counter. “Not your tequila, is it?”
“What if it isn’t?”
“Where were you?”
“At work.”
“With Harvey?”
I watch her decide whether or not she’ll answer me, a sick burn in my guts that’s not the cheap tequila alone. She’ll never be mine. Why have I deluded myself for so long?
“No,” she says.
“With who?”
“That’s enough. I don’t want to talk about work.”
“Well, my job’s to protect you. And today you wouldn’t even let me. Can we talk about that?”
She opens the refrigerator, which I’d done about a thousand times while she was gone. There was a half a forgotten omelet growing an unholy amount of fur on it in a takeout container and the most basic of condiments.
“Could you give me a fucking minute?” She swings the fridge door closed and opens the cabinet next to it. “Where are my gluten free crackers?”
“Ate ‘em,” I say. “They were terrible.”
“Jesus Christ. You ate the whole box?” She slams the cabinet shut. God, she looks beautiful when she’s mad as hell.
“Whole box? There couldn’t’ve been more than twelve in there.
It was rough, but I persevered. They were like a cross between my old Catholic school Communion wafers and a fistful of gravel.
I did you a favor.” I take her by the shoulder, spin her around to face me, the booze making me brave.
“I’ll order food for you. What do you want? ”
She doesn’t say, won’t look at me. I cradle her hand, stroke her palm with my thumb. There’s a bit of a scar. Not much. “Remember when you got all cut up in that car crash?”
She shakes her head, eyes still on the floor. “I don’t think about it.”
“I do.” I kiss her palm, and lay it against my cheek.
“Damn it, Armin,” she says. I slide my hands to her waist and rest them there loosely. One thing I learned about Mia early on is she runs at the slightest hint of enclosure.
But she’s not in a running mood. And she kisses me, hard, on the mouth. Her lips taste like the lousy tequila. They’re so soft. She pulls back and looks at me.
“I’m sorry.” I don’t know what I’m apologizing for, really. I just need her to look less like she wants to kill me. “I only want to protect you.” I push her hair out of her eyes, stroke a lock of it back behind one ear.
“Yeah. Me too,” she mumbles, her voice thick, expression unreadable.
I wonder if she means it. It never occurred to me that she might be protecting me more than I’m protecting her.
Between the booze that isn’t hers, and this shitty apartment she’d never concede to renting, there’s a lot more going on here in Sunbreak Harbor than she’s hinting at.
But then she’s tearing at my shirt, and this conversation’s over.