Chapter 11
EVAPORATION
When I arrive back from work the following day, Rig is shoving clothes into a bag on my bed and my stomach goes into freefall.
As I stand in the doorway to the bedroom, I take in his broad shoulders and tree-trunk legs.
Oh God, already? Did the strange middle-of-the-night conversations or how intense it’s been these last few days scare him off? Or does he really need to go?
His eyes flick toward me and away again. “Good offer, babe,” he says.
“Yeah? That’s great.” Because what else can I say? This was coming. I knew it. He knew it. Goddammit. Still, it was good while it lasted. I lean on the doorjamb to make sure I don’t crumple to the floor.
He stops packing and puts his hands on his hips, eyeing me like he’s expecting some shit. But apart from the fact I love having him here, why? If someone makes you a good offer, you take it. And this is teaching me another lesson about not hoping. Rig moves on. He told me. Mrs. M. told me.
Well, I got him for six days. “When you off?” I say.
“An hour. Be a relief to escape from all the hassle. Not great holing up in an apartment 24/7, though the company’s been excellent.” He winks.
I laugh at this. I like his rough guy way of being charming. Blunt with a twist, I’d call it.
“Food’s been good, too.” I pat my stomach. “It’s about time you went. I need to lose some of this weight I’ve been putting on with all this homemade bread and …”
He takes three steps across the room, lifts me bodily onto the bed, and comes down on top of me.
“I get back and you’ve lost weight, I’ll be pissed.”
When he gets back …?
“What?”
“I like your body as it is, babe, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
He buries his face in my neck and starts working his mouth over my skin.
I dissolve into the comforter. Honestly, his big hands, the way he can throw me around …
Nungh. I try and pull my head back into the game.
He said he’d come back the first time we had sex and didn’t, and guys always make promises they don’t really mean to keep.
It’s not even deliberate half the time; they just find something better, and life moves on.
It’s been amazing, but maybe I got all he’s got to give.
“How long are you away for?”
“Not sure. It’s an open-ended contract I have with them.”
Figures.
“But usually it’s a month maximum on a rig. It’s exhausting, twelve-hour shifts, day and night, no days off. Lots of men, and a significant proportion of them are depressed as hell. It ain’t a decent place to be most of the time.”
I run my hands up and down his wide back. Even after six days, I’m going to miss him.
“You can communicate with me, babe. Not going to the Antarctic, though temperature-wise it’s not far off. You can email. There’s Wi-Fi and my phone has a camera.” He waggles his eyebrows.
And if I’m surprised by this offer, I’m determined not to show it.
“You offering to give me a show?”
He chuckles at this. “Not likely. The accommodation is in dorms. I’d get some serious stick for getting it on with a woman.” His eyes roam over my face. “Thanks for putting up with my grumpy ass.”
His grumpy ass, indeed. As if I could ever have said no.
Within the hour, he’s gone. I kiss him on the doorstep and tell him to take care of himself.
Then I head back into the empty apartment and look around for any sign he’s coming back, like a pair of pants flung on a chair or a book, but there’s nothing.
I drink vodka, but after sipping on a glass, I don’t really feel like it, so I lie on the bed and sniff his pillow.
Rig gave me some respite for a few days from the noise in my head, and God help me, I can’t quite squash down the hope that he’s coming back.
I roll onto my back and stare at the stains on the ceiling.
The only thing I can do now is try to hold on to the feeling that something has changed for as long as I can.
I’m already far too attached to him for something that was supposed to be casual.
Attached to a man who’s never here for any fixed length of time.
Charlie’s gone, too. Ashes in the ground.
I clench my fists and then blow out a long breath.
I head to the dryer and pull out the old bra, top, and leggings I wore to the gym.
I yank them all on and, before I can talk myself out of it, I pull on my sneakers by the door and head down the iron staircase.
I just have to move. Anything to stop the memories crowding back in.
When I get to the street, I start running and by the time I’ve gone one block, my breath is sawing in and out of my lungs and the pounding of my heart is all I can hear in my head.
My dad taught me never to stop, so I run another block and then I take a left turn, and now I know that I’m actually going to die.
My heart feels like it’s swelled to twice its normal size, and hearts don’t do that.
I’m going to pass out on the sidewalk and Mrs. Stevens, who lives on the corner with her wheezy little pug, will find me when she’s out walking her dog and call 911 and they’d take my body away in a black body bag.
I take another left turn and run past the silent bungalows, people happily watching Wheel of Fortune with no idea that someone is dying on the street outside.
When I get back to the apartment, I grab the iron handrail and sink onto the bottom step.
There’s no way I can climb back up there, maybe ever.
I wish I’d thought of leaving a sleeping bag down here because I’m gonna have to spend the night in the parking lot.
After about half an hour, I manage to drag myself up the steps and open the front door with shaking hands.
Fuck. Who are all these assholes that spout the bullshit about “just do it”? Come the revolution, they should be the first against the wall for the grief they have caused so many ordinary people.
Two blocks. That’s all I’m capable of now. Why did I decide to run, for fuck’s sake?
I lie down on the couch and my throat goes tight, tears welling up and tracking down my cheeks. Of course I’m crying because I’m so relieved that I’m still alive, and not because I’m sad that he’s gone.