He claims one of the overstuffed black leather chairs the decorator picked for my condo, telling me it was simultaneously masculine and homey, whatever the fuck that means. I just wanted somewhere to park my ass that was softer than a pew. Masculine and homey don’t matter to me for shit, though I have to admit that I do like my furniture. It’s great for slouching and drinking when your life is fucked up beyond recognition.
Aaron waits for me to resume my spot in the middle of the couch before saying anything. And when he does, I’m surprised by the lack of recrimination. He was the most vocal against me pursuing Viola. I figured he’d be thrilled we imploded. Or at the very least I’d get an I told you so. But that doesn’t appear to be forthcoming. All he asks is, “What happened?”
I lift my free hand in a gesture of helplessness before letting it fall back to the couch. “Me.”
His head flinches back, and his brows draw together. “What does that mean?”
I raise the bottle to my lips, but decide against it. If I’m talking to Aaron, drinking myself into oblivion won’t work. And it can wait until he’s done probing the depths of my wounds. Tequila’s always there for me, after all. Much like Aaron. Aaron’s always been there for me too, even when his own life seemed to be falling apart. We were the orphans of the group. Him because his dad died and he felt exiled from home. Me because I was actually exiled from home.
He’s managed to put his relationship with his mom back together, though. At least somewhat. I don’t think she’s quite gotten over having her grandchild kept from her for years, but Aaron won’t hear a bad word about Sam, and his mom’s smart enough to keep her opinions to herself if she wants to see said grandchild now.
Me, though? There’s no going back. Not without fundamentally changing who I am, and having tried to do that for so many years already, I’m not interested in trying again. It’s not worth it.
When I don’t volunteer any more information, Aaron gives a frustrated grunt. “I’m going to need you to be a little bit more specific, dude. What exactly happened?”
“We had a fight.” But I shake my head, because that’s not exactly accurate. “Or she had a fight with her parents. And then I yelled at her for it.” Sighing, I blink hard, frustrated at the tears coming to my eyes. “She shut me out and said she needed space. So now she has it. As much as I can possibly give her.”
Aaron doesn’t say anything for several long minutes, and I’m contemplating retrieving the bottle of tequila from the coffee table again when he finally speaks. “So you’re just giving up? Like that?”
I give another exaggerated shrug. “All I’ve done is push. Push and push and push. But she never told me to stop, didn’t put up more than token resistance, didn’t shut me down. Until last night. She closed back in on herself. Her mom told her what a horrible decision she’s making, how awful being with me is, and how she needs to come back home. It’s a familiar tune, really. I had those conversations for a while with my parents before I was officially shunned. I guess at least she doesn’t have to deal with religious guilt on top of everything? But it seems like eventually people just get tired of dealing with me. My parents. Blaire. Viola.” I wave a hand philosophically and reach for the tequila.
On second thought, if Aaron’s going to dig into my pain, I’m gonna need some anesthesia.
He grunts and pushes his hand through his hair. “You’re a dumbass.”
I blink at him, not quite sure if I heard him right. He was kind of muttering, and I’ve been drinking heavily for a while, so maybe he said something else and I misheard? “What?”
“You’re a dumbass,” he repeats succinctly, looking me dead in the eyes. “She’d just had a big fight with her mom about her life choices, then you piled on top of that. She asked for some breathing room—and who can blame her?—and you disappeared this morning without a word.” He shakes his head slowly, disbelief and disgust warring on his face. “You should’ve seen her this morning, man. She was pounding on your door, yelling your name, almost frantic. When I opened my door with her suitcase next to me and told her you’d left, she looked like someone had stabbed her. She couldn’t even speak. She just took her suitcase, went back to her room, and started sobbing.” He leans in closer, like he wants to make sure I’m really listening. “I could hear her. Through the closed door of her room. Loud, gut wrenching, heartbreaking sobs. The only reason I didn’t go to her myself was because she so clearly wanted to be alone with her grief. You broke her fucking heart, man. And for what? So she wouldn’t break up with you first?”
I squirm in my seat, hating his almost dispassionate narration. He’s working hard to keep his voice calm and even, but the content on its own is enough to slay me. I have questions, but I’m too chickenshit to ask them. How long did she cry? Did anyone go to her? Was she still in her room when he left? Where is she now?
But none of those questions pass my lips. If I were less of a coward, I could find out all the answers myself. All it would take is picking up my phone. But even if I did, would she answer me?
Sitting back in the chair, Aaron shakes his head again. “She’s not your parents, man.”
That more than anything else he’s said has me sitting up. “I fucking know that,” I spit out.
“Do you?” he challenges,
