I’d apologized to Chantal, asking her to get dressed and then fleeing to the bathroom to calm myself down before I lost my self-control and fucked her anyway. She took it surprisingly well. Not that I thought that she’d be upset, just pissed that I’d dragged her across Manhattan and away from a night with her girlfriends for nothing. Instead, we spent the evening with a bottle of wine watching Netflix until she got tired, and then I walked her back to her apartment. I should be ashamed of myself for my behavior, but I’m actually quite proud of myself. Chantal’s beautiful, I know her body inside and out, and I was still able to resist. The hope that Robyn will want this with me is too much to ignore, and if it takes another three days or even three months to become a reality, I’ll just have to suck it up. I’ll get myself reacquainted with my hand because something tells me that Robyn will definitely be worth the wait.
ZANE SAYS THAT he’s relayed the message to his friend, Blake. I should get some answers about who this dickhead Carter works for, and where I can find them. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to contain my rage if this Blake kid makes good on the information. I’ll pay off Tweet’s debts, I don’t care about the money, but I need assurance from these pricks that it will be the end. There’ll be no more scaremongering and dead animals hanging in her bedroom. I need to know that they’ll leave her the hell alone. It’s been three days since she kissed me in her apartment, and she’s been pretending like everything is normal between us ever since. Breezing around me as though nothing happened, nothing shifted. Maybe it didn’t for her, but that’s not how it is for me. I can’t go back to being her friend and listening to her make plans to meet up with the Warbucks asshole. Where was he when she needed him? She called me the night she needed help, me and not him. Surely there has to be something behind that.
I just returned home from my meeting with CJ and a home care nurse for Dad. The meeting went as I’d expected, which was pretty fucking horrendous. Dad was so mad, complaining that we’d ambushed him. He didn’t need a nursemaid; he was a grown-ass man, and more than capable of looking after himself. Of course, this was fifteen minutes after we’d all spent almost an hour searching for the television remote, which CJ finally located in the fridge between the milk, bottles of Bud Light and a pair of his socks. It’s not that I think he needs constant babysitting, but his memory is shot to shit lately. He can recall events from our childhood that even I have trouble remembering, but forgets to turn off the oven ten seconds after using it. I can wash over most things, but when it comes to him no longer being safe, it’s not a risk any of us can afford to take. It only takes one small slip up, like leaving the gas hob on or filling the toaster with water instead of the kettle, and that would it, he could kill himself. I couldn’t live knowing I didn’t do something when I had the chance.
In an ideal world Dad would be living with CJ or me, but this world is less than perfect, and neither of us has the time or the knowledge of how to look after him in this condition. CJ arranged for the nurse to come visit, and she seems nice. Her name’s Lynda, she’s middle-aged, has great references and has over twenty years of experience working with Alzheimer’s patients. CJ insisted on hiring the best person he could find, and I’m in no doubt that Lynda is it. She doesn’t come cheap though, and what Dad’s insurance doesn’t cover, CJ and I are splitting.
Lynda suggested that Dad was still in the mild stages of dementia. He’s beginning to experience more vast memory loss now; it’s becoming more frequent and he’s displaying signs of other cognitive difficulties. The bright side is that he’s not started wandering off and getting lost, although she said that would probably come next. She expressed that some of her patients started having trouble handling their finances and paying bills. I hadn’t even considered that. By the look on CJ’s face, neither had he. Lynda also warned us to expect behavior changes. In all honesty, it sounds like it’s a living nightmare for him. I hate that he has to go through this. We arranged for Lynda to take him on as a patient right away; now we need to convince Dad that it’s for his own good.
Today’s certainly taking its toll and kicking my ass.
When I walk into my living room, finally ready to relax, there’s a note on the coffee table from Robyn. I open it up, reading the neat, precise handwriting. It says she’s headed to her friend Lucy’s right after her shift, and then she has a dinner date and will be back late. I toss my keys and phone on the coffee table, scrunch the note into a tight ball and then retrieve a bottle of Jack from the cupboard. Just when I thought today was done chewing me up, Robyn leaves a note telling me she’s out on a date.
What the fuck?
I’m starting to wonder if I manifested the whole kiss in my head in some form of stressed-out hallucination. I put the smooth bottle to my lips, thinking about her kissing someone else tonight, and tip my head back, letting the alcohol burn the back of my throat and numb the sickening feeling building in my gut.
I want to go back to being pissed at Lisa; it seems so much easier now. I’ll happily take being stressed at everyone reminding me of my cheating bitch of a fiancée over this. My frustration is almost palpable. I guess it speaks volumes about how wrong it would have been to marry Lisa if I can feel so much more about a girl I’ve known only a fraction of the time and am not even in a relationship with. I take another long pull of the Jack, savoring the way it heats my stomach, and decide to hell with women. I sit back onto the sofa, Jack in hand, and decide to reacquaint myself with the numbing effects of whisky. Some people drink for fun, others to forget. Well, tonight I’m drinking to not feel. I’m striving for detachment, and praying it comes quickly.
I HAVE THE wine breathing, food set out on the table, and the lights set low when Robyn knocks at my door. I take a second to flick on the music as I smooth down my jeans and push the sleeves of my white shirt up.
“Hey there, beautiful,” I say, pulling the door open and standing aside so she can enter. Her face lights up and a wide smile takes over when she takes in the setting. I’ve laid the table properly and even stopped at the store on my way home from work to buy candles. All women love candles, and I don’t know who this Jo Malone person is but the girl in the store said his or her brand was the best, so I took her word for it and spent a small fortune. They do smell pretty awesome.
“This looks fancy. I feel underdressed now,” she says, biting down on the corner of her lip and slipping the black leather jacket she’s wearing from her shoulders, uncovering a floaty little black dress.
“Trust me, you look perfect,” I manage to tell her as I take her jacket and place it in the hall closet. It takes all my effort to drag my eyes from her. The only thing I want to eat tonight is her; she turns me into a walking hard on.
“When you said dinner, I thought we’d be ordering pizza and watching movies on Netflix. You look like you’ve gone to some serious effort…I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be too impressed; it’s still take out, just from somewhere a little nicer than Papa John’s. It’s Thai; I hope that’s okay with you?”