I sat there, clutching the wheel with white knuckles. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
I’d stayed the night enough times to know exactly how unlikely it was that a truck would be parked in her driveway at any time of the day, let alone this early.
Nobody came here. She never had visitors. And besides Brandon and me, she didn’t have friends who drove trucks.
She was in there with some guy. She thought I was out of town and she’d brought home some guy.
He’d stayed the night.
Is this what she’d been doing while I was on the strike team? Is this why she hadn’t answered my calls?
The reality of what I’d signed up for finally came full circle.
Disgust, anger, hurt, disappointment—they coursed through me and settled in my chest like a cinder block. My eyes pricked with tears and I pinched the corners, furious with myself for thinking she’d wanted me.
I put the truck in reverse and backed down the street and parked there, looking at the house, my mind racing. I wanted to kick in the fucking door and beat the shit out of him, whoever he was.
But could I really be angry?
She’d been clear. She’d been crystal clear with me that she was going to see other people. That she didn’t want to be exclusive. We were fuck buddies. That was it.
I’d agreed to this.
But what about what she had said? She’d said she loved me. Hadn’t she? She had said it, right?
Or had I said it first and then she’d said it back? Or had she said it like the way she told Sloan that she loved her?
She obviously hadn’t meant it the way I’d meant it, or I wouldn’t be looking at some fucking guy’s truck parked in front of her damn house. I sat there, staring at the driveway for what felt like an eternity.
And then he came out. She stood in the door in her robe while he jogged down the steps. I breathed through my nose, trying to stay calm.
I couldn’t get a good look. Early thirties maybe. Jeans and a T-shirt.
He got in his truck and drove off, and I wondered if she was taking a shower now. Stripping the bed. What if I’d shown up just an hour later? Would she have slept with us both on the same day? Did she lie there with him after like she did with me? Talking and kissing?
I put the truck in drive and went home before I did something fucking stupid.
When I got back to my apartment, the tower of boxes still standing in my living room taunted me. A reminder that I’d spent the last two months giving all my free time to a woman who didn’t fucking want me, who could sleep with someone else without giving it a second thought.
I kicked the bottom box and the whole thing toppled over, spilling clothes all over the floor. I grabbed another box and flung it across the room and stood there, panting, in my shitty cube of an apartment.
Done. I was fucking done.
I didn’t want any of this anymore. I didn’t want this fucking life. I didn’t want to live here. I didn’t want my shitty job. I wished I could un-know her. Go back and never meet her, never come here.
I pulled out my phone and scrolled through until I found Amanda’s number, the yoga instructor. I stood there, staring at it. I could call this woman. Do the same thing. See someone else too. Isn’t that what I should be doing? Maybe it wouldn’t have fucked with me like this if I’d kept my end of the bargain, if I’d actually been seeing other people like I’d said I would. Like she’d pressed me to do.
I typed in a text and was about to hit Send when my phone pinged.
Kristen:Hey, Sloan says you guys got home last night. Want to come over?
The irony was too much. She never texted me. Never asked me to come over. She never initiated anything—it was always me. She’d been totally cold to me for weeks. Her text sat there under my unanswered “I miss you” and a string of other ignored questions and efforts on my part, and the one time she finally did want me, I couldn’t even stomach the thought.
Josh:Sick.
It wasn’t even a lie. I couldn’t even look at her. I didn’t know if I could ever look at her. I couldn’t even imagine walking her down the aisle at Brandon’s wedding next week.
Kristen:You okay?
I shook my head at my phone and tossed it on the mattress.
No. I’m not fucking okay.
I’m done.
Kirsten
Iheld a bag of In-N-Out and knocked on the door. I checked my watch: 1:15 p.m. It took Josh a while to open it. When he finally did, I saw he hadn’t been kidding—he really was sick. He looked like shit.
His face was expressionless, like he felt too crappy to react to my unannounced visit. Red eyes and a rumpled shirt, like he’d been sleeping in his clothes. Messy hair, like I’d gotten him out of bed.
I smiled. “Hey. Surprise.”
Ugh. I’d missed his face so much.
So much.
When Sloan told me Brandon was home, my heart had leapt in my chest. They were supposed to come home late tonight and Josh had work tomorrow morning, so I wasn’t supposed to see him for three more days. Usually I’d just ride it out and wait for him to come back over. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t wait three more days to see him when I knew he was at home. So I broke my own rule and invited him over. And once I found out he was sick, I broke another one of my rules and went to him.
He didn’t move to let me in. He just stared at me.
“Uh, can I come in?” I asked, looking around him into his apartment.
He stood there for another few seconds, then pushed open the door and walked silently back inside.
I followed him in, wondering what the hell was wrong with him. He couldn’t still be hungover, two days later. Maybe the strike team and the trip had finally caught up to him. He must have been pretty worn down.
The apartment was dark and stale smelling.
“You didn’t reply to my texts so I decided to make sure you were alive,” I said, looking around, feeling an instant urge to throw open windows and start cleaning. “This place looks like you’re losing a game of Jumanji. What the hell happened in here?”