She wasn’t drunk and she wasn’t stupid, but I couldn’t begin to form those words. I heard her shoes against the pavement, and I was alone with the noise in my head and my anxiety and the bone-chilling cold.
I didn’t know how to explain why I pushed her away. Where would I even start?
I couldn’t tell her that being with her made me feel sane for the first time in months.
Or that I felt rusty, broken pieces of myself healing every time I kissed her.
Or that she was beautiful and genuine in ways that stunned me.
Or that I wanted to bury myself in her for days, but I neededhermore than I needed pussy.
Or that I was terrified I’d fucked it all up with her tonight, and I’d lost the only person who wasn’t genetically required to tolerate me.
I couldn’t tell her any of that, and instead of making it worse by going after her, I guzzled some water at the bar, collected my coat, and called a cab. There was nothing I could do to take back what I’d said or erase the snap of pain that had crossed her face when I said it.
I hated myself on the cab ride home. Every few minutes I opened my mouth to direct the driver back to Cambridge, but I knew I was the last person Tiel wanted to see at her door.
I spent the rest of the weekend closed up in my workshop at the firehouse, starting and then discarding one project after another. I had salvaged enough wood from my last camping trip to replace all the kitchen countertops and finally dig in to my crazy tree ring tile idea, but I kept thinking about Tiel.
None of this felt right, but how the fuck was I supposed to know what constitutedright?
By strict definition, I’d never had a proper relationship. I’d fucked my way through entire sorority houses but the closest I’d ever come to a girlfriend was a sweet Theta who only called me after unfulfilling sex with her meathead boyfriend.
He didn’t eat pussy, and I didn’t know any better.
At different points in my life, there had been women who qualified as fuck buddies, but none of those relationships grew into anything substantial or long-term.
Besides, once women looked past the pretty face and got to know me, they realized I was the grand master of assholes and more damaged than the Titanic’s hull. No one wanted to stick around for that. I’d also stopped being a generous lover before the close of my first year of college.
When I was young and naïve, I wanted to learn everything about sex and I wanted to be fantastic at it all. It was the no-credit class I added to my freshman course load.
As with most things, I learned quickly. It turned out I was also the nice guy, the one who ate pussy well and could always be counted on for an easy fuck after a long night partying. I knew how to pick an above-average winter formal dress, too.
What I didn’t know were the boundaries between sex and emotion, but they quickly became obvious. More specifically, I got my heart thrashed—repeatedly—and I felt worse than shit on a stick each time.
The nice guy business wasn’t helping me on my quest to get good at sex. If anything, the nice guy was the enemy. I shifted gears, and got into the business of fucking a lot of girls and not giving a shit about their feelings.
Or their orgasms.
After that, it was easier to stop connecting with people.
Outside of my siblings and their significant others, I didn’t have relationships. The only friends I could identify were Magnolia and Matt’s marathon training friend, Nick. He was an honorary brother, and he earned that distinction by pulling the plug after Angus had been in a coma for three weeks and showed no signs of resurrection. There were other reasons—he was an amusing guy and decent doctor—but sending Angus on his way sealed the deal for me.
I couldn’t risk getting thrashed again, so I retreated, pulling further and further into myself. I was comfortable there, safe, protected from ever truly experiencing anything.
And then Tiel fucked it all up and I was hyperventilating on a godforsaken sidewalk in Cambridge.
I decided to start thin-slicing the acacia for my tile project, and forced myself to stop worrying about Tiel. Unfortunately, none of my projects held my attention, and after a close call involving fingers and a circular saw, I hit the treadmill.
Outdoor jogging wasn’t for me. Matt and Patrick loved their dawn patrol runs, but city pollution and pollen usually disqualified me from those events. I managed to get my shit in order to run the Boston Marathon with them each spring, and then I retreated to the convenience of my home gym and state-of-the-art air filtration system.
As I powered up the surround sound and the opening wails of Tiel’s rendition of “Seven Nation Army” filled the basement, I relaxed, and felt better for the first time since she walked away on Friday night.
“Isn’t Gigi supposed to be here now?” Riley asked. He glanced up and down the quiet street while loosening his tie. He’d further bastardized Magnolia’s unofficial nickname—Roof Garden Girl—into RGG, and was now taking it one step further with Gigi.
If it were up to Riley—also known as RISD, after his alma mater, Rhode Island School of Design—no one would go by their given names. No one would wear ties or socks, or zip their pants, or get out of bed before noon either.
“Magnolia said she’d be here after her last consult, but she was coming from Westford.” I shrugged and returned to the designs on my iPad. “It’s only four-fifteen. Give her a couple of minutes.”
