"It's obvious that you don't care but I have an IUD," she interrupted. I gazed at her dumbly, blinking as those words registered. "Thanks for asking,asshole."
"I care," I replied. "Idefinitelycare."
She bolted from the car and I followed, beating her to the trunk. "Could you let me know whether I need to be tested for Hep B? Or should I just order a full blood panel and cross myfingers?"
Opening the trunk gate, I curled my hand around her bag's handles and pulled it close to me. She wasn't going anywhere yet. "Alex, would you wait afucking—"
"You don't get to call meAlextoday," she interrupted, and it certainly seemed like I was meant to understand her meaning. "Not after what you called me lastnight."
Oh, fuck me sideways, what did I call her lastnight?
"I'm so s-s-s-sorry. I didn'tmeanit."
She glared at me, disgusted. "Of course you didn't," she said. It was clear I was missing the pertinents here. I rubbed a hand down my face, trying and failing to call up the hours I'd lost. "Look, Riley. This arrangement isn't going toworkout."
Alex yanked her bag from my hands and stomped into her building, the door slamming hard behind her. I watched her go, and I didn't try to stop her. She didn't want to hear anything I had to say, and it was just as well. I didn't have the rightwords.
I would've stood there longer, staring up at her windows, but I was blocking traffic and the cabbies had some choice words for me. I thought about going home, where I could stare at my bruised thigh and wonder how a pixie like Alex could leave a mark like that without leaving behind a treasure chest of filthy memories. But I didn't want to explain to Sam and Tiel why I was back early or how the weekendhadgone.
With one last glance at Alex's windows, I hopped in the car. I circled the city for an hour, aimless. I ended up in Wellesley, near a deli I'd frequented as a teenager. The institution of family dinners had held up after my mother's death, but only when Shannon was in the house. Once my father had kicked her out and most of my siblings were off to college, this red brick shop had become a second hometome.
I parked and made my way inside, and studied the menu board with glazed eyes. Several waves of customers passed while I read the items, my fingers itching to text Alex and ask what interested her. I figured I could also order a little of everything and let herdecide.
But I didn't believe any quantity of cured meats was going to turn things aroundforus.
Eventually, I ordered an Isabella—prosciutto, mozzarella, tomatoes, and basil—because that sandwich had been by my side for many youthful run-ins with bottom-shelf liquor. I knew it would see me through the worst of last night'swhiskey.
With my lunch and three cans of ginger ale in hand, I drove back to Beacon Hill. I wasn't banging on Alex's door—not today anyway—but I was right around the corner, at my Pinckney Street project. There was a glass tile fireplace in need of delicate restoration, and I could only do that type of work when no one was around tobotherme.
It also offered me hours of uninterrupted solitude where I could focus onone tiny thingand leave the rest of my brain to work on everything else. I'd finished the sandwich and a decent amount of tile work when it dawned on me: I hadn't pined for Lauren all week. Not even once. I couldn't remember the last time I'd dreamtofher.
And somehow, my life was still inshambles.
ChapterSeventeen
Riley
Riley:I know it's totally inadequate but I amsorry.
Riley:I want to make thingsright.
Riley:Alex,please…
Alex:Go away,fuckboy.
* * *
Either my weekendfuckery was stalking me or Mercury was in cuntrograde because this Monday wasn't off to a greatstart.
I'd overslept and that was laughable considering I hadn't fallen asleep until after three in themorning.
The breakfast taco and burrito food truck was on va-fucking-cation. I didn't know who decided that taco trucks were allowed to take vacations, but I sure as shit hadn't signed off on that. My backup taco truck was on the second string for areason.
My notebook was missing, and I'd had to bumble through my statusreports.
And everything with Alex was still fucked all thewayup.
But if I hadn't been driving the struggle bus, I probably would've derived some strange pleasure from this meeting. Sam and Matt were yelling at each other about structure versus style. Patrick was muttering to himself like an old man feeding ducks at the park. Tom and Shannon were embroiled in a debate about lines of credit which exceeded my interest and pay grade. Andy kept needling me for details about my weekend; I kept devising subtle ways toignoreher.
