The door shuts, and I stand there against the wall, unmoving as I attempt to tell myself to move, to get out of here, to not look like a peeping Tom. But the unknown of whether or not they kissed is keeping me in place, my mind reeling. What is she feeling right now?
“JP?” she asks, looking down the hallway at me plastered against the wall, tumbler in one hand, Scotch in the other. “What are you doing?”
Errrr...
What am I doing?
Well, honest truth—trying to decide if I need to finish this bottle based on if he kissed you or not.
But that doesn’t seem like a safe answer. Even in my drunken state, I know that’s not a safe answer, so I go with the second-best thing...
“Smelling.”
“Smelling?” she asks, her face tightening in confusion. “What are you smelling?”
“The wall,” I answer, and then to my horror, I spin around, plant my nose right on the wall, and take a big old whiff.
Whoa... why does that smell like kielbasa?
“Why are you smelling the wall?”
Great, solid question.
And unfortunately, I don’t have a great, solid answer to match it.
“Favorite pastime,” I say. “Smell a wall in your spare time. Anyway, so you’re back from your date.”
“Are you okay?” she asks, taking a step closer.
“Fine,” I answer, gripping the neck of the bottle tighter. “Just, uh, thirsty.” I hold up the Scotch. “Going back to my room. Watching a documentary about dying polar bears. Don’t worry, I donated to help them... and the pigeons.” I swallow. “Anyway, just going to do that. But, yeah, glad you had a nice time and you look... you look beautiful in that dress. But that’s neither here nor there. It’s just an observation.” My throat grows tight. Why is it tightening? Am I... fuck, am I feeling emotion?
“JP, are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah,” I choke out. “Sorry if thatbeautifulcomment made you feel weird. I just... I just think that you look really nice. Really pretty. But you know, you’re dating Derek. Was his kiss good?” I hold up the bottle. “Wait, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know. None of my business. I don’t want to know. I just... man, those polar bears, they’re really thin. You can see their ribs. And I’m going to write a letter to the pigeon place, and tell them they shouldn’t name a pigeon Kazoo. He looks more like a Kevin. Just my honest opinion. So, yeah, okay. Well, I’ll, uh, see you later.”
I turn and practically run to my room. I slam the door and lock it for safe keeping.
Fuck, what was that shit?
Embarrassing, that’s what it was.
I set down my Scotch glass on my nightstand and pour myself multiple fingers. I can’t imagine what she must think of me, but it can’t be good. And Derek, fuck, I think they kissed. I didn’t hear any lip smacking, but they might be quiet kissers. That motherfucker kissed her before I did and that stings.
I know her better.
We’ve been acquainted for longer.
I’ve pined after this girl for fucking months.
And he kissed her first.
I don’t even know the fucker, but it makes me so goddamn... sad.
Fuck.
I tip back my tumbler, sucking down some more Scotch. I don’t like this pain I’m feeling. I don’t like these emotions souring through me. I don’t like any of it. I want to be numb. I want to not have to deal with these self-deprecating thoughts. I don’t want to think about their date, what they did or didn’t do, or if she’s texting him right now. Or if she’s telling Lottie how much she likes Derek, how she wants to take him to the wedding.
The wedding...
