There’s no point in arguing with her, so I don’t waste my breath.
“Uh huh.” I take a drink of my water.
Savannah grabs her snacks and drinks and heads for her room.
I don’t bother to say good night, or ask her to stay.
What’s the point? She wouldn’t, even if I wanted her to.
Once the door closes, only then do I let out a sigh of relief and head into my office.
I grab a sketchpad and a graphite pencil and collapse in my leather chair, needing to shake out the stress and nerves of tonight.
I never intended on taking up drawing as a hobby, and if you would have told me in high school, that I’d spend my days cooped up in my office drawing, I’d have thought you were kidding.
But in that first year, after Savannah and I got married, it was all I could do to relieve my tension, my stress.
Sex never worked, no matter how bad I wanted it to. And I wanted it to. I tried. I tried to seduce my wife, to be romantic. Somehow, Savannah took this as an insult, and as such we agreed it was probably best to just… not. Now we only have sex on our anniversary. Once a year. Well, itwasonce a year.
It’s been me and my hand for the last two years now, which apparently is just par for the course for a married guy in this town, I guess. At least that’s what the men in this town seem to think when they get wasted at the country club every weekend after their golf outings.Drawing makes me feel like there is something I can control, and maybe stupidly, it makes me feel like I still have a part ofhimhere, even if he isn’t.
I sketch out the lines of a face, a neck, some broad shoulders. My watch glints in the low light as I lick my lips, trying to fill in all the details.
The shoulders turn broader, the hair darker, and before I know it, I’m staring at a sketched out image of Cameron and his bitter scowl, with a wine glass in his hand.
It’s been years since I’ve seen him. Seven to be exact.
There were so many times I wanted to call him. To tell him about a dumb work story, or to vent about a fight Savannah and I had—because we always fight—to tell him about the fantastic recipe I learned that I know he’d love.
But mostly, I just want to tell him how fucking sorry I am that Ihurthim.
I shade in some shadows around him, my hands needing something to do to keep from spiraling.
His words echo in my brain.I’m not some convenience you can pick up when you’re bored.
Is that what he thinks of me?
I suppose I can see why he would think that, given our history. But I never thought of him as someconvenienceor something so easily discarded.
I did what I did to protect him, too. At least, I thought that I was protecting him, but I guess I was protecting myself.
Because I was scared. I was young. Stupid. And my stupidity cost me the one thing in my life I loved and needed the most.
Cameron. My best friend.
I glance up at the frame on my wall, the photo of us in front of the Vegas sign. It’s the last photo I have of us because he never stayed around long enough to be photographed with the wedding party.
Maybe I should call him?
Maybe not. He seemed pretty pissed.
I slide my phone out from my pocket as I set down my sketchpad and pencil, hovering over his number.
Does he evenhavethe same number? I wonder. People do change their numbers, and he could’ve done as much if he really was that pissed at me. Even if it is still the same number, he might recognize it and not answer. Or he might not recognize it, if he deleted it, and think I’m a damn spammer or something.
I could call the hotel, maybe. See if they can connect me to his room…
Then I remember his irritated tone on the phone. He’d yelled at them about some sort of inconvenience, about not having a room, which means he might have had to find other lodging options.
