“You told her over the phone that it was over between you?” She sounds disapproving, and I almost can’t believe that she can hate Wren and yet feel defensive of her at the same time.
No one should hate Wren.
It hits me, with the force of a truck, that I’ve pushed her away for good this time and she is never coming back.
At that thought, grief swallows me whole.
Brian rushes through. “What the hell is going on?”
“Anders!” Kelly cries. “Anders!” She shakes my arm.
“What the hell did you say to him?” Brian demands to know.
“I didn’t say anything!”
“Anders! Come on, son. It’s okay.”
I’m aware of them only distantly.
And all the while, Laurie sits there, motionless, and stares past me at the floor.
I’m on theircouch, curled up on my side, and I can’t stop crying. They’re in the kitchen, arguing, and I want to feel sorry about it, sorry that I’ve caused them pain, but I’m too sad.
“Here, it’s okay,” Brian says, coming through to me.
He says it so gently—more gently than I’ve heard him speak in probably two years—but it’s embarrassing and it makes the pain worse.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble.
“Don’t worry about it,” Brian replies, patting my back like I’m a little kid.
“Is Kelly okay?”
“She’s fine.”
From the way he said it, I don’t think she is.
“I’m sorry I’ve upset her.”
“She’s fine,” he repeats, but I know I need to sort myself out, go home, get out of their space.
I sit up, feeling as though concrete has set in my veins. Laurie is in her chair with her back to me.
“Here.” Brian hands me a tissue.
I’ll take that fucking tissue now, please.
The memory of Wren is like another punch to the gut.
“Come on, son,” Brian says as I hunch over. “Come on, son.” He doesn’t know what else to say, so he keeps saying the same thing over and over as I cry like a baby on his couch.
I must apologize twenty times or more before I’m able to get into my car and drive home. And I want to call Wren, sobadly. I want to see if she’s all right, if she made it home okay, but I realize she’s probably still in the air.
It occurs to me that I could call and hear her voice on her voicemail greeting, but knowing Wren, she wouldn’t have recorded one. I dial her number anyway and I’m right: it’s a standard recorded message.
Fighting against the rational part of my brain that’s telling me to leave her the hell alone, I pull over and type out a text message.
I am so sorry. I hope you get home safely.
