Page 18 of All The Ways to Miss You

“I just propositioned you, and your response is to laugh?” I’m confused. My heart rate accelerates. Before he answers, I’ve already decided I won’t like his reason.

He drags my arms off his shoulders until his hands are clasped with mine and settled squarely on my lap. He’s taking his time responding, and now I’m a rigid mess.

“Princess, you couldn’t handle a one-night stand. You’re not the type.”

When he says this with such firm conviction, I scoff at the nickname and his assessment. Shoving his hands away, I jump to my feet and tighten my robe, hiding any exposed skin. He laughs again as if my action drives home his point.

“How would you know?” My voice rises to a higher pitch than I’ve ever used with him.

He rises too. “Let’s see.” He pauses to pluck the reasons from the air. “First, you hid your bras and panties in your closet when I was in your apartment the other night, and at dinner, you stiffened like a ruler when I joked you were here to seduce me. Shall I go on?”

Has he been keeping score and tallying every awkward thing I’ve done? I’ve been trying to hide my insecurities from everyone, but he somehow sees right through me, and I don’t like it one bit.

“Shows what you know. Maybe that’s the reason I came down here!” I yell the lie. Or is it a lie? I never thought this night through, but I expect my anger makes a bit of the truth slip. Annoyed on both accounts, I stomp toward the door.

“I’m sorry to disappoint, but I promise one time with me and you won’t be able to walk away. I guarantee it.”

I open the door and stomp through. In the hall, I whirl to face him. My hands clench at my sides while he remains annoyingly calm.

“Well . . . um . . .” I stammer, unable to string together a coherent series of words, though many vulgar ones race through my mind.

He conceals another smile by glancing at the floor. His jaw sets before he says, “And before you get any ideas, I’m not looking for a girlfriend.”

My eyes widen and my mouth falls slack. He nudges the door closed until it softly clicks shut, and I’m left staring at a gold plate stamped with his apartment number. Muscles that were already tight twist with an ache. Inside my mind, I scream. If I were a cartoon character, steam would shoot in little atomic clouds from my ears.

From the other side of the door, he says, “Good night, Cat.”

“Arrogant ass!” I yell, needing the last word.

When he chuckles from inside, it pisses me off even more. A mental replay of that sound follows me up the one hundred steps to my apartment. Once I’m safe behind my front door, the sharp stab of rejection consumes me. I’m a grade-A idiot. Not for kissing Evan, but because he outright turned me down. How would he know if I have the guts to follow through with a hookup and walk away?

I collapse on my bed, my arms and legs spread eagle, my face buried in my feather pillow. The depression and crying, the working late nights, coupled with the alcohol I drank tonight and the avalanche of rejection and embarrassment from Evan—all of it hits me at once. Self-recrimination swirls in a hot mess, leaving me raw inside.

I curl into a ball and hide my head beneath a pillow to regulate. Rational thinking returns in slow, painful injections of truth until my internal storm settles in its usual spot. The dark place reminds me . . . you’re better off alone.

nine

There’s a semi-truck sitting on my head. Not literally, but with the intense pressure of the hangover inside my skull, there could be. Maybe there’s an entire highway in there?

I smack the snooze button on my cell’s alarm and it dies in a slow whine. My hand slides away, but I don’t have the energy to return it to my side. It hangs off the bed as I groan in agonizing pain. My neck is stiff, and my pillow’s wet from drool.

A shower would help, but there’s no hot water, a fact I forget until I’m standing in the tub naked and reaching for a hot water knob that doesn’t exist.

So I work on plan B—hyping myself up to take a cold shower. I blow out several quick breaths and turn the water knob, screaming when icy pellets rain from the showerhead, stabbing my skin. Goose bumps rise to the size of mountains, and I whimper as I scramble to soap myself up and then quickly rinse off.

Tylenol and two glasses of water ease some of the intensity of the headache. Looking back with a little clarity, I remember finishing off the bottle of Chianti by myself. That accounts for my courage . . . or insanity. However I look at it, last night was a failure on many unfortunate levels. I flinch when Evan’s rejection shines in the forefront of my mind. I squeeze my eyes shut, but I can’t shake this embarrassment. I’m living in it like a second skin.

I set up the old-school coffee maker Aggie gave me, and then settle my head onto my arms, slumped over the cool kitchen counter until it brews. When it switches off, I transfer the filled pot to the stove, pour in a cup of cream, dump in almost the same amount of sugar, and stir everything with a spatula.

With my pot holders tucked under my arm, I carry the coffeepot to the living room and set it on a tile coaster. I click a snapshot of the arrangement and text it to Aggie.

Cait

I’ll never, EVER make fun of u about this again. You’re a genius.

As I sit back and wait for the coffee to cool, my eyelids droop and close, but the relief is temporary. They snap open when my cell buzzes.

Aggie