Chasing the Tide
Page 75

At some point in the night, Flynn had covered me with a blanket. I pushed it aside and stood up, running the water in the sink, trying to clear my head.
I splashed my face with freezing cold water and ran shaky fingers through my tangled, puke encrusted hair. I needed a shower. Badly.
I braced my hands on either side of the sink and tried to get myself together. There was a good chance I was going to throw up again. My stomach rolled dangerously.
The night before was fuzzy but I remembered, all too clearly, what preceded my rather accurate Exorcist imitation.
I had screamed at Flynn. Shit, I had broken his sculpture and his mom’s glass shoe figurine.
I had gone to Woolly’s and gotten drunk with Shane and Reggie and I had never called Flynn to tell him where I was.
Why in the hell would I do something like that?
Bile rose in my throat and I turned around and dry heaved in the toilet. Shuddering, I forced myself into the shower to rinse off my mortification and shame.
I couldn’t believe how I had behaved. I had treated Flynn horribly.
I realized, standing underneath the spray of water, that last night I had become the woman I had never wanted to be again.
Angry, bitter, resentful. Full of insecurity, tinged with self-loathing. I had been selfish and self-destructive. And for a brief moment I had enjoyed it.
And then I had come home and had taken all of that crap out on Flynn.
I leaned against the shower wall. I was shaking so badly I wasn’t sure I could stay upright on my own. I was losing it. I was doing the thing that I always did best.
Detonate.
I got out of the shower and dried myself off and then wrapped the towel around my body. I quietly went to the bedroom and found it empty, the bed made. I threw on some clothes and brushed out my hair.
The house was silent. I wasn’t sure whether Flynn was there or not.
I went out to the living room and came to a sudden halt. Flynn sat at the tiny table he reserved for his art. Murphy looked up from his perch at his master’s feet, his tail thumping the floor.
Flynn was bent over the table, completely focused. I slowly walked toward him and my heart broke—shattering into a thousand guilty pieces.
He was carefully gluing the pieces of his mini Westminster Abbey back together. At his elbow was the glass shoe I had ruined last night, whole once again.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
Flynn didn’t say anything. He didn’t acknowledge that he heard me at all. But his hands paused for a second before continuing his task.
I sat down on the other side of the table and waited for him to look at me. We sat in complete silence for another twenty minute until he put the sculpture to the side, once the pieces were all glued back together.
“Are you going to talk to me?” I asked.
“Do you want some coffee? I’m going to make some,” Flynn said, getting to his feet.
“Uh, yeah, sure,” I replied, watching him disappear into the kitchen. I absently scratched Murphy’s head, feeling completely wretched.
Flynn came back a few minutes later with my cup of coffee, just how I liked it.
“Thanks,” I said, taking the mug from him.
Flynn resumed his seat at the table and opened up a container of clay, pulling out a lump and flattening it in front of him.
My frustration mounted. “We need to talk about what happened last night, Flynn,” I said sharply.
Flynn rolled the clay between his palms. “Why?” he asked and I wanted to throttle him.
“Because we had a fight! We need to talk about it! We can’t just pretend that it didn’t happen,” I fumed. Flynn smacked the wet clay on the worktop with a slap and looked up at me…finally.
“You upset me last night, Ellie. You made me really, really mad. And you hurt my feelings. You broke my sculpture and my mom’s glass shoe. She loved that glass shoe. I tried to glue it back together but there are pieces missing. I can’t find them.”
He pushed the reconstructed figurine towards me. “Look at it! It’s different now. It won’t ever be the same. Because you broke it. You threw it against a wall because you were mad. I don’t know why you were mad at me. I was the one who was mad. You didn’t call me. You came home drunk. I should have been mad. Not you,” he stated as though the subject were closed.
“I was wrong, I understand that. But you’re kind of frustrating sometimes, Flynn,” I argued, knowing that I sounded incredibly immature.
Flynn’s brows scrunched together. “I’m frustrating? I wasn’t drunk. You were.”
I let out an exasperated sigh. “I know that. But you think I’m just supposed to wait here for you to come home? That every single day of our lives is supposed to be the same? Because I can’t live like that, Flynn! I just can’t!” My voice started to rise and Flynn’s face began to flush red. He buried his fingers in the clay and balled up his fists.
“You live with me. We’re supposed to be together in the evenings. I know when you get a job that will change. But I like having dinner with you. I thought you liked it too!” He was getting upset again. This was heading towards dangerous territory.
His mention of my lack of job fueled the blaze. “I do like having dinner with you, Flynn! But not every goddamned fucking night!” I declared.
“I hate it when you cuss,” Flynn muttered.
“And I hate it when you’re completely inflexible!” I fired back.
“I’m trying not to be!” he stated, rolling the clay into a ball. His movements fluid.