Because this is what most guys do when they’re hurting. Punish themselves or—like the barking boss in desperate need to get laid—everyone around them.
After the gym, I stop by Drew’s apartment again, significantly calmer than last night. He still doesn’t answer the door, but this time, I hear the television on inside. Sounds like he’s watching Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy.
I pound on the door. “Open up, jerk-off.”
The only response I hear is the growl of Sex Panther—a punch line from the movie. I knock again. “Come on, douche bag. You’re not the only one with problems, you know.”
When he still doesn’t answer, I genuinely start to worry. “Drew, you seriously need to give me a sign here. If not, I’m going to assume you’re actually dying and call nine-one-one.”
A minute goes by. Then another. And just as I’m about to pull out my phone, something bangs against the inside of the door. Like it was purposely thrown against it. A baseball maybe.
Bam.
“Drew? Was that you?”
Bam.
“Do you need me to bust the door down?”
Bam . . . Bam.
I think for a moment. Then, to make sure I’m right, I ask, “So it’s once for yes, twice for no?”
Bam.
Guess it’ll frigging have to do for now. I sit on the floor and lean my back up against Drew’s door. And I start to talk, ask yes and no questions—feeling kind of like an idiot. Like some teenager in a horror movie, communicating with the other side through a Ouiji Board, who’s too much of a moron to remember those interactions never end well.
“Erin said you texted her. Do you really have the flu?”
Bam.
“Did you and Kate hook up last weekend?”
Bam.
“Was it as good as you imagined?”
Bam . . . Bam.
You might be confused by his answer. I’m not.
“Was it even better?”
There’s a meaningful pause. And then . . . Bam.
“Were you a dick to her afterwards?”
Bam . . . Bam.
No. So Dee did have it wrong. But then, Drew elaborates. Sort of.
Bam.
No and yes. Drew was a dick to Kate . . . but he seems to think he had a reason to be. I move on.
“Delores broke up with me. Because of the way you treated Kate. And I was really into her, man. I . . . I fell in love with her.” My voice gets stronger. Irritated. “Do you even care? Are you f**king sorry at all?”
There’s another meaningful pause. Then . . . Bam.
Although his remorse is nice to hear, it doesn’t help me at all. And, the bottom line is, it wasn’t really Drew that ended Dee and I. That was all on us. Her refusal to trust me . . . my refusal to keep trying to earn it.
Whatever Drew said to Kate, he’s obviously suffering because of it. So, I let him off the hook. “The truth is, it’s not all on you. We had . . . issues. Problems I thought I could get us through . . . but . . . she didn’t want it as much as I did. You know how that goes.”
Bam.
“You plan on staying in there forever?”
Bam . . . Bam.
“Do you need anything? Is there anything I can do?”
Bam . . . Bam.
I nod, even though it’s only to myself. “Do you want me to come back tomorrow?”
There’s a moment of silence, when I assume he’s thinking it over. Then he answers.
Bam.
I go back to my apartment and do nothing but watch TV the rest of the night. My face has one expression the whole time—grim. As I flick through the stations, one of those long-as-hell commercials comes on, advertising the ultimate soft rock eighties collection. And “One More Night” by Phil Collins plays loud and clear. It’s the part of the song where he’s wondering about calling the girl.
And it’s like a freaky science fiction movie—like the television is reading my f**king mind. I stare at my cell phone. Contemplating.
Trying to Jedi Mind Trick it.
Ring, you bastard. Ring.
I pick it up, brushing my fingers over the numbers. And I punch in nine of Dee’s ten digits . . .
Until the next lyric out of the TV reminds me that maybe she’s not alone.
I toss my phone away, like a scorching Hot Pocket fresh from the microwave. Then I plant my face in the couch cushion and yell into it.
“Fuck me!”
The music on the infomercial changes. And now it’s “Against All Odds”—a song about a guy who has so much to say to a girl, but she just won’t turn around and let him.
You know, somebody must’ve really screwed Phil Collins over. Big-time.
I sing a few of the lyrics ’cause it’s just you and me here. And for an eighties song, it’s pretty good.
And—oh look—“Total Eclipse of the Heart” just came on. Completing the trifecta of spirit-crushing, why-don’t-you-just-kill-yourself eighties tunes.
Yay.
Excuse me while I go slit my wrists in the bathroom.
Chapter 18
Wednesday morning brings a staff meeting in the conference room. I sit comatose through it—only half listening. After it’s over, everyone files out, except for Kate, who’s still at the table, sorting and organizing a stack of papers and folders in front of her.
She’s Delores’s best friend—and yes, that means there’s a code. As impenetrable as the blue wall of silence. But, at this point, I’ve got nothing to lose.
“Hey.”
After the gym, I stop by Drew’s apartment again, significantly calmer than last night. He still doesn’t answer the door, but this time, I hear the television on inside. Sounds like he’s watching Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy.
I pound on the door. “Open up, jerk-off.”
The only response I hear is the growl of Sex Panther—a punch line from the movie. I knock again. “Come on, douche bag. You’re not the only one with problems, you know.”
When he still doesn’t answer, I genuinely start to worry. “Drew, you seriously need to give me a sign here. If not, I’m going to assume you’re actually dying and call nine-one-one.”
A minute goes by. Then another. And just as I’m about to pull out my phone, something bangs against the inside of the door. Like it was purposely thrown against it. A baseball maybe.
Bam.
“Drew? Was that you?”
Bam.
“Do you need me to bust the door down?”
Bam . . . Bam.
I think for a moment. Then, to make sure I’m right, I ask, “So it’s once for yes, twice for no?”
Bam.
Guess it’ll frigging have to do for now. I sit on the floor and lean my back up against Drew’s door. And I start to talk, ask yes and no questions—feeling kind of like an idiot. Like some teenager in a horror movie, communicating with the other side through a Ouiji Board, who’s too much of a moron to remember those interactions never end well.
“Erin said you texted her. Do you really have the flu?”
Bam.
“Did you and Kate hook up last weekend?”
Bam.
“Was it as good as you imagined?”
Bam . . . Bam.
You might be confused by his answer. I’m not.
“Was it even better?”
There’s a meaningful pause. And then . . . Bam.
“Were you a dick to her afterwards?”
Bam . . . Bam.
No. So Dee did have it wrong. But then, Drew elaborates. Sort of.
Bam.
No and yes. Drew was a dick to Kate . . . but he seems to think he had a reason to be. I move on.
“Delores broke up with me. Because of the way you treated Kate. And I was really into her, man. I . . . I fell in love with her.” My voice gets stronger. Irritated. “Do you even care? Are you f**king sorry at all?”
There’s another meaningful pause. Then . . . Bam.
Although his remorse is nice to hear, it doesn’t help me at all. And, the bottom line is, it wasn’t really Drew that ended Dee and I. That was all on us. Her refusal to trust me . . . my refusal to keep trying to earn it.
Whatever Drew said to Kate, he’s obviously suffering because of it. So, I let him off the hook. “The truth is, it’s not all on you. We had . . . issues. Problems I thought I could get us through . . . but . . . she didn’t want it as much as I did. You know how that goes.”
Bam.
“You plan on staying in there forever?”
Bam . . . Bam.
“Do you need anything? Is there anything I can do?”
Bam . . . Bam.
I nod, even though it’s only to myself. “Do you want me to come back tomorrow?”
There’s a moment of silence, when I assume he’s thinking it over. Then he answers.
Bam.
I go back to my apartment and do nothing but watch TV the rest of the night. My face has one expression the whole time—grim. As I flick through the stations, one of those long-as-hell commercials comes on, advertising the ultimate soft rock eighties collection. And “One More Night” by Phil Collins plays loud and clear. It’s the part of the song where he’s wondering about calling the girl.
And it’s like a freaky science fiction movie—like the television is reading my f**king mind. I stare at my cell phone. Contemplating.
Trying to Jedi Mind Trick it.
Ring, you bastard. Ring.
I pick it up, brushing my fingers over the numbers. And I punch in nine of Dee’s ten digits . . .
Until the next lyric out of the TV reminds me that maybe she’s not alone.
I toss my phone away, like a scorching Hot Pocket fresh from the microwave. Then I plant my face in the couch cushion and yell into it.
“Fuck me!”
The music on the infomercial changes. And now it’s “Against All Odds”—a song about a guy who has so much to say to a girl, but she just won’t turn around and let him.
You know, somebody must’ve really screwed Phil Collins over. Big-time.
I sing a few of the lyrics ’cause it’s just you and me here. And for an eighties song, it’s pretty good.
And—oh look—“Total Eclipse of the Heart” just came on. Completing the trifecta of spirit-crushing, why-don’t-you-just-kill-yourself eighties tunes.
Yay.
Excuse me while I go slit my wrists in the bathroom.
Chapter 18
Wednesday morning brings a staff meeting in the conference room. I sit comatose through it—only half listening. After it’s over, everyone files out, except for Kate, who’s still at the table, sorting and organizing a stack of papers and folders in front of her.
She’s Delores’s best friend—and yes, that means there’s a code. As impenetrable as the blue wall of silence. But, at this point, I’ve got nothing to lose.
“Hey.”
