The Fortunate Ones
Page 39
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“Why’d you bring me here?” I shout over the noise of the crowd.
“Because I wanted to,” he answers simply.
I shake my head, angered by his answer. “No, why did you really bring me here?”
He looks away, tugs his hand through his hair, and then finally looks back. His eyes are different, the hopeful gleam gone. “Because this is pointless, us trying to stay away from each other. Why? For what? Because you don’t want to get married? Great!” He throws his hands in the air. “We won’t get married!”
“It’s more than that!” I cry.
“Fine. C’mon.” He steps closer and reaches for me, tugging me against him so I have to lean my head back to look up at him. “Tell me all the reasons we shouldn’t be together. You’re too young? You want to travel? You have a million excuses you’ve built up against me, haven’t you?”
“Excuses?!” I’m furious at the fact that he’s trying to belittle my goals, my life.
“Yeah,” he says, dropping my arms. “You think I haven’t noticed how distant you’ve been today? When I reached for your hand at dinner and you pulled it away? I got it, Brooke. Loud and clear.”
Unshed tears burn the backs of my eyes. “Why did you have to put so much pressure on this, on us, right from the beginning? I’m looking for a wife and kids—who says that to someone they just met? Haven’t you ever heard of the whole boiling frog thing?”
“What are you talking about?”
I’m annoyed that I have to explain it.
“If you throw a frog into a pot of boiling water, it’s going to panic and jump out. But, if you put the frog in cool water then slowly heat it up, it won’t even notice the temperature rising.”
“So you want to be a dead frog?”
He’s being obtuse on purpose.
I sigh, exasperated. “The point is, with us, the water started too hot.”
He shakes his head, visibly frustrated. “Don’t paint me out to be the bad guy. I was honest with you—don’t throw that back in my face.”
By now, it’s abundantly clear that we’re causing a scene in the middle of the sidewalk. Pedestrians loiter around us, probably unsure whether or not we’re street performers.
I want to shout at them to keep it moving, but I can’t turn my focus away from James. I’m heaving in big gulps of air and trying to make sense of the last few minutes. My whole body is shaking with pent-up anger—at him, at me, at the unfairness of the situation we’ve found ourselves in.
“What do you want to do, Brooke?”
“I don’t know.”
He looks down at his shoes and shakes his head. A sad laugh spills out of him before he glances back up and meets my gaze. “Yes you do. Say it.”
He’s forcing an answer out of me, but he already knows what it is.
“James, you can’t tell me on day one that you want a wife because then when you try to take it back and make things more casual between us, it’s not believable. Even if it’s not your true intention, I feel like all this—the flowers, the fancy dinners, the amazing suite—it’s like you’re inviting me into your delusion.”
“Oh come on, Brooke! I’m sorry I’m not some stoner at your co-op who shows his interest with a joint and a Hot Pocket,” he rasps, dragging his hands through his hair angrily. “I wanted to show you I’m interested in seeing where this goes, nothing more. That’s what the flowers are. That’s what this trip is.” He turns away and takes a deep breath before continuing, “It’s fucking impossible to navigate the emotional minefield of a 25-year-old. Anything I do to show you I care just freaks you out, but if I back off, it’s even worse. You’ll assume I’m uninterested, and then there’s no hope that the relationship will progress naturally. It’s a lose-lose. All I can do is keep trying or walk away, and I think it’s worth it to keeping trying.”
And I think it’s time to walk away.
I don’t have the guts to say that though, so I sugarcoat it.
“There’s no point in continuing this,” I whisper, wiping hard at the tears spilling down my cheeks. “We’re only going to end up hurting each other even more. Don’t you see that?”
“No,” he says, calm and resolute. “I don’t.”
His admission stuns me into silence, and it’s clear we’re at a stalemate. James wants something from me that I’m not ready to give.
“I’ll see you back at the hotel,” he says, stepping forward to move around me.
My hand reaches out for his and I squeeze his wrist. “Please don’t go, not like this…”
My voice trails off when he jerks out of my hold and continues on down the sidewalk.
“James!” I turn and cry out after him but he doesn’t stop, and it only takes a few seconds for the crowd to swallow him up.
…
On the Vegas strip, hundreds of tourists fill the sidewalk, dressed up for the evening. I fight against the flow of pedestrian traffic, annoyed as their chatter invades my depressed fog. What the hell are they so happy about? I tuck my arms around my middle and pick up my pace, nearly stumbling right into an animated street performer dressed like Elvis. When he leaps back in front of me and offers a trademark, “Thank you, thank you very much,” I tell him to go die on a toilet.
I have no clue what I’ll say to James when I see him. My only hope is that he has calmed down and is willing to talk. I need to apologize for the way I treated him. I want to explain my side, the panic that was gripping my thoughts all day. I don’t expect him to forgive me yet, but at least we can come to an understanding. Unfortunately, the hotel room is pitch black when I arrive. I flip on the light and find the suit jacket he was wearing at dinner sitting on the back of a chair in the living room. He came back to the hotel after our fight, but he’s not here now. I check his room, just to confirm, but it’s empty and quiet.
I sit in the living room and wait for almost an hour—I know because I look down and check my watch every 10 minutes. I wait in silence, willing the door to swing open. At this point, I’d willingly accept his anger if it meant he would return. Somehow, his absence is worse. It means he’s unwilling to fight. He wants distance, and more than likely, he wants me gone. When the hour strikes, I stand and head for my room. It only takes a few minutes to pack my bags. Usually I scatter my things all over a hotel room, but since my arrival in Vegas, I kept everything neat and organized, almost like I always knew I’d be making a quick exit.
After I’ve gathered everything, I grab a cocktail napkin from the bar and jot down an apology, just I’m sorry, but for some reason, it seems worse than leaving nothing at all. I crumble it into a ball and toss in the wastebasket before walking out the door.
It’s late, but I’m hoping there’s still a flight or two leaving Vegas headed to Texas. If not, I’ll sleep in the airport and leave on the first flight out in the morning. Anything is better than staying here and waiting for the other shoe to drop.
On the way down, I can’t meet my reflection in the mirrored elevator. Shame is a heavy burden, and one I’ll probably carry for a long time. I should have been honest with James earlier. I should have told him I deserve at least half the blame for whatever panic I was feeling.
If I could go back in time, I never would have come to Vegas. I knew it would make things more complicated, but I ignored my intuition and boarded that plane anyway. The only thing I can do now is leave before I make things even worse.
The elevator dings, the doors slide open, and I roll my suitcase out behind me. My heels clap against the lobby floor, and I realize that in my rush to pack, I forgot to change. I should have swapped my dress for jeans and my heels for sneakers. As a compromise, I pause in the lobby and unzip my suitcase to grab a thick, long sweater. I slip my arms in and wrap it around myself. When I stand again, I find I’m paused directly in front of the lobby bar—and a few yards away, James sits alone, nursing a drink.
Even with his profile to me, I see how dejected he is. His broad shoulders are slumped forward as he rests his elbows on the bar, his head hanging low. I wonder if he’s waiting for me. The bartender says something that catches his attention. He looks up, shakes his head, and then takes a long sip of his drink. I should turn and continue through the lobby, but I stand immobile for another second. I thought I would leave Vegas without seeing him. This is a gift, one last chance to make things right between us.
“Because I wanted to,” he answers simply.
I shake my head, angered by his answer. “No, why did you really bring me here?”
He looks away, tugs his hand through his hair, and then finally looks back. His eyes are different, the hopeful gleam gone. “Because this is pointless, us trying to stay away from each other. Why? For what? Because you don’t want to get married? Great!” He throws his hands in the air. “We won’t get married!”
“It’s more than that!” I cry.
“Fine. C’mon.” He steps closer and reaches for me, tugging me against him so I have to lean my head back to look up at him. “Tell me all the reasons we shouldn’t be together. You’re too young? You want to travel? You have a million excuses you’ve built up against me, haven’t you?”
“Excuses?!” I’m furious at the fact that he’s trying to belittle my goals, my life.
“Yeah,” he says, dropping my arms. “You think I haven’t noticed how distant you’ve been today? When I reached for your hand at dinner and you pulled it away? I got it, Brooke. Loud and clear.”
Unshed tears burn the backs of my eyes. “Why did you have to put so much pressure on this, on us, right from the beginning? I’m looking for a wife and kids—who says that to someone they just met? Haven’t you ever heard of the whole boiling frog thing?”
“What are you talking about?”
I’m annoyed that I have to explain it.
“If you throw a frog into a pot of boiling water, it’s going to panic and jump out. But, if you put the frog in cool water then slowly heat it up, it won’t even notice the temperature rising.”
“So you want to be a dead frog?”
He’s being obtuse on purpose.
I sigh, exasperated. “The point is, with us, the water started too hot.”
He shakes his head, visibly frustrated. “Don’t paint me out to be the bad guy. I was honest with you—don’t throw that back in my face.”
By now, it’s abundantly clear that we’re causing a scene in the middle of the sidewalk. Pedestrians loiter around us, probably unsure whether or not we’re street performers.
I want to shout at them to keep it moving, but I can’t turn my focus away from James. I’m heaving in big gulps of air and trying to make sense of the last few minutes. My whole body is shaking with pent-up anger—at him, at me, at the unfairness of the situation we’ve found ourselves in.
“What do you want to do, Brooke?”
“I don’t know.”
He looks down at his shoes and shakes his head. A sad laugh spills out of him before he glances back up and meets my gaze. “Yes you do. Say it.”
He’s forcing an answer out of me, but he already knows what it is.
“James, you can’t tell me on day one that you want a wife because then when you try to take it back and make things more casual between us, it’s not believable. Even if it’s not your true intention, I feel like all this—the flowers, the fancy dinners, the amazing suite—it’s like you’re inviting me into your delusion.”
“Oh come on, Brooke! I’m sorry I’m not some stoner at your co-op who shows his interest with a joint and a Hot Pocket,” he rasps, dragging his hands through his hair angrily. “I wanted to show you I’m interested in seeing where this goes, nothing more. That’s what the flowers are. That’s what this trip is.” He turns away and takes a deep breath before continuing, “It’s fucking impossible to navigate the emotional minefield of a 25-year-old. Anything I do to show you I care just freaks you out, but if I back off, it’s even worse. You’ll assume I’m uninterested, and then there’s no hope that the relationship will progress naturally. It’s a lose-lose. All I can do is keep trying or walk away, and I think it’s worth it to keeping trying.”
And I think it’s time to walk away.
I don’t have the guts to say that though, so I sugarcoat it.
“There’s no point in continuing this,” I whisper, wiping hard at the tears spilling down my cheeks. “We’re only going to end up hurting each other even more. Don’t you see that?”
“No,” he says, calm and resolute. “I don’t.”
His admission stuns me into silence, and it’s clear we’re at a stalemate. James wants something from me that I’m not ready to give.
“I’ll see you back at the hotel,” he says, stepping forward to move around me.
My hand reaches out for his and I squeeze his wrist. “Please don’t go, not like this…”
My voice trails off when he jerks out of my hold and continues on down the sidewalk.
“James!” I turn and cry out after him but he doesn’t stop, and it only takes a few seconds for the crowd to swallow him up.
…
On the Vegas strip, hundreds of tourists fill the sidewalk, dressed up for the evening. I fight against the flow of pedestrian traffic, annoyed as their chatter invades my depressed fog. What the hell are they so happy about? I tuck my arms around my middle and pick up my pace, nearly stumbling right into an animated street performer dressed like Elvis. When he leaps back in front of me and offers a trademark, “Thank you, thank you very much,” I tell him to go die on a toilet.
I have no clue what I’ll say to James when I see him. My only hope is that he has calmed down and is willing to talk. I need to apologize for the way I treated him. I want to explain my side, the panic that was gripping my thoughts all day. I don’t expect him to forgive me yet, but at least we can come to an understanding. Unfortunately, the hotel room is pitch black when I arrive. I flip on the light and find the suit jacket he was wearing at dinner sitting on the back of a chair in the living room. He came back to the hotel after our fight, but he’s not here now. I check his room, just to confirm, but it’s empty and quiet.
I sit in the living room and wait for almost an hour—I know because I look down and check my watch every 10 minutes. I wait in silence, willing the door to swing open. At this point, I’d willingly accept his anger if it meant he would return. Somehow, his absence is worse. It means he’s unwilling to fight. He wants distance, and more than likely, he wants me gone. When the hour strikes, I stand and head for my room. It only takes a few minutes to pack my bags. Usually I scatter my things all over a hotel room, but since my arrival in Vegas, I kept everything neat and organized, almost like I always knew I’d be making a quick exit.
After I’ve gathered everything, I grab a cocktail napkin from the bar and jot down an apology, just I’m sorry, but for some reason, it seems worse than leaving nothing at all. I crumble it into a ball and toss in the wastebasket before walking out the door.
It’s late, but I’m hoping there’s still a flight or two leaving Vegas headed to Texas. If not, I’ll sleep in the airport and leave on the first flight out in the morning. Anything is better than staying here and waiting for the other shoe to drop.
On the way down, I can’t meet my reflection in the mirrored elevator. Shame is a heavy burden, and one I’ll probably carry for a long time. I should have been honest with James earlier. I should have told him I deserve at least half the blame for whatever panic I was feeling.
If I could go back in time, I never would have come to Vegas. I knew it would make things more complicated, but I ignored my intuition and boarded that plane anyway. The only thing I can do now is leave before I make things even worse.
The elevator dings, the doors slide open, and I roll my suitcase out behind me. My heels clap against the lobby floor, and I realize that in my rush to pack, I forgot to change. I should have swapped my dress for jeans and my heels for sneakers. As a compromise, I pause in the lobby and unzip my suitcase to grab a thick, long sweater. I slip my arms in and wrap it around myself. When I stand again, I find I’m paused directly in front of the lobby bar—and a few yards away, James sits alone, nursing a drink.
Even with his profile to me, I see how dejected he is. His broad shoulders are slumped forward as he rests his elbows on the bar, his head hanging low. I wonder if he’s waiting for me. The bartender says something that catches his attention. He looks up, shakes his head, and then takes a long sip of his drink. I should turn and continue through the lobby, but I stand immobile for another second. I thought I would leave Vegas without seeing him. This is a gift, one last chance to make things right between us.
