Tamed (24 page)

The extra work makes the day go faster, and before I know it, it’s quitting time. I go to the gym—even though I’m feeling craptastic—and undergo a brutal workout and sparring session.

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 fucking 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 fucking 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.

W
ednesday 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.”

She smiles softly. “Hi, Matthew.”

I don’t beat around the bush. “Does she . . . does she ever talk about me?”

Kate looks down at the conference table. “Not a word.”

Yeah—motherfucking ouch.

But I don’t surrender all hope just yet. “Does she think about me?”

Kate’s eyes meet mine and they’re sympathetic—a little sad. I’m
not sure if the sadness is for me or for Delores. She whispers, “Every day. All the time. She hasn’t gone out she just . . . mopes, and watches movies. She won’t admit it, but I know it’s because of you.”

Well . . . that’s something at least. Misery loves company—and Delores’s gives me a sick jolt of comfort. Reassurance. That at least I’m not alone.

“Matthew, why don’t you just call her? People in relationships have arguments sometimes; it doesn’t mean it has to be over.”

I’m already shaking my head. “I can’t do that. Delores likes to be chased—I get it. But, at some point, she needs to stop running and let me catch her. I’ve put myself out there for her—to show her how important she is to me. That I’m in this for the long haul—if she wants it. But now it’s her turn. She has to show me she wants it too.”

Pride isn’t always a sin. Sometimes it’s a savior that keeps you from making an asshole of yourself. Of not just looking like a fool—but being one too.

“I’ve been with someone who . . . wanted something else. Some
one
else. I’m not going there again.”

Kate nods her head, with a small smile. “Okay. For what it’s worth, I hope Dee wises up soon.”

“Thanks.”

I take a few steps toward the door. But then I stop. Because even though I haven’t actually seen Drew, every instinct I have tells me he’s hurting. Licking his wounds.

The fatal kind.

And my hunch is, Kate’s nursing the same kind of injury—she’s just better at hiding it.

“Listen, Kate . . . about what happened between you and Drew . . .”

All signs of friendliness drop from her face. Her eyes go hard,
her lips pinch, and she cuts me off in a sharp voice. “Don’t, Matthew. Just . . . don’t.”

I guess Drew’s not the only one who’s hell-bent on keeping radio silence.

“Okay.” I squeeze her shoulder. “Have a good day.”

She smiles tightly and I head to my office.

Later that evening I swing by Steven and Alexandra’s to keep an eye on Mackenzie while they go out to the movies. Lexi opens the door for me, looks at my expression for longer than necessary, then glances behind me. Seeing only the empty space there, her face softens with pity.

She pulls me into a tight hug and says, “You know, Matthew, there is such a thing as too different.”

I swallow hard. “Yeah, I know, Lex.”

There’s no time for a pity party because a blond blur comes tearing down the hall, wearing a blue princess nightgown, with a floppy teddy bear grasped in one hand. She crashes into my legs and wraps her arms around my knees. “You’re here!”

I reach under her arms and pick Mackenzie up. “Hey, princess.”

“You wanna play tea party, Uncle Matthew? You can be Buzz Lightyear and I’ll be Miz Nezbit.”

“Sounds like the most fun I’ll have all week.”

I’m rewarded with a gorgeous baby-teethed smile. And for the first time in days, the weight sitting on my heart feels a little lighter.

Steven helps Alexandra into her coat, and they each kiss Mackenzie good-bye.

“Bedtime at eight,” Alexandra informs me. “Don’t let her try and negotiate more time.”

“I’m not sure if I can hold up against the big, blue, puppy-dog eyes.”

She grins. “Be strong.”

They leave and I lock the door behind them. For the next hour and a half, I play tea party with Mackenzie. And Barbie dolls. Then we build a block wall and take it out with her remote-control Humvee. Just before bed, we shoot some hoops with the Fisher-Price adjustable basketball net I bought her for her birthday.

Once she’s all tucked in, she asks me to read her a story and pulls a thin Disney book out from under her pillow.

Cinderella.

Mackenzie hugs her bear and regards me with long-blinking, sleepy eyes. When we get to the part about Prince Charming’s proclamation, she asks, “Uncle Matthew?”

“Mmm?”

“Why didn’t Cinderella go to the prince with her glass slipper? Why didn’t she say ‘It’s me’? How come she waited for him?”

I think about her question and can’t help but make the comparisons to Delores and me.

“Maybe . . . maybe Cinderella wasn’t sure how the prince felt about her. Maybe she needed him to be the one to come to her—so she would know he loved her.”

This is just fucking sad. Talking about my love life with a four-year-old?

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Mackenzie nods her understanding and I read on. Until . . .

“Uncle Matthew?”

“Yes?”

“How come da prince didn’t know it was Cinderella? If he loved her, he woulda bemembered what she looked like, right?”

I think of Dee’s teasing smile, her perfect lips, the warm tenderness in her eyes when she wakes up beside me, how it feels to caress her cheek with my fingertips—like touching a rose petal.

My voice is thick when I answer. “Yes, Mackenzie. If he loved her, he wouldn’t have forgotten what she looked like. Not ever.”

She yawns, long and wide. Then she turns on her side and nestles into the down pillow.

With a drowsy sigh in her voice, Mackenzie says, “I think Uncle Drew is right. Prince Charming really is a douche bag.”

And those are the last words she says before sailing off into dreamland.