Page 8 of Room for Us
Everything will be okay…
As long as I don’t look back.
5
One of the problems with today’s world? Cell phones. Specifically how delicate they are.
I miss being able to slam a traditional phone receiver down and hear that beautiful clang when the force upsets whatever tiny bell mechanism lives inside. That satisfying vibration in your palm, maybe a little flare of pain. A multi-sensory experience—sight, sound, touch.
Most importantly, there was finality to the action. A decisiveness. It was a universal fuck you to whoever you’d hung up on, broadcasted for the world—or immediate vicinity—to hear.
You can’t do much with a cell phone that doesn’t break the damn thing.
My daughter says I’m an old man in a normal man’s body. Not a young man, of course. What eight-year-old thinks their father young? At least I’ve been deemed to have a normal body, whatever that means.
A normal body, but an old mind. And an angry one. A crack in the screen of my cell phone can attest to that. Just like my father—long boil and quietly destructive eruption. Why do I always think of my father in times like this? Ah yes, because he’d be first in line to tell me what a disappointment I am.
The door of my study opens. A leggy, polished brunette pauses on the threshold, her gaze scanning the scene. I swear the woman has radar for whenever I make a fool of myself.
“Not again, Ethan,” sighs Britt, crossing the room to take the cell phone from my loose fingers. “What did he say?”
“They won’t budge. Either I make deadline or…” I can’t finish the sentence.
I’m ruined.
Britt sniffs, a manicured finger tracing the largest crack on the dark screen. Her eyes lift to mine, and I see doubts in them. My doubt or hers? Hard to say.
“You always work best under pressure,” she says, attempting to be helpful but instead sounding fatalistic.
We both know that me writing the four-hundred-page conclusion to my bestselling fantasy series in the next six weeks is about as likely as me asking her to marry me like she wants me to.
Britt sets down my phone, screen down. It seems symbolic of our three-year relationship. We’re always hiding our thoughts, our feelings. Our messes. I’ve never been sure why she’s with me when she doesn’t seem to like me much.
“Ethan, we need to talk.”
There’s no mistaking her tone, even for a man as clueless about women as me. As I stare up at her familiar face, at the pretty frown and puffy lips, I can’t help feeling relieved.
One less person to disappoint.
“I’m sorry,” I offer futilely.
The conversation continues, awkward as we try to communicate after years of doing everything but. We had passion, Ethan! You’ve given up on us. At least she’s finally being honest.
I do my part, nodding, agreeing, apologizing whenever she looks expectantly at me. Soon enough, however, her soft appeals shift to accusations. She isn’t happy and it’s my fault. I’ve checked out of the relationship. We never have sex anymore. I’ve lost the spark that drew her to me in the beginning. I’ve let myself go.
It’s then I realize my mistake. She doesn’t want me to humbly accept the end of our relationship. No staying in touch or no hard feelings or any such modern platitudes.
She wants denials and pleas. Passion. Which, interestingly, is what my agent told me I lacked on the phone not ten minutes ago. Right before he told me if I don’t finish this book both of our lives will be ruined.
While I replay the phone call and stare a nearby shelf where my books sit in a long row—the display meaning so much and so little in light of current events—Britt has worked herself into a righteous rage.
“I should have listened to the rumors and stayed far away from you! You’re a despicable, heartless asshole!” Tears stream down her face in inky trails of mascara.
I’m not inhuman—I do feel bad. But as she stumbles from the room, and her wailing continues down the hall, all I really want is a drink and a smoke.
Thank God Daphne is at her mom’s this week. I’ll have to think of something to tell her about Britt, though I doubt she’ll grieve. Daphne wasn’t subtle in her dislike of Britt, whose lack of mothering instinct was blatant in their interactions. I’m convinced adolescent girls can smell fear.
I really don’t know why Britt stayed as long as she did. Women are unfathomable.
