Page 12 of Open for Negotiation
“Yeah, I know, I heard the ringing phone. What do you want?”
“I miss you. Why don’t you come out with me? I’m at Neon. Come dance with me like you used to.”
When Miranda and I first met, she, somehow, convinced me to go out dancing with her. I think, at the time, I would have done anything for her. I was captivated. Our nights out dancing usually ending in a dirty, sweaty fuck in the nearest bathroom.
We were young. We were in lust.
“You’re drunk already. Do you have a way home?” I scrub my hand over my face in aggravation.
She scoffs, “I’m not drunk.” Her syllables are lazy and drawn out, obviously inebriated.
I may not love this woman anymore, and I may hate her for what she’s doing to me and my business, but the last thing I want is for her to get into a stranger’s car, or worse, drive herself home. She is struggling mentally right now, completely ignoring obvious mental illness, and not making the best judgment calls.
“I’m sending a car for you. Be outside in fifteen minutes and get in it without a fight, okay?”
“Ohhhh, is it bringing me to you?”
“No, it’s taking you to your own home where you will go inside.”
She sighs. “I want to come back to our house.”
“My house,” I correct her. “And no. Be outside in fifteen. The car will be there.”
I hang up and then make another call to the car service I use on occasion and explain the situation. Five minutes later, I’m finally lying back in bed to attempt a semblance of sleep tonight.
