Page 40 of False Start
Noah
"Tangled up" is too strong. We're just enjoying each other's company…
4 to 6 times a week. ;-)
The three dots indicating Noah is typing pop up immediately.
Noah
Noah:Hooking up with the same woman more than twice a week is WAY past a booty call. Does Cory Park, the most unrepentant womanizer in the Upper West Side, have a GIRLFRIEND?
Fuck.If Noah figured it out with one text, D is probably seconds from figuring it out too. Will she be cool with it?
We've done more than just hook up these past few weeks. She's talked to me about her friends. I've told her about my family. We have dinner most nights, too. Will she ice me out once she realizes we're getting too personal?
My palms start to sweat.
Noah
Of course not. She's just the best pussy I've ever had BY FAR. I gotta do the Park name proud.
I seriously worry about my bodily fluids with this woman. ;-)
I wince at my callous words, knowing there's way more than just sex between us, at least forme. When she talks, I actually listen.Cory from a month agotuned out any woman who wasn't Mom. But with Denise, I'm sendingTimesarticles on fashion trends just in case they might help with her job. I have it bad.
Noah
Noah:If you say so, bro. But the Park bachelors are dropping like flies.
Noah:You're the last person I thought would end up pussy whipped.
God, is that how I sound when I talk about women? No wonder my brothers think I'm a douche.
Noah
Chill out, man. It's not that serious. I promise.
I lock my phone and place it face down on the counter, uninterested in defending myself, or in thinking about feelings I'm still grappling with myself. A knock on my door interrupts my swirling thoughts. The look on Denise's face when I open it is like a punch to the chest.
"What's wrong, baby?" I ask, ushering her into my apartment and onto the couch. Her eyes are bloodshot and her face is puffy. I gingerly sit next to her and slowly pull her into an embrace. When she doesn't shrug me off, I let out a sigh of relief.
"Cynthia," she sniffs, "the lead seamstress for my outfits." She stops, gathering her composure before continuing.
"She didn't show up for work today. When the front desk called her phone, her mom picked up and…and apparently…shekilledherself last night!" She says the last words on a wail before burying her face in my chest.
"What?!" I exclaim. I keep rubbing her back in comfort as I process the news. She's mentioned Cynthia more than once, excited to work with someone who has experience with curvy fashion. Denise wipes her face and looks up at me with glassy eyes.
"Her mom didn't give many details; she was too upset. But a few of her friends in the tailoring department said she had been dealing with depression for a while." She sniffs. "Why the fuck does depression have to takeeveryone?!"
She's crying so hard, her body is shaking. I have no clue what to say, so I just keep holding her.
"You go to therapy. You take your meds. You try to live your fucking life! And they still decide to end it all? There's nothing anyone can do?!"
Denise is nearly shrieking at this point, tears streaming down her face. Curled in my arms, she looks so fragile right now. So frail. Something tells me this is about more than her seamstress.
"Do you…Has this happened to you…before? Losing someone?" I tread carefully, worried one wrong word will shatter her.
After a few more sniffles, she nods.
