11
Jess
Coy doesn’t walkme back to the room. His dismissal of me at the table even before dessert is all the indication I need to understand I’m not completely forgiven for picking the wrong dress to wear. He can hardly stand to look atme.
Back in our hotel room alone, I’m caught between the relief that I don’t have to put on anymore, and the knowledge that I’ve completely failed my boyfriend. This was not how tonight was supposed to go. Peeling the zipper down from the black lace overlay jacket, I catch my scandalous reflection in the mirror.Fool. But even as disappointment fills my mind, I fold the delicate garment carefully between tissue paper and tuck it into the bag, not wanting to rip or damage the fabric. I stick my new shoes into their box and place that inside the bag as well. At least those aren’t a total waste. The dress is something I’ll never wear again, and while I realize that’s routine for a famous person, I cannot fathom spending so much only to wear it once. Maybe I can return everything when I get back toLA.
Changing into an old tee and comfortable sweat pants, I wash the makeup from my face and check my phone. Even though I know he won’t call or check in, I can’t helpmyself.
No messages. No missedcalls.
This is one of those times I could really use a friend. A moment I wish for family. I yearn for the mother I never had—even a father or a sister would be nice. Someone to check in with. Someone to remind me that despite everything I’ve done or how badly I screwed up, I am still breathing. I’m notalone.
You’d think after a lifetime it wouldn’t hurt so badly. I should be comfortable with the reality. But tonight I’m alone. By myself in this hotel room to wonder . . . If I never wake up in the morning, will anyone evencare?
I have to keep the faith that Coy still does. As angry and disappointed as he was, I have to believe he’ll be back. A laugh, cynical and pained, pushes through my lips as my gaze falls on his overnight bag. He has to at least come get hisstuff.
Done with the worries that consume any chance of peaceful sleep, I reach for the TV remote and click through the channels, surfing until I find something to keep my fears at bay.Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion. Oh, how I love this movie. Laughter bubbles from my belly with each absurd antic and bad joke. I guess tonight could have been worse. I could have lied and pretended I invented Post-its.
After the movie ends, I click off the television and lie in bed. Still no word from Coy, but I hope he’s having a good time. He deserves it after all his hard work. I’m just disappointed in myself, that I can’t be who he needs. Sometime after one in the morning I doze off, wondering whether he’ll come back at all tonight. With how upset he was with me, I don’t know. With each ticking second, apprehension builds that I’ve screwed this up for good. That he won’t want me anymore. That he’s out there finding someonebetter.
* * *
The soundof the door opening and the shaft of light that falls across the bed drag me from sleep, but I keep my eyes closed playing that I’m not awake. I don’t know exactly what mood he’s in . . . Or what he’ll do. If he’s been drinking all night with the band, I don’t want to findout.
The door shuts slowly until the room is once again blanketed in darkness and all of my concentration is focused on keeping my breathing even and my eyelids from fluttering while my ears strain for the slightest sound. Just when I think I’ve imagined it—that maybe he’s not back in the room—I catch him muttering a few words under his breath, all of them expletives, before the bathroom door clanks shut with a thud and the shower spray powerson.
With him out of the room, I chance a look at the clock. Twenty-two minutes after three. I wonder where he’s been. Whether the entire band stayed out so late as well.Probably.
I try to fall back asleep but I can’t with him only a few feet away. Waiting for him to shower, I work to keep the dread and fears at bay as my mind races with the possibilities of how Coy will emerge. Angry. Sorry. Drunk. Mean. Kind. There are so many facets to his personality, and lately it’s increasingly difficult to predict which I’ll get. He’s a troubled man, but I’ve always been able to help him. To bring him a steady support. Only now, with everything changing in our lives, I’m beginning to doubt my ownstrength.
The water shuts off and a few minutes later the door opens, the light snapping my eyes shut once more. I sense him moving around the room. The soft pad of his feet against the carpet, his breath heavy from drinking, and the shuffle offabric.
He shuts the light from the bathroom and the mattress dips with the weight of his body. He doesn’t reach for me. He doesn’t turn to my side of the bed to wrap an arm around my waist. Another silentrejection.
I feel as though I’ve fucked up big time, and the anxiety that builds from his lack of body heat against mine is almost suffocating. I turn to my side and let my hand reach for him. His back is to me, so my fingers settle on his waist. Rubbing the freshly showered skin, I can’t help but trail them lower toward hiship.
His hand rests on mine to halt my moment. “Not tonight.” He lifts my hand away from his body and I tug it back to my side of the bed. He hauls the covers higher and turns completely away from me to sleep on hisstomach.
Tears prick my eyes and since he can’t see, I let them fall freely. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, not sure whether he’s even awake or will hear me, but I can’t help feeling as if I failed him when he needed memost.
He releases a sigh, loud with a rush of breath. “I can’t, okay. Not tonight. Go to sleep,Jess.”
He doesn’t want to talk and I won’t push him. The worry is still there, but it’s in the way he uses my name—that he even uses my name at all—that gives me hope we’ll get past this. Not tonight. But tomorrow is a new day. If there’s anything I believe in, it’s that even the most horrible sins can be forgiven with a little love and light. Coy’s given me that before. I can only hope he’ll do it oncemore.
* * *
My cheek pressesinto the heavenly comfort that is this pillow. Stuck somewhere between slumber and consciousness, the scuff of nearby footsteps tugs me from rest. Memories from last night slam against my consciousness, and when I reach for Coy’s body, needing reassurance and warmth, I’m met with emptysheets.
“What thefuckis going on?” His anger, controlled but accusatory, chase away any lingeringsleepiness.
My eyelids blink until I re-gain my vision. The window drapes are cracked just slightly, lining Coy’s silhouette from where he paces the short length of our hotelroom.
“Coy?” I sit up in the bed and tug the covers up around mylap.
He stops to glare. “Just tell me. Where did you get it?” His brow lifts with achallenge.
I’m not following.Where did I get what?Maybe it’s from a night of restless sleep, but I have no clue what he’s asking. “What?”
