“Yeah, of course. I know you’re not like that.”
I wanted to say more but I couldn’t bring myself to go on. The sheer multitude of messages between them… almost all setting up times and places to meet around work hours. Plus, the kicker that lead to the original message;‘Are you ever going to talk to your husband about us? I can’t wait forever.’And Lissa’s curt reply. ‘Can we talk about this tonight?’followed by, ‘Okay. Whatever you need.’
I shook my head, unable to repeat it and Ryan got the message, nodding, his large hands stroking my back.
“Come here,” he said, leading me back to the couch.
He pushed me gently into the seat I'd leaped out of to begin my breakdown and went around me into the kitchen, returning a minute later with two fresh, cold beers.
I wasn’t sure which number this was but my head felt light and my body unsteady. I didn’t care though. I hadn’t been blackout drunk since my college days but I was willing to drink myself into oblivion tonight.
Handing me a bottle, Ryan sank into the seat next to me, still looking at me instead of the TV.
“I think she's going to leave me,” I managed to say. “Either that or she's leading the other guy on because that was what the messages were about. He wanted her to talk to me.”
Ryan rubbed a hand through his hair, ruffling the thick dirty blond strands before he took a long pull of his beer, buying another moment.
“Is that what you want?” he finally asked.
I swallowed. The ache in my chest doubled down and for a moment I just tried to breathe without crying again.
Ryan's hand landed on my shoulder, squeezing.
I didn't know what I wanted. I had just found out this morning. The idea of so suddenly losing everything was too much.
I took a sip of my beer, the cold liquid clearing me up a little.
“Shit. That was a bad fumble,” I said, catching the moment when I glanced up at the TV.
That took Ryan's attention off me for a while. He turned to watch the replay and then we watched the game again, like nothing had happened.
But it must have still been on Ryan's mind too, because a few more beers into it, his hand suddenly landed on my knee, giving a little squeeze.
I chuckled at the unfamiliar casual touch, knowing he was still trying to comfort me.
“I guess I fell apart a bit back there,” I mused.
“Just a little,” he agreed, smiling ruefully.
I groaned, falling back against the arm of the chair.
To my surprise the room started to spin when I went horizontal. The table was littered with bottles, and Ryan's cheeks had turned a permanent red from too much alcohol.
I covered my face with my hands, rubbing my tired eyes.
“I didn't think Melissa was the type,” Ryan suddenly said.
“She'snot!” I argued, my instincts to defend her rearing up. “She's really not. I don't... I don't know what happened or what she was thinking or what...”
I trailed off.
“Fuck... Was it me?” I whispered.
I could hear the announcers raving. The game was over. Our team had lost. Insult to injury, but I was too wounded and drunk to care. It had been obvious which way it was going since halftime, anyway.
Ryan's hand was still on my leg. He squeezed it again.
“Kamran,” hesaid,and his voice was almost stern. “There's no way this was your fault.”
