The action seems to freeze her in place, eyes wide and fraught, the corner of her lower lip caught in her teeth. Fuck, I'd give anything to taste those lips, to tug that lip out of her teeth and kiss it, taste it.
Not gonna happen.
I growl my frustration and hurt, a soft, quiet, sighing rumble. "See ya 'round, Ember James."
I ascend the steps, having to remind myself not to stomp up them like a petulant teenager.
"Felix!"
I'm too hurt to answer, so I ignore her.
I do get it, though. I haven’t exactly left the best impression, letting myself stare at her like some fucking creep. It's just been so long since I've felt anything like this that I let myself buy into the notion of hope for a minute. But nah. Not for me.
What the fuck ever.
She'll probably move on soon anyway.
I reach my FJ40, toss my shit onto the front passenger seat, and climb in. The engine catches with a hint of a rattle and a bit of belt squeal. I listen to the engine for a minute, deciding whether I want to carve out my already limited free time to work on it.
Nah. It's good for now.
I pull a U-turn and head south back to town; just as I cruise past the opening of the stairs, I see Ember top the rise, panting. She sees me driving away and looks distraught. She palms her forehead, and I look in the rearview mirror to see her mouthing a series of curse words, most of which, if I'm reading her lips right, are "fuck."
Part of me is yelling at me to turn around and see what she has to say, but I just can't. The instinct to avoid more hurt is too strong. It took a lot of fucking guts for me to ask her out in the first place. I just don't have it in me to try again so soon.
It's hard not to dwell on the past as I cruise south.
Hard not to dwell on Amy.
I know I have no place acting all butthurt about rejection—Amy didn't reject me. She responded—appropriately—to my shitty behavior. There's no excuse for what I did. I mean, sure, you could reasonably argue that there were extenuating circumstances. I don't now and never did blame her for breaking up with me and leaving town to get away from me. I get it—I deserved it.
But tell that to my heart. It doesn't seem capable of understanding that. All my heart knows is that Amy ran away from me, and I've never really recovered, emotionally.
Asking Ember out was a big step for me. Not that I expect her to understand that, obviously. And look, I can do basic math, okay? A box full of male clothing labelled “donate” plus that deep, fierce sorrow I've seen in her? I know exactly what that points to—she lost someone she loved. I don't need the details to know that much. So I truly do get that she may not be ready. But again, tell that to my heart. All it recognizes is that I took a swing and got rejected.
Sure, maybe it was a shock to her. Maybe she needed more time to process. Maybe I jumped the gun by running. But one thing I know about us humans is that our trauma triggers are not bound by logic or governed by reason.
The drive home flies by in a blip—I pull into my driveway and barely remember the drive here. I put the four beers I didn't drink back in the fridge and hop into the shower.
When I get out, I've got a voicemail from my brother. "Yo, bro. We back. April has plans with her family, so I'm free if you wanna meet at The Cellar for some brewskis. I'll be there in like an hour."
I text him back:
Me:
See you at the Cellar in an hour. But do me a favor and never use the term brewksis ever fucking again you toolbox.
He replies almost immediately:
Riley:
Looking forward to some BREWSKIS, BROSKI.
Me:
I hate you.
His reply is the tongue-sticking-out emoji. I send him a middle finger.
