“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I had to.”
I expected him to move away and give me some breathing room. But he kept his head right there. I assumed he wanted to further torment me, but he looked so...compassionate, such a 180 from two seconds ago, that I knew he was trying to make sure I was all right.
It reminded me of the film Good Will Hunting when Robin Williams says “It’s not your fault” over and over again to Matt Damon until he snaps and breaks down. I had already snapped. With the tears that started to rush to my eyes, I knew it was time to break down.
I kept my eyes open and unblinking for as long as I could until they were so full of tears that I had to shut them. Yesterday I was too embarrassed to cry in front of Dex but now I didn’t care at all. And my tears were exactly what he wanted.
I began to sob and bawl, letting out everything from tonight, everything from last week and probably everything from the last twenty-two years. Dex watched me for a few seconds, then put both arms around my shoulders and gently pulled me into him. I resisted slightly at first, not wanting the fuss, but then just gave up and buried my head into his chest. I was probably getting snot all over him, but I didn’t care.
He didn’t say anything now to calm me or make me stop crying. He just held me, which was more effective than anything. It made me realize, in the back of my wrecked head, how much I needed affection. That human touch. It’s something you don’t really think about until you’re reminded about how much you are lacking it.
And now I realized how much I wanted it, needed it, from him. This topsy-turvy medicated man who only entered my life a few days ago. I still didn’t know him but I felt like I didn’t need to. They say people who experience extreme situations together develop an unspoken bond between them. No matter how unsettling it felt to know he was a potential madman, no matter how frustrating it was to deal with him from minute to minute, no matter how much I knew he would go back to Seattle in an hour, there was a line of unseen energy (a bond?) drawing me to him. And selfishly, naively, I hoped he felt it too.
His neck smelled like that delicious aftershave and natural musk. Maybe I could stay like this forever.
But my tears slowed and my breath and heart resumed to a reasonable rate. And I think I soaked his jacket front.
I reluctantly pulled away and grimaced. I fished out a damp tissue from my pocket and dabbed it up.
“Sorry,” I whispered, embarrassed.
He looked down and smirked. “Hey, I’ve had worse things on me. Goat shit, regurgitated wine...this is nothing.”
I couldn’t help but smile. I quickly wiped the now soggy tissue across my eyes and nose. His face remained only a hands-length away from mine, and I didn’t want to look completely wretched. I noticed he still had his arms around me, so, obviously, I didn’t look that bad. That said, he was crazy, so...
Something came across his eyes. They started to go back into his sexy, sleepy default mode and his brows twitched almost painfully, as if he remembered something. He took his hands off of me while looking slightly abashed. It felt like there was a weird tension hanging in the air and he just noticed.
He cleared his throat and averted his eyes. “You’ll be OK now.”
“Sure,” I muttered, looking at my mascara-smudged hand.
“Believe me. I’ve been there. I’ve seen stuff. You’ve let it all out; it can’t do any more damage. It’s when you don’t let it out, well...”
He put his hand in his pocket, produced a prescription bottle of pills and shook it for effect.
“What happened?” I asked cautiously. How much stuff did he have in his pockets?
“That’s a story for another time,” he said simply. I sensed a humorous inflection in his voice even though his eyes remained blank.
“Oh,” I said stupidly.
“I’m not schizophrenic. Just so you know. Just sort of bipolar.”
“That makes sense.”
He rolled his eyes. “The medication can really mess with your head, not to mention the fucking gigantic gut I get. Too much and I resemble Tom Arnold. Too little and, well, I’m really not crazy if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not worried. And you don’t look like Tom Arnold. You should get some up-to-date analogies though.”
“That’s because I’m only taking just enough to get by. And even with the minimal dosage, I get this.” He grabbed his stomach. He had barely anything to grab.
“Women love this,” he said with a wink.
“I’m sure your girlfriend does,” I said quietly.
“You’d think,” he joked, “but she just nags me to go to the gym. Have you ever been to a gym? It’s the gayest shit ever. I went for the first six months of us dating until I got tired of paying someone to torture me.”
“I’m sure she understands.”
He shook his head. “You’ve seen what she looks like. She’s got some pretty high standards. Anyway, she doesn’t know I’m still on medication.”
That surprised me and I searched his face to see if he was kidding. His deadpan expression didn’t aid me at all.
“You’re joking. How could she not know?”
He shrugged. “Because she doesn’t.”
“Doesn’t she see you taking pills?”
“I can be discreet. I doubt it would make a difference.”
I narrowed my eyes at this new information. I already felt quite biased, but now I knew Jenn was a bitch.
“And you live with her?” I said incredulously.
“Uh huh,” he said casually. “Anyway, changing the topic now...you’re going to be OK?”