“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?”
“I don’t know,” I sniffled and sat back in the seat.
“That was a rhetorical question. Which means yes, you are.”
He eyed the clock. “And we should probably start heading back. Just try and let me know if you feel like laughing hysterically again so I can turn up the volume.”
Dex started the engine and brought the car back onto the highway. I felt exhausted and slightly relieved at the same time. I closed my eyes and had almost drifted asleep when a question pulled at me.
“Dex?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What did you mean when you said you’d been there? You’ve seen stuff?”
“Go to sleep, kiddo.”
“OK,” I sighed sleepily. And soon everything faded to black.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I woke up from my short, dreamless sleep as I felt Dex’s car come to a rolling stop. We parked on the street in front of my house. Even in the dark, with leaves scattering in the wind and tossing the thin branches of our cherry trees about, it looked like the nicest place on earth.
“Home sweet home,” Dex said.
I felt awkward. Did I hug him goodbye? Shake his hand? Both seemed strangely inappropriate.
“Feels like the end of a first date, doesn’t it?” he remarked, a smirk deepening one corner of his mouth.
I blushed furiously. “Yeah, I guess.”
Amused, he opened his arms and said, “Come here.”
I leaned over and hugged him. He squeezed me very tight, grunting humorously. I squeezed back, not wanting to let go but also not wanting to give him the wrong idea. The wrong idea being that I wanted keep touching him.
Eventually I pulled away and looked to the side.
“Hey,” he whispered, as he slipped his hand under my chin and tipped it up. I had no choice to but to meet his eyes. They danced in the dark. “You OK?”
I stared at his lips, my breath deepening. The urge to kiss him grew frighteningly strong, so much it surprised me. I obviously wasn’t OK but for different reasons than he thought.
I saved face by closing my eyes and nodding. “I’m good.”
Satisfied, he let go of my chin and sat back in his seat. “Fabulous.”
I quickly opened the door and hopped out of the car before I did or said something stupid. I heard “Scenes From an Italian Restaurant” faintly playing from the speakers, which immediately reminded me of his sing-along session in the car yesterday. Felt so long ago.
I must have smiled involuntarily because he handed me my bag from behind the seat and said, “Want me to start singing again? I’ll sing you the whole CD. ‘My Life’, ‘Piano Man’, ‘She’s Always a Woman’...”
I could tell he was joking, but I secretly wanted nothing more. I swallowed hard and gave him a shy smile. “Guess this is goodbye?”
“For now,” he said. “Go and get some proper sleep and rock their fucking faces off at the meeting tomorrow. I’ll call you when I’ve got something interesting to say.”
“Sounds good. Bye, Dex.”
I was about to close the door when he stopped me. “Wait!”
He reached behind him into his bag and pulled out his newsboy cap. “Wear this tomorrow. It’ll cover up your brain hole. And you’ll look really cool.”
I took it from him, plopped it on my head and tipped the brim. “Thanks.”
He saluted me with his fingers as I shut the door.
I turned and walked towards the house, hearing the car drive off. I looked behind me, and he was gone.
I sighed, pausing at the front door to gather my thoughts, before unlocking it and returning to my old life.
As one can imagine, the next day turned into utter madness times a billion.
First of all, I came home to find my mother asleep in my bed, apparently waiting up for me. Thankfully, Dex had given me his cap, which covered up the wound on the back of my head, and I did not need that to freak out my mother.
Of course she bombarded me with a ton of worried-mother questions that I easily deflected by saying how badly I needed to sleep, which was true; however, it didn’t make a lick of difference in the end, considering I woke up feeling like absolute shit.
Every single bone and muscle in my body ached to high heaven. I couldn’t even bend down to tie my boots and had to opt for ballet flats. Those, coupled with a turtleneck to hide the ever-deepening bruises on my neck and Dex’s cap on my head, made me look an awful lot like Yoko Ono after all.
My choice of wardrobe was the least of my worries, though, because along with my physical pain, I was also in a state of mental shock. I was so tired and exhausted to my core that I was borderline delirious. Even forming sentences seemed to be a challenge, which did not bode well for answering the phones.
Even two Red Bulls couldn’t help my jumbled thoughts, although they did elevate my heart rate to cardiac arrest status, which doubled by the time I walked into my meeting.
But through crazy luck or the pity of the universe, I somehow not only got through the meeting with Frida and the head honcho, John Danvers, but I won them over and got the promotion.
Yeah, I know.
I can’t explain it myself except that I managed to project a very professional and enthusiastic image and even showed them some of the advertising plans I created back at the university. The position was just for a production coordinator, which was a pretty stressful and lowly job, but it was still better and more relevant to me than being stuck in reception. Plus, it paid $3 extra an hour, and I would get benefits.