Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.
May 11
…
Edward's phone rings in the middle of the night. He startles awake, quickly answering the call. He mumbles things like okay and are you sure? before ending with I'm on my way.
I feel him leave the bed. I reach for my phone, surprised to see it's a little past three in the morning.
"Fuck," he curses quietly.
I can't make out his face in the dark. But I can hear the rustling of fabric and see the shadow of his body as he hurries to pull on clothes.
I sit up, startled. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Just work shit."
I turn on the lamp. "Right now?"
He hears the accusation in my voice, hears what I don't beg: tell me the truth.
"Yeah. Go back to bed. I'll be home later."
Without another word, he disappears from the room. I stay in bed, letting my mind run wild with scenarios. My stomach aches with each thought that invades my mind.
I listen, waiting for the front door to open and close; waiting for the moment I'll be allowed to break down. But all I hear is Edward throwing up and the flushing of the toilet.
I stand outside the bathroom, knocking twice. Through the closed door, I ask if he's okay. When he doesn't respond, I let myself in.
His face is pale and his eyes are scared. His hair sticks to his forehead and with a shaky hand, he pushes it away. I've never seen him like this before. The man that exudes confidence isn't here and it scares me.
I kneel, reaching out to touch his arm but he pulls away—stands and pushes past me, heading to the kitchen.
"What's going on?" I demand, following behind him. "Are you sick?"
He ignores me. The faucet runs and he takes a handful of water. He swishes it around in his mouth before splashing his face.
"Hey," I try again. "Talk to me."
"Jesus," he snaps. His glare is ice and his words are cold. "I already fucking told you I have to deal with work."
His voice startles me. We don't speak to each other like that. We never have. Not even when we were at our worst.
Tears sting my eyes and blood burns my cheeks. "Don't talk to me like that. Don't you fucking dare."
"I'm sorry," he breathes out, squeezing his eyes shut. "I'm sorry."
He reaches for his pack of cigarettes, slipping them into his back pocket. He pulls on his boots and grabs his keys and avoids my stare.
"Seriously. You're leaving, just like that?" I question, this need to call him out stronger than ever before. "You're not going to tell me what's really going on?"
"I can't."
"Yes you can," I stress. "You can tell me anything."
He migrates toward the front door. "I'm under a lot of fucking pressure right now, so just drop it."
"Pressure with what? I don't know anything because you won't talk to me."
"I don't know how to talk to you about it. You wouldn't fucking understand."
He blurs in my vision. I blink away the tears. "The only reason I don't understand whatever's going on is because you won't tell me."
"It's none if your business." His words cut, but it's what he says next that makes me bleed. "And if you're gonna give me shit then you can just fucking leave."
He says it is so simply. Like he's daring me. Like he doesn't believe I'll actually do it.
Ten minutes after he storms out of the apartment, I pack a bag. I don't cry. And I accept his challenge.
I should stick to writing humor.
Thanks for reading, though.
Kim and Vic are ballers.
