Disclaimer: I don't own digimon
Chapter Four: Too Late?
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"We'll keep working on the problem we know we'll never solve." – Bright Eyes
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"You okay, Kari?"
"Huh?" I look up to find Sora staring at me, looking concerned. "Yeah, I'm fine."
"Are you sure? You looked pretty spaced just now … What were you thinking about?"
I was thinking about my ex-best friend. My very attractive ex-best friend. My very attractive, very married ex-best friend. Last night, with my very attractive, very married ex-best friend.
"Nothing," I smile, trying to hide my blush. She cocks her head to the side and studies me, the way she would with one of her children. What can I say, she's a true mother.
"Did you get enough sleep last night?"
No, but I can sleep on the plane.
"Yeah, I got plenty." I look around at the others, who are all engrossed in their own conversations and not paying attention to us. Quick, Kari, think of a way out before she starts asking questions you can't answer.
"Mommy, I need to go to the bathroom." Sora and I look down simultaneously and find her daughter, Teira, pulling on the bottom of her Capri pants.
Thank you so much, sweetie. You and your full bladder just saved Auntie Kari's life.
"Okay, we'll be back," Sora announces. Sora and Teira leave, attempting to locate the bathrooms in Odaiba airport.
Close to an hour later, after long goodbyes and promises to visit more often, T.K. and I board the plane back to New York. We still haven't spoken since last night. I don't think we'll speak at all during this flight and frankly, I don't really care. Every time I look at him, I get flashbacks of last night.
Last night, when he was biting my neck and running his hands under my shirt. When I was grinding myself into him and pulling his t-shirt off, kissing his chest; when he threw me down on the bed with every intention of screwing me right there in the middle of the honeymoon suite.
But I pulled away and for the millionth time this week, reminded myself that he was a married man.
He slept on the couch.
I might want T.K., but that doesn't mean I'm going to get him. He might be offering, but that doesn't mean I'm going to take.
Oh God, how I wish I could take.
But unfortunately, this little thing called my conscience keeps getting in the way. Damn. If it would only buzz off, I could have had a much more satisfying night.
We sit down in our seats (he takes the window seat, mumbling something about how he remembers that I hate heights and how flying makes me nauseous), and we still don't look at each other.
I am now sitting in the middle seat, praying to God that nobody sits in the aisle seat to my left so I can move over and put some much needed distance between us. Not only does a large man sit down beside me, but he quickly manages to fall asleep, successfully blocking me from getting into the aisle. If I want to go to the bathroom (a.k.a. get away from T.K. and take a breather) I'll have to wake him, and I'm pretty sure that he's the grumpy type.
Okay, it looks like I'm stuck here.
It's going to be a long flight.
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Once we touch down on good old American soil and retrieve our luggage, we mutter goodbyes and go our separate ways.
Overall, it was a good trip.
In specific, some areas could have been better. But hey, what can you do?
It's not like I'm going to sleep with T.K., though I think he thought I would. That kind of upsets me. Does he think I'm a tramp, someone who goes around and has steamy affairs with married men?
Oh, how steamy it would be ...
No, I don't believe he thinks that about me. I think that he was just wrapped up in the moment, and his feelings for me – feelings that are completely, totally, one hundred per cent reciprocated.
I'm pretty sure that the reason we haven't spoken since our make out session is because of embarrassment. I know T.K. (or at least I used to) and he isn't the type of guy who cheats on his wife. Not under normal circumstances. But then again, these aren't normal circumstances.
But no, no matter what, I will not have an affair with him. I will not be the reason a marriage breaks up.
Okay, so maybe I could live with being the cause of a failed marriage. But mark my words: I will never sleep with T.K. while he is still married to Chantelle, or anyone else, for that matter.
And if I do –
No. I won't.
I'll stick to my morals and I'll make it through this.
I hope.
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I did it. I broke down and slept with T.K. yesterday.
Kidding!
Actually, I haven't talked to him since we got home.
Today, Friday, is day five of my new plan. Oh, by the way, my new plan is called the 'Operation: Avoid T.K. Until He Stops Avoiding Me, First' plan.
I think it's going pretty great.
I've tried to keep myself busy. I've worked three days this week and I've gone for coffee with Chris twice. His schedule is crazy, and both times we've gone out, he's been called away to the hospital. I went to dinner with Paige and Daniel (feeling like a third-wheel, but it beat staying home) and treated myself to quite the shopping spree. See? I'm fine.
Okay, honestly, I'm not doing so well. We had this amazing discussion about our feelings back in Japan, and then we left this question wide open about what – if anything – we're going to do about our situation. He hasn't even tried to get in touch with me. If anyone should be calling anyone to explain (or perhaps even apologize) it should be him calling me!
Is it possible that he checked his feelings for me at airport security, and I'm the only one who brought my emotional baggage back to New York? Am I the only one who still cares? Am I kind of like that sad little puppy that follows you home from school one day? Did I follow T.K. home, or did he call my name and give me treats so I followed him, until we wound up on his doorstep? Was this on my own free will, or did he stick a leash on me and drag me home with him?
Since he doesn't call to confirm or deny any of my puppy theories, I decide that I will call him. It's the only option … Right?
"Hello?" he says when he answers the phone.
"What's going on here?" So much for pleasantries, huh? My mother always said I had terrible phone manners, but this is ridiculous. Whatever … Perhaps blunt and straight to the point is the way to go with T.K.?
"What? What are you –?"
"You know what I mean," I insist. He sighs.
"Can we not talk about this now?" No, we can't 'not talk about this now.' We haven't been talking about it for five days. I'm tired of not talking about it. I'm going to get to the bottom of this if it kills me.
"Nope, we can either do this over the phone, or we can do it in person." He remains silent, most likely dreading either one. T.K. has never liked confrontation, so this probably won't be a walk in the park for him. I give him a few more seconds, and when he still doesn't say anything, I decide that the ball is in my court. "Fine then, I'm coming over," I declare. Then I hang up.
A half hour later (if asked, I will claim the traffic outside is crazy, but really, I spent the majority of the time making myself look extra amazing for T.K.), I'm finally knocking on his door. When he answers, I'm less than impressed with his appearance. He is wearing pajama pants and no shirt, his hair is ruffled and he looks like he's just gotten out of bed. Maybe he has.
"For God's sake, it's almost one in the afternoon," I lecture.
"I was up late last night," he explains.
Why? Did Chantelle keep him up last night? Was he working off some of the sexual frustration that I caused?
The thought of T.K. and his wife together bothers me more than I am willing to admit. I know I shouldn't be so jealous, especially since they're married and I'm the outsider, but I can't help it.
As if reading my mind, T.K. shakes his head. "Went out with a friend," he confirms.
Oh, good.
Not that I care, or anything.
He moves out of the way and I walk in, doing a quick scan of the area. He reminds me that Chantelle is at work. Sometimes, I forget that other people have real, less glamorous jobs, with Monday to Friday, 9-5 hours. Suckers.
Focus, Kari. You came here to talk about … whatever.
"You're avoiding me," I say. Gee, thanks, Captain Obvious, I'm sure he hadn't realized that one.
"Look, I'm sorry that I made you uncomfortable. I didn't mean to … you know," he apologizes. Please, don't say it was an accident. Don't apologize for kissing me, or for telling me how you feel. "I don't really know what to say … When I'm around you, I just can't control myself."
Likewise.
"I don't want to talk about what happened between us," I begin. "I want to talk about the things you said … Were they true?"
I hold my breath, my entire life depending on his answer. Okay, maybe not my life, but definitely my heart.
"Yeah. I can't sit here and deny my feelings. But … I'm married."
Well, duh. That's why we're in this predicament in the first place.
"You said that, uh, you kind of felt the same way," he says. "Was that true?" I nod, looking down at my feet. "How long?"
"Probably about the same as you," I admit, looking back up at him. He nods and walks over to his couch.
"I think I better sit down if we're going to get into this," he says. He gestures to the seat beside him, but I shake my head. I need to stand. I need to feel in control. I can't sink into the couch and get comfortable, maybe even let my guard down. "I almost told you once," he whispers. "We were at prom. I figured that we were gonna go our separate ways, so I might as well have gotten it all out in the open. I walked up to you and I had a whole speech in mind but, at the last second, I chickened out."
Why? Why would he chicken out? More importantly, how did he never notice I was in love with him?
"It would have been worth the risk," I murmur, fighting back tears. "Wouldn't you say?"
"Yeah," he nods. "I might have told you sooner than prom, or at least tried to, but we were always with different people, things were never right. I assumed we just weren't meant to be." He lets out a sad little laugh.
"Do you still think that?" I ask. I realize as the words leave my mouth that I'm asking a lot more than the question lets on. I'm asking him not about the past, but about the future. He looks up at me, his eyes locking with mine, and he slowly shakes his head.
"I did back then, though. That's what matters."
It matters if you feel that way now, too! Maybe we can still make it work … Somehow?
"You didn't say anything either, so I can't totally be blamed for this," he suggests. I lower my head and nod, agreeing completely.
"I would have told you senior year, but by then, you were sleeping with that slut Kara," I exclaim bitterly. It's not like I wasn't sexually active in high school, but I wasn't with the biggest whore (or man-whore) in Odaiba history.
"Hey, she wasn't a slut! Besides, I only slept with her because I heard that you were sleeping with Juan Pablo," he counters.
Oh, I remember Juan Pablo. He was an exchange student from Spain. He had a nice accent and the way he said my name would send shivers down my spine. He had a great body, too. Damn, he was hot. I wonder if I still have his number …
"I never slept with him!" He gives me a dubious look and raises an eyebrow. "Okay, once. But it totally didn't count," I say. "The only reason I even went out with him was because Yolei told me that she saw you and Jena making out behind the school"
I'd like to clear the record about myself right now: I'm not a whore, and I wasn't in high school, either. I slept with the exchange student guy, who cares? He was really charming. And did I mention that he was gorgeous? We went on a few dates, too. Seven, if I remember correctly. He was going back to Spain in a week, and I had to say goodbye. We really cared for each other. It's not like I just jumped him in the middle of math class one day.
There was one other guy, too. His name was Nikku, a traditional Japanese boy who, not surprisingly, wasn't as traditional when it came to pre-marital sex. He asked me out near the middle of twelfth grade and I went to prom with him. When you go to a prom with your 'boyfriend', it's a done deal as to what happens at the after-party.
That pretty much concludes my high school adventures. Very few names (four, specifically) have been added to the list after that.
"I only made out with her because I found out you liked Aru." Our memories of things that happened close to a decade ago are pretty extraordinary. I don't remember what my homeroom teacher's name was in the eleventh grade, but I remember the green shirt T.K. occasionally wore that same year … it was my favourite, but it rarely made an appearance. Now that I think about it, I can recall that, after telling him that I liked it, he wore it much more frequently.
"I only pretended to like him because I saw you flirting with Kei," I clarify. I remember Kei. She was tall, thin, brunette, gorgeous, popular and sickeningly nice. All the guys liked her, all the girlsliked her. I had no problem with her at all, we were actually friends, but that was before she set her sights on T.K. After that, I hated Kei.
I've noticed a pattern with all the girls T.K. has ever married, dated, fooled around with, or paid the least bit of attention to. I hate them all. It must be a territorial thing, and rightfully so. In my mind, he will always have been mine, first.
"Yeah, only because you were flirting with Sesu," he reasons. We could go on all day, pointing the finger back and forth. It won't do any good; it won't change the past, so why are we even bothering?
"I only flirted with him because I wanted to make you jealous!" I justify. "You had all these gorgeous girls all over you and I thought I was just more like a sister to you. I thought you saw me as plain and ugly and undesirable."
"Undesirable?" He stands up and takes a step toward me. "I've been in love with you since the tenth grade, but you never noticed." Yeah, because I didn't think it was possible for you to feel that way about me. "You only saw me as your best friend, and never as a boyfriend."
You only saw me as a best friend, as well.
At least, that's what we both thought.
"I would have given my right arm for you to ask me out in high school," I say, glaring at him. I don't really know why, but I'm getting really mad. Judging by the look on his face, he is, too.
"Same," he shrugs.
"So all of this, everything, was just a waste? This entire time, you wanted me and I wanted you?" I'm a little surprised that I've actually come right out and put it all on the line. Even though I know what the answer is, I start to get nervous as I wait for his reply.
"I guess so." I've turned this idea over in my mind a million times, and every time, it gets harder to deal with.
"Well this is just wonderful, T.K.!" I say sarcastically. "Why didn't you tell me sooner? Why didn't you tell me in high school, or when you weren't married and we could have done something about it?"
"I was scared that you wouldn't feel the same way and I'd lose you as a friend."
Wouldn't it be worth it? What did it matter if he told me and I didn't return his feelings? We have barely talked at all since high school ended, forgetting these last two weeks.
"Well, congratulations. Not only have you lost me as your possible girlfriend, but you've lost me in every aspect of your life." I spin around on my heel and walk to the door. He grabs my arm and I turn back around to face him.
"What does that mean?" he asks. What does he think it means?
"It means that I'm leaving now. Goodbye," I say, pulling my arm out of his grip.
"Don't go," he pleads. You have no idea how badly I want to stay. But I can't. I can't stay because I know what will happen if I do.
"I have to," I whisper, still not turning around.
"No, you don't," he protests. There's hope in his voice, and I'm so tempted to say that he's right, and that I'll stay. To hell with responsibilities, to hell with morals, to hell with Chantelle. Maybe I should stay. "We can still be friends, Kar."
Okay, now I really need to go.
"No, we can't," I insist. "I can't be your friend. Not now. Not when every time I look at you, I'll be thinking of what could have happened with us." He doesn't even protest when I walk right through the door and successfully resist the urge to glance over my shoulder at him, one last time.
Why was I so stupid?
Why was he?
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Bright and early Monday morning, I'm up and out of the house. I spend most of the day on set for a photo shoot.
Most days, I enjoy my job. Well, that's a stretch. It's not terrific, but it's certainly not horrible. Nonetheless, I've never wanted to call in sick more than I did this morning.
Taking pictures of pretty people is, somehow, less appealing than sitting at home by the phone waiting for T.K. to call. Even though I know he won't.
After the shoot is over (it is now dinnertime, and I'm famished. Lucky me didn't get to eat lunch today) I check the messages on my cell phone. I'm excited to see that I have one voicemail message, but it turns out that it's only Chris who called.
In his message, after mentioning that it's about five o'clock and correctly assuming that I'm working, he asks me to coffee when I get home. I call him back as I scan the area for a cab and tell him that I would appreciate it if we could move our coffee date to tomorrow, because right now, I really need to eat dinner. He says that he hasn't gotten around to eating yet either, and suggests that we meet somewhere to grab a bite. We've never done the dinner thing before, just friendly coffees. I smirk to myself and coyly ask him if he's asking me on a date. I expect him to deny it but instead, he says yes, and asks me what type food I feel like.
We meet at a restaurant I've never been to before – Italian, I think. Much to my surprise, conversation is not hard to come by. I tell him stories about how I got into photography and he tells me about becoming a doctor. Standard first date conversation. Although we've covered some of the topics already, we do not hesitate to go over them again. We branch out a bit, but stay mostly on course. I regale him with tales of bitchy celebrities and diva-like commands. I tell him which celebs are gay, which are straight, and which are too ugly without makeup that it doesn't really matter what their orientation is. He shares stories of his own personal adventures, from saving lives for a living to what he does to wind down on his spare time (skydiving and bungee-jumping … wind down, my ass).
At the end of the night, it's warm and not too dark. Chris offers to walk me home, and I accept. We walk the six blocks to my apartment, laughing and talking; giving off the 'first date vibe' to the people we pass on our way.
He kisses me goodnight and, for some reason, I feel guilty. But then, I think about T.K. and Chantelle. How many times have they kissed since our kiss? Fine. He's forgotten about me, so I might as well forget about him. I decide that it's time to move on. I refuse to wait around forever, especially for a guy who is not going to show up.
"Do you want to come in?" I ask him.
He gives me a sideways look, and I'm positive he now thinks I'm a slut. This is our first date. While we've technically gone out three times before, they didn't count as dates. Did they? I'm going to pretend they did.
So this is date number four. Four dates is a perfectly respectable amount of time to give a relationship before a sleepover.
Besides, I like Chris. He's cute and smart and really funny. It's hard for me to date because, for some reason, guys seem to know who I am. I think it's weird … It's not like I'm a celebrity or anything, not really. I'm just a lousy photographer but, to them, I must be good enough. Most of the time, they're too 'star struck' to even have an intelligent conversation with me, or they never shut up while asking all kinds of questions about the sexy celebrities I've met. Chris is different. He's like the American version of T.K., I suppose.
He nods his head, and follows me inside.
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The phone is ringing.
I open my eyes and sit up, glancing at the alarm clock. Half past three in the morning. I told Tai about the time difference ages ago, so who could be calling?
I fumble for the cordless phone on my nightstand and put it to my ear. "Hello?" I say quietly in my raspy morning voice.
"Kar." I know that voice.
"T.K.? Why the hell are you calling me at almost four in the morning?" I demand.
"I'm so sorry," he whispers.
"For what?" I ask before thinking. Shit. Why do I do that?
"For not telling you how I felt sooner … For marrying her. I'm sorry I didn't invite you to the wedding. I'm sorry I kissed you, and even sorrier that I let you walk out of my apartment the other day," he quietly lists.
"It's a little late now, don't you think?" He sighs and says nothing, as if he's in deep thought about something. A few minutes later, he still hasn't said anything. I'm about to ask him if he's still there when he speaks. It's so quiet that I almost have to ask him to repeat it, but I manage to catch it.
"It's never too late."
I sit in silence for what feels like forever before the dial tone cuts through. T.K. hung up. Sighing, I hang up on my end and look to my left. I see Chris, fast asleep.
Despite what T.K. says, it is too late.
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