"Because you'll have nothing," Greg said quietly, almost to himself. His voice didn't sound mocking, just tired and contemplative. He'd had plenty of time to think over the course of the day. Plenty of time to make more than a few decisions regarding me, him, and us.
I was silent and watched as my tears continued their free fall and spotted the bedspread. I made no effort to wipe them away. A salty taste spread across my tongue.
"Do you have someone else lined up?" he asked with an annoying nonchalance.
"No," I said and it was the absolute truth.
"Were you making plans?"
"No...just making plans to make plans, if that makes any sense." I answered with a stilted chuckle. God, I sounded like a blithering idiot, and that made me cry harder.
The bed rose as he got up, the cane tapped the floor, and I felt a tug on my arm. "C'mon, Jimmy. Let's get you some tissues and a drink. We need to talk."
The talk didn't start right away. I sat at the table with a box of tissues and a bottle of scotch while Greg swept up the ruins of the plate. There was a still a splatter of syrup on the wall, casting a sticky gleam in the overhead lights. My friend, my only friend, either didn't notice or chose to ignore it for the time being. I refreshed my drink and said nothing. Syrup could wait for a while.
The pieces of plate jangled into the trash can. Greg threw a weird glance in my direction that I couldn't read. "You owe me a plate," he smirked.
"I'll get you another set," I offered, half serious.
"If that's what you want," he said obliviously, not really agreeing to my offer. He didn't really care a toss about the damn thing as long as a shiny new plate was placed within the cupboard in the next few days. A brand new kitchen set could await him tomorrow and he'd still bitch about the plate. And I wasn't in the mood to point out that he didn't have to smash it against the wall. He'd probably smash another one just to say he didn't have to smash that one either.
"So...," Greg began as he settled across the table and poured himself a drink, "you were thinking about being with someone else."
"Yes." Hardly a reason to deny it, not that I could. There may as well be a scarlet letter hanging around my neck.
"Why?"
"Because...that's what I always end up doing."
"Why?" he asked again with an edge in voice. My forthcoming laundry list of lame excuses were obviously not doing anything to satisfy him. But they were the only excuses I had.
"I don't know," I answered, my voice cracking. The tears made a comeback, turning the kitchen into a watery blur.
"That's not good enough, Jimmy."
"I know." My hand reached for the tissues and yanked out three or four. A pathetic, shaking, blubbering mess was sitting in my chair. If anyone else could see me right now they would run screaming for the nice men in the white coats.
"You're a lout, a cad, a cheater," he said, "and you know it, and all your exes know it. Yet you're sitting there bawling your eyes out like it's the first time anyone else has ever pointed it out to you."
"No, not hardly," I answered, refilling my glass to the brim as Greg silently watched. "It usually happens after the fact."
"You mean after you've been caught."
"Yeah, something like that."
"That's interesting."
"What?" My jaw hit the table in the disbelief, hard enough to leave a bruise. "You destroyed a plate this morning because you were furious with a cad like me. I'm surprised you didn't break that plate over my head. Now it's all just interesting?"
"It's interesting that you warned me first." He had that look in his eye, that look he gets whenever he's stumped on a case andchasing the clues around in his head, trying to catch all the pieces and make the square fit into the circle. "As far as I'm concerned you may as well have given me a list of names and addresses and invited me over to run the video camera."
"I thought that you deserved to know the truth."
"Do I?" He seemed amused, not angry, and that was pissing me off. "Me–a bisexual, crippled, drug addict. I deserved a warning but the beautiful ladies you vowed to love and cherish forever didn't. Maybe I'm weird, or maybe I just took too much Vicodin today, but I find that interesting."
"I just wanted to be fair," I replied lamely.
"You've never been fair to your partners in your entire life, Jimmy," Greg said with a sudden deadly seriousness. "So cut the crap. Why the fairness kick?"
"I have no idea–"
"Bullshit!" The same dripping acidic hiss he had used that morning cut through the room. "You'd fuck over Mother Theresa if you thought you could get away with it. Now you haven't even done anything yet and you're falling to pieces over your supposed guilt, all because you think a bastard like me deserves the truth. That's bullshit if I've ever heard it. You know the answer, now why? Why?"
"I don't–"
His fist slammed down on the table instead of his harsh voice cutting me off. My scotch sloshed all over the place. The pale amber puddles stayed put. "This is your last chance," he said slowly, three seconds away from his anger at me boiling over. "You either tell me why or your sorry ass is out the door."
It was my last chance and I had to choose. I'm the one who wanted this relationship to begin with, and I wanted to keep it more than anything. Either that or be a miserable cheating bastard who deserved whatever he had coming to him. A life with someone who actually cared about me or the a few lousy hours with the nearest airhead blonde who happened to have the bad luck to cross my path.
"I mean it, Jimmy. You answer me now or you can go pack."
I made my choice. "Because...it is my last chance," I began.
"Last chance for what?"
"My last chance at some sort of...steadiness, for lack of a better word. My last chance at a decent relationship. I warned you because I was afraid I wouldn't be able to stop myself, and you'd never let me get away with it."
With deep relief I watched as his anger drained away, replaced with a quiet contentment.
For the first time that evening I allowed myself a tiny smile. "And seeing your reaction this morning and right now, I can see that I was right."
