He didn't call.
On Tuesday, I started to worry. Surely if he and his brother had done something together, if he'd made an attempt at an apology, whatever was going to happen would have already happened. He would tried to give an apology right away too—I knew enough about my stranger to know that much. Meaning that his attempt to make things right with his brother had come and gone, and for whatever reason, he hadn't seen fit to tell me about it.
My first conclusion was that something bad had happened. He wouldn't want to talk about it if his planned apology hadn't worked out, wouldn't be all that eager to share anything if his brother was still mad at him. Especially not with me, who, if he'd taken my advice, had let him down in the worst way.
That whole day, I went back and forth between feeling concerned and horribly guilty. I must've done something wrong, I was sure—possibly misinterpreted his relationship with his brother and gave him false hope or bad advice or something. He wouldn't share anything with me ever again if that was the case, maybe wouldn't even talk with me anymore at all.
Of course, that possibility wasn't half so worrying as the fact that maybe things weren't going to improve between the two of them. When my stranger had told me he was the only family his brother had, he'd also indirectly shared that he didn't have any other family. And between what his brother had said- about him not caring for anyone but himself- and what I knew about his personality, I couldn't imagine he had any close friends either. Really, his life most likely consisted of little more than his work and his brother, with the latter being infinitely more important.
Meaning that if things were still screwy between them, more than half of everything he cared about was going wrong. Not to mention that the only person he really had was angry at him.
I imagined he would be hurt and lonely and probably upset—undoubtedly mostly with himself, but certainly with me too. And even just thinking about that, about him struggling to make up with his brother, and worrying over his situation, so desperate to come up with a solution he'd even brought his problem up with me—it made me immeasurably sad for him, and more than a little angry at myself, because I was certain- dead certain- that I was to blame for all of it. For not giving the right advice, or not doing enough, or leading him astray somehow.
Surely he was suffering, and it was all my fault.
My paranoid worry cooled somewhat, and I began thinking a little more logically by the time Wednesday rolled around.
My stranger told me he hadn't ever really had parents, not ones that he could count on. Probably no good friends either, and a brother he'd spent most of his time taking care of. But no one to take care of him. No one to help him out when he needed it.
Meaning he almost certainly wasn't used to getting help—likely didn't ever even want it, given the way he acted most of the time.
He probably felt like he'd panicked, was embarrassed or angry with himself for letting it come across that there was a situation he couldn't handle without help. Everything was probably completely and utterly fine. His silence surely wasn't because anything bad had happened, but because he wasn't used to needing advice and irritated that he'd had to ask for it and probably unsure of how to deal with the implications of his actions now that he was calmer.
That had to have been it. And even if he was awkward around me for the rest of our acquaintance, I'd so much rather his reason for not calling be the second one. I had Joey and my mother and even Joey's friends, but my stranger just had that one single person, and I didn't want the two of them to still be fighting. Especially when it was probably harder on my stranger than it was on his brother, given that the kid had a girlfriend at least, and maybe other friends too, while my stranger didn't seem to have anybody else at all.
Wednesday night though, as I went about thinking all that over, my resolve went shaky. There was no reason that my second theory was any more probable than the first. Things probably were still bad between them, and I was writing it off as nothing, and-
And I made myself stop thinking about it, knowing I'd never get an ounce of sleep otherwise.
On Thursday, it occurred to me that maybe my stranger simply wasn't calling me because it really wasn't any of my business, and not because something went super wrong or because of a deep-seated psychological problem on his part. He'd wanted advice. Nothing more. He hadn't promised to give a play-by-play of the entire situation, hadn't volunteered to share how anything had turned out. He'd just picked my brain for ideas, had maybe wanted to get that stuff off his chest. He probably hadn't really shared anything—hadn't seen that conversation as something deep or personal, but rather a cathartic exercise of sorts.
Meaning there wasn't any reason at all for him to call me in the first place. No reason I should've expected him to. I was the one who'd asked, who'd suggested it. And he hadn't promised a thing.
Had probably thought I was an idiot for asking.
But the mere notion hurt me- and embarrassed me, a little- so much that I abandoned thinking of it and instead went back to turning my other explanations around in my head. My most prominent theories were considered in the midst of several simpler ones—like that he was simply too proud or too busy or too emotionally stunted to bother calling.
Of course, it was always the worst explanation- that everything had gone terribly wrong and I'd permanently ruined his relationship with his brother- that lingered in my head, but I tried not to dwell on it.
Really, I tried not to dwell on the issue at all, but I did a really awful job at it. I even lied to my mother and told her that I was expecting a call from one of my friends from the support group, just so I had an excuse to ask her whether or not there were any missed calls listed on my phone, since I couldn't see them myself.
I was never surprised when she told me there was nothing there, although I was always a little disappointed. I mean, I'd had my phone on me all the time—I would have known if he'd tried contacting me. But a little part of me still couldn't help but hope that maybe I'd missed something.
It was worse than that too. I was distracted at work, always lost in my thoughts at home. Not just about the call- I did do a lot of thinking about my stranger and everything he'd told me about his past- but discerning his reasons behind not contacting me was admittedly my primary concern. Sometimes I even debated calling him, but I'd very clearly said that, if he had any interest at all in telling me what'd happened, he should call me. Not the other way around. Going out of my way to contact him would probably make me come across as prying and pushy and a bunch of other things that would only annoy him.
Friday morning was when I finally began to realize how ridiculous I was acting—how much of an overreaction I was having towards the whole incident. I even managed to calm down myself down a little during work, but by the time I got to the library and took my usual seat, I was worked up all over again.
To my relief, my stranger didn't come across as overly upset when he approached only a few minutes later—nothing unusual in his footsteps or movements, anyway. He sounded as he usually did, and when he took a seat across from me and uttered a cool, "Good afternoon," in greeting, his voice wasn't any different than what I was used to. Certainly wasn't as odd as it'd been the week before.
I wasn't entirely sure how to take that. I mean, I wanted to assume that everything had turned out completely and totally fine, but maybe he knew I'd be listening for any hidden emotions in his voice and was hiding how he really felt. Or maybe he was attempting to force things back to normal—was behaving obscurely as a deliberate cue that I should forget about last week and let things restart where they'd been before all that.
Reluctantly, I figured this whole situation probably would be easier if I kept my mouth shut about all matters concerning his brother. In any case, if I was wrong and he wanted to talk, he could always start up the conversation himself.
Resigned to that course of action, I smiled and lightly replied, "Good afternoon." And then, because I couldn't help myself: "Are you okay?"
"Peachy," he said, in a dry, sarcastic drawl that very much discouraged any additional questioning.
I could take a hint. Stifling a slightly disappointed- not to mention worried- sigh, I began rummaging in my backpack for my mp3 player, figuring that he wasn't going to say anything else.
He kept looking at me though. I could feel his eyes on my face, so weirdly intense that I couldn't help but blush. And he knew I could feel him staring—I had no doubt he hadn't forgotten that I'd told him as much just last week. Was he trying to make a point, then? Trying to intimidate me?
Or was he simply interested enough in studying me that he didn't care whether or not I knew about it?
I wasn't entirely sure, although I was rather skeptical that he'd want to study me, of all things. I was hardly interesting. Which made the possibility that he was trying to tell me something a lot more legitimate, if not frustrating, because I had no idea what he might be attempting to get across-
Then he killed all my speculating with a sharp, cutting, "I didn't call you."
I almost dropped my bag, I was so shocked, both by the ice in his voice and by the words themselves. Hands shaking, I set my bag back on the table and slowly looked up, tilting my head in his general direction so I could at least pretend to meet his gaze.
For a second I wasn't even sure what to say, but finally I settled on: "No, you didn't." And even though I tried to keep my voice collected and detached, the words came out awfully, almost embarrassingly emotional—wounded and annoyed and confused all at once. It made it too obvious that I'd cared about that call a lot more than I should have.
I think even he pulled up short for a moment, because he was silent for a long while, until he cleared his throat and said, "And yet, you haven't asked about my brother."
"I haven't…" I answered carefully, because I wasn't entirely sure what kind of point he was trying to make.
"Why not?"
"If you wanted me to know what happened," I said, "I assume you would've called and told me about it." A hesitation. "I didn't ask because I figured you didn't want me to bring it up."
"I don't."
"Then I'll keep away from the subject." I dropped my eyes. "Is that settled?"
"But-" He stopped himself, and said, even more severely than before, "Yes. It's settled."
And then he did start working, and after looking in his direction for a really long time, wishing almost inordinately hard that I could see his face and try to make out his expression, I reluctantly went back to the retrieving of my mp3 player. Within moments, I was settled into my chair, listening to music and trying not to think too much about how uneasy my stranger's line of questioning had made me.
I almost jumped out of my skin when he slammed his laptop shut only a few minutes later
"Wheeler," he said, while I failed miserably at trying not to look as startled as I felt. He waited for me to calm down and get my headphones off so I could hear him. Then: "Forget it."
I blinked.
What was wrong with him?
"Did… something happen?" I ventured cautiously, because I couldn't imagine him acting so… so illogically if everything was "peachy", like he'd tried to tell me before.
For a really long time, he didn't say anything at all. I could almost hear him turning his thoughts around in his head though, so I didn't press him.
Then, in a really funny, strained voice: "Yes. Something happened."
I frowned, because he didn't sound upset like he had with his brother. He sounded like he was preparing for something nasty. As though he'd gone to get his teeth pulled and the dentist told him they'd run out of Novocain.
Gently, I prodded, "And…?
He exhaled sharply and set his hands on the table with a light thudand looked me right in the eye. So intently I half imagined I could look straight back.
"I think," he said, "that these meetings should stop."
And I didn't move or breathe or really do anything at all. I simply sat there, gaping like a moron and trying to comprehend what he'd just said, sure that the words couldn't possibly mean what I thought they did.
Our meetings… should stop?
I was right. I'd given bad advice. He'd probably done what I'd asked, and it hadn't worked, and now things were worse than they'd been before. Or at least something like that had happened. And he was blaming me—didn't want to see me anymore because of it.
He doesn't want to see me anymore.
We'd been sitting next to each other for months. For more than half a year, the two of us had shared a table. Maybe we'd only actually spoken a small portion of that time, but that wasn't the point. The point was that we were always there, always present for each other… I couldn't imagine him just being gone.
We couldn't-
He couldn't just end this. Fridays were the high point of my week. I liked spending time with him more than anyone else. Even though I hadn't ever admitted it before, he was probably my best friend.
Except… except that was ridiculous. Because I didn't even know his name, and anyway, he was a successful businessman and smarter than I'd ever be, and wasn't the type for friends anyway—not from the impression I got. And while I could see how he'd tolerate sharing a table with me to some degree, things had been getting too personal for a long while. All the way up until the point where I'd screwed up and given him bad advice, and… and really effectively killed any reason at all he had to maybe possibly stay.
I haven't ever been proud of it, but I'm emotional. To the point where I cry over little things, like sad movies and minor injuries and overly frustrating situations. So I wasn't entirely surprised when I felt tears well up in my eyes, even though I tried really, really had not to let them fall. I didn't want my stranger to see me cry, not when he probably didn't cry ever, and especially not when, if he was serious, this would be the last time he ever actually saw me.
It would be awful, I couldn't help but think, for him to remember me as being weepy and overly sensitive.
"Stop?" I whispered, so softly I wasn't sure he heard me. I cleared my throat and forced myself to speak louder. "Why?"
He took a deep breath.
"At this point, I think it prudent. I am supposed to be getting work done-"
"What?" I cut in, and even though my voice broke, it was also a lot stronger than it'd been before. A little desperate, but mostly incredulous. "But you usually do get work done. You can't mean that one day where we talked a little more than usual is going to keep you from-"
"That one day," he cut in, "was so grossly unacceptable that I hardly should have come back this week."
I flinched like he'd slapped me.
"If I said something that made things worse with your brother, I'm sorry, but-"
"What are talking…" He trailed off, his voice taking on a really funny pitch for a moment. When he spoke again though, there was nothing there but sharp annoyance, "What you said is hardly the issue. The problem is everything that I said."
"But- that doesn't… what are you talking about?"
"My fight with my brother was none of your business. I shouldn't have spoken about it. But I did. And I followed your advice, and when it worked-" I couldn't help but relax just a little at that, knowing that at least things were okay on that account, even though they were rapidly becoming very much not-okay at the present. "-it also made me realize something."
"And what," I said shakily, "would that be?"
"That I'd relied on you—that unknowingly to myself, I had allowed our relationship to turn into something I cannot possibly tolerate."
"Wait." I straightened and my eyes narrowed as I began to understand what he was saying—that this wasn't something I'd done, but something he was doing. He wasn't trying to end this because there was anything wrong with me, but because he was an emotionally stunted asshole. "You… you want to stop this because you're scared of getting close to me."
"That is not what I said," he growled, but his voice was defensive.
I half wanted to slap him.
"Then why?" I blinked back the last of my tears, suddenly a lot less devastated and a lot more irritated. "We shared a little personal information. How, exactly, is that a problem?"
"Depending on others," he said lowly, "is for the weak. Any good businessman knows that the more you invest, the more there is to lose."
"That's stupid! If you invest more, you can get more too… right?"
He snorted contemptuously.
"Only a fool invests when he has no need to. I'm fine on my own. I have no need to risk anything because I have no desire to gain anything."
After he said that, I understood a little bit more clearly how his brother could have believed him so easily when he said it would have been easier not to have cared for him at all. If my stranger talked like this on even a relatively consistent basis… I wouldn't be all that sure of his affections either, even if we were siblings.
I didn't say that though, because I knew his brother was still a touchy subject, and it would be a low blow, even though I was unbelievably furious with him.
"But what about what you're losing?" I demanded. "Do you really not care about giving this up?"
"Giving what up?" I could hear the sneer in his words. "Two hours a week spent sitting in near silence with an eighteen-year-old blind girl who has no idea who I am? Why should I even care?"
And my fury evaporated in an instant.
For a long moment I couldn't even speak, I was concentrating so hard at pushing back the hurt that heaped down on me right as soon as those words had come out of his mouth. I think a punch in the face would have hurt less.
"Leave then," I gritted out, proud of myself for sounding more angry than wounded, even though I could feel my face crumpling. I swatted at my eyes, desperately trying to keep newly returned tears from falling. "If you really think this is so worthless, you can find somewhere else to do your work."
I choked back a sob, feeling like a stupid, sentimental idiot but unable to help myself.
How could I have spent an entire week worrying about him?
"What…" He sounded bewildered. The moron sounded bewildered! "Why should this be so hard on you? You don't even know me!"
"I don't know your name," I said. My voice broke halfway through. "There's a difference."
He went silent, not getting up and leaving like I'd asked, but not saying anything either. I wanted to pick up my bag and chuck it at him, to chase him off so I could be miserable in peace, but somehow I doubted my stranger was the type to be scared away by a weakly thrown backpack.
"But-"
"But I cared," I cut in. "I'm apparently weaker than you, because I cared. That's why it's hard on me, you blind idiot. Now please, go. I don't want to talk to you anymore."
And after a moment, he got up and left.
I still stayed until three o'clock, staring blankly in front of me and trying to figure out how things had shattered so quickly… and trying to figure out what on earth I could possibly do next.
...
...
Author's Note:
Should I start dodging rotten fruit?
I know, probably not what you wanted to happen, but remember: it's Seto Kaiba. Things would've been too easy if I let him blissfully accept that he was starting to like and even rely on, Joey Wheeler's little sister. Five seasons, and he still wouldn't admit to being Yugi's friend at the end of it, and that's after they saved each other's lives multiple times. His relationship with Serenity is different, but not that different.
Also, I went on a huge long trip and got way behind on homework and life and everything else, so no review replies last chapter. I will do them this time around, for longer reviews that give me something to actually reply to. Tell me what you think, what you expect to happen next, any improvements that could be made, etc. I always love getting constructive criticism, and you guys are so good at commenting. :-)
That's everything for now, so until next time...
~melon lord~
p.s. Seto will be back.
