It is strange how quickly a month can pass, especially when you’ve turned off everything.  All emotions.  All hopeful thoughts, all sad thoughts too. You just sort of exist.  Time goes by, and things move on, and you’re still there.  I spend the next three, nearly four weeks, in a strange sort of in between.

Go to work, come home, eat something, go to bed, repeat.  Sometimes I go out with Mary, who always manages to make me laugh.  I break and tell her the majority of the Tom story, and she listens with rapt attention.  She says she’s ever the romantic, despite a failed marriage of her own, and no real prospects for love at the moment (though she’s never alone for very long).  I admire her positivity, but I am just about drowning in my own confusion at the moment, so it doesn’t help much. 

I never really had Tom, so it’s a little easier to push him from my mind.  We were always just on the edge.  Those last few weeks after Christmas had been something a bit different, a bit more, but it had obviously been too much.  I’d only known Tom to do quick, flash in the pan relationships.  I don’t know why I thought I would be any different.  I suddenly knew what it felt like to be a Jenny or a Susie or a Serena.  I’d become one. A Gracie.

Embarrassment, fear of rejection, heartbreak perhaps, all kept me from really trying to contact Tom again.  So I buried myself head first in work, and I tried to forget the way he used to make me feel.  The feeling I’d get when he was around, like static electricity in the air.  When I thought about it, remembered it, it made me want to cover my face in blankets and disappear for as long as possible.

After one particularly cold walk home from the pub with Mary one night, I fell into a fretful, sweaty sleep in which I dreamed he wanted me back. Tom came to me and begged my forgiveness.  He said he was sorry, and that I was the one for him.  I woke up around midnight, sweating and disoriented, my heart in my throat.  It was like a punch in the gut.  Waking up alone, and the hole in my chest gaping.  How did this all start? With an innocent, carefree one night stand, culminating in increasingly confusing, spell binding meetings.

I manage to fall back asleep, after covering my face with my hands and counting slowly backwards from 100, trying to slow my heartbeat.  My respite is brief, as I’m awoken some time later, by a loud banging on my door, which is really only a few yards away from my bed.  I’m so out of sorts, and in a bit of a sleep deprived daze, that it takes me a minute to realize what is happening.  I throw the blankets off, my heart hammering against my chest anxiously. I’m worried it is Mary, and something has happened.  I’m wearing only underwear, so I quickly throw on a tshirt and shorts, and grab my old sweater off the back of my chair.

The banging starts again, and whoever is outside desperately wants me to answer.  I turn on a lamp and then rush over to the door.  I look out the peephole, and when I see who it is, I have to pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.  Am I dreaming? Did I not just dream this exact thing?

I open the door, slowly, and come face to face with Tom.

He has looked better, to be honest.  But it has been so long since I’ve seen him, that I feel almost weak in the knees when I finally get to look at him with my own eyes.  He’s got a few days scruff on his jaw, and his light brown hair is messy around his face, tufts of it sticking up, curling by his ears from being just long enough.  He’s wearing a red flannel shirt, which is open at the throat, and a worn black jacket over that.  One look at his face, and I can tell he has been drinking, his cheeks ruddy, his eyes a bit glazed.  What he is doing in London, I don’t know.

“What are you…” I trail off when he looks at me because I feel it straight in my chest and then, between my thighs.  It’s confusing and infuriating that even after everything, one look and I am useless.  He looks angry, wounded, and yes, drunk.

“Can I come in?” He asks.  He’s not slurring, and I’ve seen him drunk enough to be slurring before.  Maybe he’s not as drunk as he looks.

“Yes.” I say, and step back.  He walks in, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looks around.  It dawns on me that he’s never been here before.  I’m not completely sure how he even knows where I live.  I close the door behind him, and he walks into the kitchen like he owns it. 

“I didn’t know you were in London.” I say, following him to where he’s standing, looking at my small kitchen table.  There’s work stuff all over it—pamphlets and paperwork for Cleredon.  He shuffles through it, messing up my piles, and I frown.

“Stop.” I grab at his hand, scolding him like a little child.  He looks up at me, and then purses his lips.

“I thought you were gorgeous when we first met, did I ever tell you that?” He says, removing my hand from his, and then taking my wrists gently in his hands.  I lick my lips, blinking.  I’m not sure if I’m still asleep, or if this is really happening.

“No.” I say softly.

“Now, though, when I look at you…I don’t know what I see.” His words sting, and his brow furrows as he speaks.  I yank my wrists from his hands, and cross my arms over my chest.

“What are you doing here?” I demand.  He pulls his lower lip into his mouth and then shrugs as an answer.  Bullocks.

“I’m done in California. I’m back in London for the play.  I’ll be here for the rest of the year, for the most part.” He blinks, his eyes looking more green than blue.  I realize I haven’t really known what he’s been up to for the last month.  I don’t want to spend the rest of the night, dancing around what I really want to say, so I push forward.

“Why did you lie to me?” I say, my heart pounding in my throat as I speak.  “I know you were in London the other month…when you told me you couldn’t make it.” He walks through my kitchen and then over toward my living area.  He leans against the back of the sofa, and then looks at me as if he’s never seen me before.

“Do you, now? You know I was in London.” He smiles, and I see bits of the Tom I know.  It disappears though and is replaced with something else.  Something angry and hurt, like a wounded animal.

“I do. I talked to Emily.  She told me.” I raise my chin.  I did nothing wrong, so why do I feel like I’m the one on trial?  Tom stands up to his full height then, and raises his chin as well, looking down at me over the slope of his perfectly formed, thin bladed nose.  I feel my bones go a bit jello like, and the room seems to get smaller, if that’s possible.

“Come here.” He says. I don’t want to listen, but my feet move before I can do otherwise. 

I stop in front of him, but he doesn’t move.  He has his arms dangling at his sides, his gaze on me, with lids lowered.  I can’t deny the fact that I’m confused and hurt, and angry at him, and yet undeniably still attracted to him.  It’s like we have magnets in our blood, and when our bodies are close, we are drawn in.  At least, that’s how it is with me.  I’m not sure how it is for him.  But he must feel something. 

Tom’s arms raise, his hands coming to my hips, and he turns me, then presses me back against the sofa.  He pushes his hips into mine, and I feel his fingertips dig into my sides.  I know where this is going, and I know it’s not good.  For either of us.  I’ve spent the last few weeks forcing myself to fall out of love with this man.  Sleeping with him now, would be quite possibly the worst idea.  It may be our usual routine, but I just can’t this time.

“Tom.” I say his name softly, but he stops moving.  I can feel his breath against my neck, his hand on my chest, rubbing my bare breast through the thin material of my tshirt.  He moves quickly, despite being obviously drunk.

“Yes?” He answers, not moving.  I push against him, but he doesn’t budge.  I feel the solid mass of him, the muscles under his shirt, the heaviness of his limbs.  He leans into me, and uses his forehead to nudge my face toward his.  I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself.  I want to kiss him.  The last time we’d kissed was in bed at Christmas, and I’ve thought of him so many, many times since then.  It hurts, somewhere deep in my chest, but I move my mouth to his.

He tastes like whiskey, and he kisses me roughly at first, drunkenly and full of testosterone.  I press my hands to his chest, and then up to his jaw, slowing him down.  He responds, and then kisses me like I remember.  Soft, passionately, like he’s drinking me in after he hasn’t had water in days.  I lean into him, and he gathers me in his arms.  Almost immediately, his hands are at my shirt, under it, running over my bare skin and then tugging at it to take it off.  I grab his wrists and stop him, then break our kiss as reality crashes like a wave into my mind.

“How drunk are you?” I take a step back, and Tom teeters forward.

“Perfectly sober.” He is practically falling over.  I’ve seen him drunk before, and then I’ve seen…this.

“Why are you here?” I swallow hard, my heart in my throat.  We haven’t talked in a month.  He’s ignored me completely.  We went from warp speed to…nothing.  With no explanation.  And I don’t understand why he thinks it’s okay to just show up at my apartment, uninvited and unannounced at 27 minutes past two on a Thursday.  It’s quite obvious he wants sex, but beyond that, I’m not sure why he is here.  Maybe there is nothing beyond it.  He thinks we can just go back to being fuck buddies, which is all we ever really were.

“I was out with my friends.” He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back.  He looks different.  Bigger, more muscular. His shoulders are broader, his waist still trim but wider.  Coupled with his height, he’s rather intimidating.  I blink at him, and cross my arms as well, unconsciously mimicking his stance.

“And?” I push. 

“Hell, Gracie. I don’t know.” He murmurs, shrugging his shoulders, agitated.  “I wanted to know why.” He is looking down, but then he looks up, through his amber lashes, and straight through me.  I chew nervously on my lower lip and shake my head.

“Why what?” I ask, my voice wavering.

“Why you…why you’re completely and utterly…heartless.”  He says this with such anger, such surprising bitter vitriol that it is like a slap across the face.  I take a step back with the force of it and it takes me a moment to recover.

“Me? Me?!” I say, my voice going quickly from calm and unsure, to frantic and outraged.  I move forward, advancing toward him.  I’m not afraid of him, no matter how imposing and large and angry he seems.  I feel the hurt, the pain, the abandonment of the past month rise up in my chest and nearly burst through it.  I take a few rushed steps toward him, and then push him angrily in the chest.

“You don’t get to do this, Tom.  You don’t get to do this.” I say angrily, shaking my head.  He’s watching me now, his head still bowed, looking at me with a furrowed brow and livid eyes.

“Do what? Ask for an explanation? Ask for a little decency? A little honesty?” His voice is low, but it’s simmering with irritation.  I frown, confusion rattling through me and colliding with my anger.

“Honesty? Honesty?! I’ve been nothing but honest with you!” I explode, balling my fists tightly at my sides.  My hands ache with the force of my grasp. Tom looks at me as if I have two heads.  He tilts his to the side and grinds out his next words.

“How’s Richard, Gracie?” He raises his chin.  I feel as if the floor has dropped out from under my feet.  I take a step back, bumping into the counter. 

“What?”

“I saw you.  With him.” His words are like daggers, and I feel him slide each one into my chest.  “I’m not a bloody idiot.  I came home that weekend, to surprise you.  Valentine’s weekend.  And I saw you walk up with him, here.  I saw you kiss.” He shakes his head as if shaking out a memory he can’t quite get rid of.

“It was like being drowned.  Like getting rocks placed on my chest and being shoved into the Thames.” His jaw clenches.

I’m shocked.  I’m stunned.  And suddenly the last few weeks seem crystal clear.  Why Tom stopped calling.  Why he stopped texting.  Why we went from everything to nothing.

“Tom…” I reach for him, my anger having dissipated as quickly as it came on.  Oh god.  This is all wrong.  Terribly, terribly wrong.

“No.” He flings my hands away and looks at me, his eyes piercing. “I should have known.  We’ve been doing this how long, Gracie? And I should have known.  He was always there, lurking.  You’re no different than Kelly.  And I refuse to be a consolation prize.” He spits out, looking disgusted and then deeply sad.  “It’s what I feared from the beginning.  And it came true.” I don’t quite know what he means, but something deep inside me starts piecing it together.  I push it away, not wanting to know.

“No, let me explain. Please, it didn’t mean anything.” I grab for him again, but Tom refuses to let me touch him.

“Tom, you…you mean everything.” I’m crying, though I don’t remember starting.  I can barely speak.

“No, I’m tired of it, Gracie.  I’m tired of this.” And he sounds it, he sounds exhausted.  “And I’m tired of you.” He breathes this out softly, and I suddenly know what it feels like to have your own heart stop beating and then…simply cease to exist.  Leaving behind nothing but a wide, gaping hole.  I let out a soft, desperate sob.  One that I can’t hold in.

“I’m sorry.” He turns then and leaves my apartment, the door wide open.  I stand in my kitchen, feeling numb and empty and more alone than I have ever felt in my entire life.