▪️Saturday, January 23rd, 2018▪️

▪️Phoenix, AZ▪️

I'm lying dressed on top of the covers, and it's still dark. Or already dark. My body's usually great at telling time. Nothing is usual. This might mean I'm still asleep. I fumble for the lamp on the bedside table, and the light brings everything back: Angie kicking me out, the conversation with Neil, and the flight back to Chicago I must catch if I'm to make it home in time. My reality. Not asleep then and still living the rollercoaster of Angie's birthday. I tie my boots, pick up my backpack, and open the door.

Neil and Angie stand in the middle of the hallway.

Fuck.

Her face is puffy and gray, and not because of the fluorescent light. Her anguish colors her every feature. The sight of Angie pauses my heart. The part that restarts the blood pumping through my veins with painful, angry throbs is the placement of Angie's face on Neil's chest.

Her arms slung around his waist, hands clasped on his back, she looks as if she'll never let go. I know exactly what temptation and pleasure her hugs grant. Seeing her like this, I'm unable to ignore the stark difference between Angie slamming two doors in my face and her draping herself over a guy who she spent every day of the last two months with.

"You're up," Neil says over Angie's shoulder. He continues to pat the middle of her back, as they stay exactly in the same spot.

They don't jump apart, and their closeness grates at my heart, making me wince with pain. I wait for her to say something. She is the one who's the poet. Angie shifts her head, and her red-rimmed eyes with streaks of mascara under them flicker to my face and away, settling on my boots. Actions speak louder than words. Neil, holding her like that after his earlier speech, pours raw alcohol on my shredded flesh. The sting bolts through my cells, but his is a smaller betrayal. Neil didn't lie. He said she's beautiful and talented, but that he needed her to want him.

Neil looks at the phone in his hand. "Your ride will be here in five. I was about to wake you." He says it as if it's just him and me here. As if Angie is not wiping her eyes on his shirt, with her chest against his body. As if she's his girlfriend, and not mine.

And she is not.

Mine.

Nausea hits me. She's here for him, or to confide in him, or to give him the piece of her she doesn't want to share with me. My stomach contracts, and I have a sudden urge to puke, to release the acid eating me from inside out.

"Am I the only one who will be talking?" Neil's gaze travels between Angie and me. "D'you need me to interpret for you?"

Angie's watching my boots. I'm watching Angie. I scrape the bottom of the barrel for words to say to her, questions to ask, but I'm fresh out. Whatever is left doesn't express my devotion to her better than what I've already said. I've offered myself to Angie so many times, I have nothing left to explain. If I repeat myself, will that send her hiding in Neil's bathroom?

"Bloody brilliant. It's impressive how bullheaded you two are." Neil puts his hands on Angie's shoulders, turns her, and moves her in front of me. She doesn't resist, but she doesn't look at me either. "Angie here is realizing she has a lot of shit to figure out. On her own."

He waves his hand in my direction. "Lover-boy there thinks if he's not the one helping, if the two of you take time apart, it means he's failing you. That you're done for good." Neil steps to the side. "Are you both okay taking a break and returning to this conversation when you have the head space, or are you going to be babies about it?"

If she wants time, I'm going to give her time. Space is already a given.

I compel my mouth to open and force, "Fine."

In my family, banding together over a problem and supporting each other is how we do things. Who abandons a loved one in need? Leaving her alone goes against every notion, every experience I've had in my life. Stepping away for me does mean failing. But this is not about me. If my failing will get her to be happy, I'm fine with that. Even if she's happy without me, I'd rather be away on the sidelines watching her success and happiness than be near her and cause her misery. I can take it. I'm a big boy. "I won't bother you till you tell me you want me around."

"Mike." Angie fists her hands at her sides and raises her chin. My throat tightens in anticipation. Tear after tear rolls from the middle of her eyes and adds to the gray-black lines along her cheeks. I watch her pupils grow as I hold her gaze. Her pain is plainly visible, but what does it mean? I wish I could read her thoughts. I wish her thoughts were that she doesn't want me gone. That she hates the idea of time without talking to each other as much as I do. Angie and I are linked together in a way no distance can separate. We can do this. Together.

"I'm not sorry for what I told you today," she says.

I swallow the nails of her words. I wasn't expecting an apology, but Angie saying she's not sorry eliminates the meager hope of today ending in something other than heartbreak. I don't want her to be sorry, but I don't want her to not be sorry. The feeling is conflicting and maddening, and the good boy in me struggles because the selfish guy who wants her to love me is taking over. I want her to need me, to want me as much as I want her, but I'm not getting any of it. I'm not that guy.

"I'm not sorry for what I told you today," she repeats. "Even though I am sorry for how I said it. But that me . . . is also me. I'm not rainbows and kittens all the time. And I'd much rather be that cheerful person you met. But I'm not. And that's what I want you to have. I'm not really that person. There're a lot of the darker corners of me I haven't shared, and that's not your fault. It's not anyone's fault. I choose not to talk about my past or my future. I explained before that I live in the present, and the present me needs to get my shit together." She steps back, as if the distance her words put between us wasn't enough. "I need time to figure out what I'm doing."

"Without me?" I ask for the final confirmation.

"Without you. Without my parents. Without people who have a vested interest in me being something specific. Something that is not my decision."

My heart sputters. 'Without' plays on repeat in my head. I'm back to numb. I'm empty. The heaviest emptiness I can carry and not break. Every step I must take is crystal clear. At least I have my answer and don't have to wonder any longer. Her actions and words come together and point me in the direction clearer than a referee who caught me deliberately stepping over the boundary line.

Out.

I adjust the backpack and look down the hall toward the elevator. "I'll get going then."

One last glance at her. One last hesitation. Last chance to see or hear something that would contradict what I don't want to be the truth.

Angie chews on her lower lip, her eyes still on me. She bites the skin so hard a pearl of blood blooms from the crack. Going to her, erasing her sadness, and smothering her in my hug, drying her tears, tending to her bleeding lip, carrying Angie to her room, and putting her to bed, standing watch over her sleeping restfully by my side, those are the things I want to do. Instead, I walk to the elevator, find the taxi, and check into the flight. I ball every urge to be there for her into a tight, neat, lead-weighted package I can sink to the pit of my stomach, where I pretend it doesn't exist.