Page 78 of When There Was You
“I’ll take a rain check on that kiss.”
“Butch?”
“Yeah?”
“You make me want to take the risk. Just don’t knock me out, okay?”
He hums. “You may not believe this, gorgeous girl, but you have the advantage in this matchup.”
Forty-One
Solitude can give my mind just enough rope to hang itself. Today’s work commute topic: Thanksgiving—fast approaching. It’s my first significant holiday in a strange place and Butch has yet to invite me to spend it with him. I assume his family gathers every year, but it’s probably too soon for him to include me in that kind of thing. Or maybe he’s reluctant tell his folks about us. I don’t know what to think about that. By all accounts, we’re progressing. Phone calls. A couple of dates. Sex. Slow-ish.
Will I be relegated to dining pathetically alone at some restaurant or forcing down a depressing turkey sub in my apartment? And is that better or worse thanyearsof dismal Thanksgivings at my parents’ house?
Why don’t I come right out and ask Butch to spend it with me?
Answer: I’m a chickenshit.
By the time I arrive at the office, I’ve worked myself into a ridiculous, self-deprecating tizzy, caught between longing and reality.
That evening,Butch doesn’t call until 9:30 p.m. He’s distracted, not himself, and I’m still ruminating about Thanksgiving. I detest my insecurities about us—and it’s making me reticent to talk about anything.
Then he drops the very words I didn’t want to hear.
“I’ve got to cancel this weekend, Jacqui. I’m sorry. My parents are sick, and it…I can’t?—”
“It’s alright. I understand,” I cut in, my heart sinking. “You’re a good son to take care of them.” I wind the phone cord through my fingers, trying to strangle my anxiety and disappointment.
Butch sighs. “I wanted to see you.”
“Same here.”
“I’m burned out on my schedule, my responsibilities, all of it. It shouldn’t be so difficult to balance everything.”
“Yeah.” It’s all I can muster, wallowing in my own crap.
“Don’t give up on me, okay?” His voice is dull and hoarse.
“I won’t.”
He pauses, clears his throat. “I’m still figuring things out.”
What things?I want to scream.What is there to figure out?
“You still there?” he asks.
“Mm-hmm.”
“You’re quiet.”
And you’re unforthcoming. “Just not sure what to say, Butch.”
“Tell me something you don’t like talking about.”
“What? Why?”
He sighs. “I don’t know. Because I need to hear something real, anything to feel less fucked up in my head.”
