Page 27 of Embracing the Beat
“We didn’t,” I argue. “Two drinks aren’t enough for either one of us to get drunk.”
“Why are you so wrapped up in what did and didn’t happen? It was just a mistake.”
Her use of the word has me grinding my molars in frustration.
“Well, yeah, but...” What else am I going to say? We both agree. Last night was a mi—nope, still can’t say the word, even in my own head.
She waves away my statement, like she couldn’t care less about what I’m saying.
“Already forgotten. It’s not like it was very memorable anyway.”
Excuse me? What in the actual fuck?
“What?” I manage to spit out.
She shrugs. “It’s okay, bro. Some people simply don’t have chemistry.”
Chemistry? I had her coming so hard we exploded the goddamned lab.
“Anything else?” she asks, sidestepping until my hand falls uselessly back to my side.
“What? Oh, um, no.”
She nods. “Okay.”
She turns around to leave the kitchen without another word, only turning back at the last second. “Listen, I know we had plans to check out cheesesteaks, but I’m not feeling so hot. Can we do a raincheck?”
Fuck.
Suddenly the consequences of my actions are starting to pile on, one right after another.
Why are you upset? Weren’t you planning to avoid her anyway?
Our competitive taste test had slipped my mind.
“Yeah, sure, of course,” I assure her. “I need to work on the basement anyway.”
My mouth opens again to invite her, but I close it just as quickly. I need some time alone.
“Okay. I’m going to head back to bed. Let me know if you need any help, I guess.”
“Okay. Feel better, Mikey.”
Mikey. Your best friend’s younger sister.
I can’t forget again.
??????
I drag my ass up the basement stairs eight hours later, exhausted. It wasn’t even physically taxing work, but I’ve never liked painting, and I especially don’t like it after spending the week with a helper who makes whatever we’re doing fun.
When I hit the top tread and enter the kitchen, all the lights are off, the room cool. It’s like no one has been here all day, but since I came up around one for a sandwich, that’s not true. And Mikey must have been down here at some point, right?
But other than my plate from earlier, there aren’t any dishes in the sink or in the dishwasher. Her presence usually leaves its mark. Lights are left on, music playing on a radio, there’s movement—life—around her that doesn’t exist when she’s gone.
She said she wasn’t feeling well.
Maybe it wasn’t merely an excuse to avoid me. Maybe she really is sick. I don’t bother with any lights, my legs protesting as I take the stairs up to the second floor. It’s just as quiet as the main level. The symbolism of her closed bedroom door isn’t lost on me. My arm weighs a million pounds, but I manage to push through the sensation and tap on her door.
