you.”
“Deal. Now, who put you up to getting ice cream?”
“Reed.”
“And the flowers?”
“Falcon, but I chose them.”
She grunted an acknowledgement but said nothing else. After we finished eating she looked tired. The strangest sensation filled me. I wanted her approval. I needed to know what she liked so I could repeat it as soon as possible. I’d never sought anyone’s approval.
It thrilled me.
It scared me.
It heated my veins and burned my cells at the stake.
What was this?
“I’m gonna go home and try to get some sleep. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at eleven, so we can go see the babies. Is that okay?”
She looked put out, like I’d offended her. I needed out—now.
Even the walls began to pulse.
“Yes. Thank you for everything.”
“Anytime.”
I bolted.
I ran out of there like the chicken-shit jackass that I was.
How did one date turn into me thinking about her all the time and wondering what she approved of?
The only relationship I’d been witness to, except for the brothers, was where one partner was driven down into the ground on a daily basis, sometimes so deeply that not even love could throw her the rope she needed to climb out. Love was the rope that hung her. The noose around her neck was my dad and her constant need to take care of him. And it drove her to misery.
But it wasn’t me I worried about. It was her. I didn’t want her to feel stuck to a social hermit. I didn’t want the sludge of my poisonous dreams and anti-people tendencies to get in the way of her life.
God, she was perfect.
So effing perfect.
I got home and showered. I laid in my bed later, just some pajama pants and a scowl. This empty space, the one I lay in and the one in my head—it was fickle and fine at once. I loathed the emptiness of the life with my father had caused me, everything all seconds of the day magnetically revolving around what he needed, what he was yelling, his meds, the locks on the doors. And though that part of me still raged for him to shut up, there was another part which felt completely guilty for feeling relieved by his death. When I came home that night, not even fifteen minutes both ways to the grocery store, and he was gone—I was relieved. What kind of person is relieved to think his father is dead?
A twisted bastard.
My phone buzzed, it was on vibrate.
I ignored it. Sometimes that was what I needed. Instead of continuing to fend off the thoughts of him, once in a while it was best to just let them flow, just roll around knowing there was cactus in those memories.
Minutes passed and the phone buzzed again. I picked it up and turned it off without even looking at the screen. After a few hours of tossing and turning I got up, threw on some jeans, a t-shirt and a hoodie, hopped in my truck and drove to the riverfront. It wasn’t the safest place to be at night in New Orleans, but I needed the fresh air and I thought that maybe wearing myself out would work. I stopped at one of the piers and sat on the edge, legs dangling. I’d turned my phone back on in case I needed to dial 911. You never knew around the French Quarter.
It beeped again. I thought seriously about throwing it off the pier. Checking the missed calls and
“Deal. Now, who put you up to getting ice cream?”
“Reed.”
“And the flowers?”
“Falcon, but I chose them.”
She grunted an acknowledgement but said nothing else. After we finished eating she looked tired. The strangest sensation filled me. I wanted her approval. I needed to know what she liked so I could repeat it as soon as possible. I’d never sought anyone’s approval.
It thrilled me.
It scared me.
It heated my veins and burned my cells at the stake.
What was this?
“I’m gonna go home and try to get some sleep. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at eleven, so we can go see the babies. Is that okay?”
She looked put out, like I’d offended her. I needed out—now.
Even the walls began to pulse.
“Yes. Thank you for everything.”
“Anytime.”
I bolted.
I ran out of there like the chicken-shit jackass that I was.
How did one date turn into me thinking about her all the time and wondering what she approved of?
The only relationship I’d been witness to, except for the brothers, was where one partner was driven down into the ground on a daily basis, sometimes so deeply that not even love could throw her the rope she needed to climb out. Love was the rope that hung her. The noose around her neck was my dad and her constant need to take care of him. And it drove her to misery.
But it wasn’t me I worried about. It was her. I didn’t want her to feel stuck to a social hermit. I didn’t want the sludge of my poisonous dreams and anti-people tendencies to get in the way of her life.
God, she was perfect.
So effing perfect.
I got home and showered. I laid in my bed later, just some pajama pants and a scowl. This empty space, the one I lay in and the one in my head—it was fickle and fine at once. I loathed the emptiness of the life with my father had caused me, everything all seconds of the day magnetically revolving around what he needed, what he was yelling, his meds, the locks on the doors. And though that part of me still raged for him to shut up, there was another part which felt completely guilty for feeling relieved by his death. When I came home that night, not even fifteen minutes both ways to the grocery store, and he was gone—I was relieved. What kind of person is relieved to think his father is dead?
A twisted bastard.
My phone buzzed, it was on vibrate.
I ignored it. Sometimes that was what I needed. Instead of continuing to fend off the thoughts of him, once in a while it was best to just let them flow, just roll around knowing there was cactus in those memories.
Minutes passed and the phone buzzed again. I picked it up and turned it off without even looking at the screen. After a few hours of tossing and turning I got up, threw on some jeans, a t-shirt and a hoodie, hopped in my truck and drove to the riverfront. It wasn’t the safest place to be at night in New Orleans, but I needed the fresh air and I thought that maybe wearing myself out would work. I stopped at one of the piers and sat on the edge, legs dangling. I’d turned my phone back on in case I needed to dial 911. You never knew around the French Quarter.
It beeped again. I thought seriously about throwing it off the pier. Checking the missed calls and
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