Do You Take This Man (63)

My thumbs flew over the keyboard, drafting a reply. I wish I could kiss you right now.


RJ: But even though I think about it . . .



My stomach dipped and I erased the message.


RJ: The thing is, that’s where it needs to stay. I like kissing you and I like the other stuff, but that’s all I can manage.

RJ: That’s a me thing. Not about you at all, but I want to be clear. I don’t want you to get hurt or be disappointed. I can’t give any more than that.



Those words were so RJ—direct, specific, and honest. I should have anticipated them. I slammed a fist against my bed, the gesture ineffectual, my fist making a dent in the soft sheets because I hadn’t anticipated them. My face burned and my erection deflated at her words—for the first time in a long time. The hurt and embarrassment had nothing to do with Sarah or what had happened in California. It was a crushing awareness that I’d made myself the sap again.


Lear: Got it. Enemies with benefits.

RJ: We’re really good at that. Maybe even friends sometimes.



I glanced at the clock again and groaned. I wanted to ask her why this fuck buddy arrangement was all she could do, why she was so resistant to trying anything else or even dipping her toe in the water of something more. I had a wild hair to tell her what happened to me and how I ended up back in North Carolina, but that thought luckily never made it to my fingers. It was a late-night text, not therapy. Feelings hour never led to anything good, anyway, but not caring could serve me well.


Lear: Really good.



RJ sent a winking emoji before asking, What are you wearing?

I settled back against the headboard.


Lear: You first.



The dots bounced, and I committed to not caring.



* * *



? ? ?

AFTER I’D GOTTEN only a few hours’ sleep by the time RJ and I got off the phone, the next morning was a nightmare. Not only was I sleep deprived and horny—because phone sex, even with RJ, was not as good as the real thing, not even close—the couple I was working with was high maintenance and dissatisfied with every decision they’d made, remade, and confirmed. So the day dragged on. When I finally got a break between the first dance and cake cutting, I eagerly pulled my phone from my pocket, expecting missed messages. I’d promised RJ I would delete the photos she’d sent me, and I had, but I wished I had her to look forward to at the end of this day that wouldn’t end. I wanted her in my arms. We hadn’t gone back to the real conversation after—we’d shared the same kind of casual goodbyes we usually shared in person, and I’d fallen into a restless sleep.

I crossed my ankle over my knee and did a quick scan of the dance floor before giving myself permission to dive into whatever she’d sent.

There were plenty of missed messages, but they were all from Sarah. I cracked my neck on instinct, bracing myself for the hurt of her betrayal to creep up my spine as it always did, accompanied by an overwhelming sense of rising dread.


Sarah: Please don’t delete this. Caitlin won’t tell me anything, and I’m worried about you.

Sarah: Please just let me know you’re okay.

Sarah: I still care about you. I know this is a hard day for you.



I scoffed, annoyed and relieved that my sister hadn’t told the liar anything about me. I reread the message, angry that she could pretend to still care. I gritted my teeth at her last message, rage simmering in the back of my head at her remembering this was the anniversary of my parents’ accident. I’d known the day, but after so many years, the reminder was an ache. The day was hard, but not unbearable. My heart surged in my chest that she still cared, though, even while my thumb hovered over the delete icon as it had so many times. I could tell her off. I could say all the things I’d wanted to over the last year. I could call her all the names I had in my head or go for those insults that would needle her, the ones that would really hurt her. We’d been together long enough that I knew where her insecurities hid, but what was the point?


Lear: I’m fine.


Sarah: I can’t believe you answered.

Lear: Did you want something else?


Sarah: To talk. We never talked. You just left.



The day that I had walked out on her was still vivid in my mind. It was raining when I got in my car to leave. It rarely rained in Southern California, and the drops had been heavy on my windshield, traffic moving slowly as I inched out of LA, away from Sarah, and into a fog. A fog that had finally begun to lift.


Sarah: But you’re okay? Have you talked to someone?

Lear: My mental health is none of your business.


Sarah: I deserve that.



I imagined her brown eyes narrowing slightly, the way they did when she wanted to say more. I wanted to hate everything about her, but I remembered the kindness that usually accompanied whatever she’d say next. That annoyed me more than anything else.


Sarah: I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry you found out like you did. I’m sorry for all of it.

Lear: Okay.



She’d texted, emailed, and DM’d all of that many times. I hoped to look up and see the last rotation of the Electric Slide, which would mean my respite was over and I’d have to get back to work to make sure the end of the reception went well, but the line dancing was just beginning.