Funny Feelings (65)

His gaze roams over me as he steps closer, before the hint of his grin flattens and his eyes harden.

I have the odd memory of being taught in school that it takes more muscles to frown than to smile. It makes me marvel at the strength of his.

But then, there. A small flare of his nose, eyebrows twitching up and in to one another. I think again, if this expression was art: Helpless Anger.

“Who?” he grits out, helplessness fading.

I make the mistake of stopping my eyes from dancing along the other parts of his face and meet his own, and the trembling starts anew.

“How? How did you get here?” I ask.

“I rented a car in Phoenix. Now you answer mine.”

I shake my head, and it jostles a tear loose. I do not want to lose it, not here.

“Hotel?” Meyer asks Shauna.

She passes him my backpack. “Already checked in earlier.”

He scoops me up and tucks me against him as we walk toward the exit, him practically carrying me. When we emerge into the parking lot I notice a 7-Eleven across the street and recall that the woman’s coffee was from there—per the paper cup, at least. Piping hot and fresh. I wonder if she had it before the show or if she got it when she left and came back. It must’ve been the latter.

Meyer slides me into my seat and shuts me into the safety of the car, chin bouncing erratically as fat tears begin to roll down my cheeks. He slips into his seat and immediately starts the engine when I reach for the sports drink in his cupholder, trying to occupy my hands.

“No. Not…” he gentles his voice. “That’s a pee bottle, Fee, not a gatorade.”

“But… you’re a guy. You can just pee anywhere on the side of the road.” Two more tears splatter on the center console between us. So at odds with the stupid sentence I just uttered.

“Didn’t want to stop at all,” he says, pulling away from the curb. He grabs my hand and lets me hold it in my lap. I clutch it in both of my palms. I laugh a little hysterically when I picture Meyer trying to drive and trying to pee into a gatorade bottle simultaneously.

“Jones. Fee. I’m sorry I didn’t make it in time. I really wanted to.” His voice catches on really and the lump in my throat seems to calcify.

I nod, but I want to tell him that he didn’t need to, that I don’t even know if I’m crying over the happiness at seeing him, the success of the show, or the confusion over what took pace after. Did I take something too far? I bullied a paying patron, in a way. Even if she wasn’t justified in attacking me back, I struck first. I know I did.

And for the first time, in as long as I remember, I question whether I want to go forward with this. I think I might not be getting it right. My why, or my how.

“I’d like you to tell me everything, Fee. I need you to, please. Let’s get up to your room and get you cleaned up and then I need you to talk to me. Okay?” Meyer says, snatching me from the flushing whirlpool of my thoughts. It’s now that I notice we’ve stopped in front of the hotel, the tight lines of his expression, and the white knuckles on both of our hands. “Okay,” I croak.

He loads himself down with his luggage before retrieving my hand again and leading me straight through the lobby and to the elevators. Another hysterical laugh flaps out of me when I think about the stark contrast between this hotel visit together versus our previous one. He, again, doesn’t question it, just asks for my room number.

And then I continue to crack. The fluttering wings in my chest materialize in the form of laughter. Frothing, bubbling, uncontainable kind. Meyer speed walks us down the hallway when we make it to my floor. He shoves through the door as soon as it unlocks, me in front of him, and in one swift motion tosses his bags into the closet before he strides determinedly toward me and crushes me to him. My arms crash around his middle, gripping each other.

“I’m sorry I can’t stop laughing,” I say through the maniacal sound, sucking down a breath through a hiccup.

“Angel, I hate to break it to you, but you’re not laughing. You’re crying.”

He tips my chin up with two fingers and heartbreaking gentleness, cradling the back of my head in his free palm.

Sure enough, I feel the tight wetness around my eyes, already swollen to anaphylactic proportions, I’m certain. I give in to the urge to sniffle, and a litany of emotions cross his beautiful face: anger, sadness, an attempt at a reassuring lift of his lips that dies out in the same second it starts. And as the last of the adrenaline leaves my system, my teeth begin to chatter.

“Are you cold?” He asks.

I shake my head even as I note how hot the latest tear feels on my face. He walks me to the bathroom and wraps me up in a couple towels before he sits me on the toilet and starts the bath.

“P-P-Please don’t make it t-too hot?”

His head turns up to me and he searches my face with a scowl I know isn’t reserved for me. “Of course.”

I stick my tender arm out of my towel cocoon and look it over. Not very red anymore, which somehow seems to fit the situation since the burn did more internal damage than anything.

“I j-just want to w-wash the coffee smell out of my hair,” I whisper. He nods.

And even though this could not be further from the warm and sticky daydream I’ve often had of being fully naked in a hotel room with Meyer, I strip down and climb into the bath with my back to him without much preamble. Maybe it’s because this was what my Mom always did when I got hurt or had a terrible day. Perhaps it’s because I want to be taken care of right now and some part of me knows that Meyer wants to care for me and this is a comfort that I don’t have the strength to fight.