Intent(3)
And all that, for what?
He mistakes my silence for willingness to listen to his pitiful excuses.
“What have I done?” he asks rhetorically, his eyes moving quickly around the room. His voice cracks on the last word and sorrow glistens in his eyes. “Shit, Layne, what have I done to us?”
“Simple. You’ve killed us, Bobby. There is no us anymore,” I reply.
The anguish on his face is real. “This isn’t what I want, Layne. I want you.”
“You should’ve thought about that roughly three months ago. Before you f*cked her. Before you impregnated her. While you were trying to impregnate me.”
My tears are flowing freely now and I don’t bother to wipe them away. One immediately follows the previous one, falling so quickly that there’s no use in trying to stop them. The shock and disbelief of finding them are beginning to wear off, and the pain in my chest is becoming overwhelming. It steals my breath and I clench at my chest with my hand, trying to soothe the pain underneath.
Bobby, seeing my anguish, takes a step toward me, but the look in my eyes tells him to stay back.
“Don’t ever come around me again. I never want to see either of you again as long as I live.” I manage to keep my voice strong as I simultaneously issue an underlying threat and convey my disgust with them. “You deserve each other.”
I turn to leave and block out Bobby’s voice behind me. He first yells how much he loves me and begs me not to leave like this. The roar in my ears, the scorching, white-hot pain in my chest, and my own strangled sobs I’m trying desperately to hold back drown out his continued pleas. I hear Cyndi’s cries of disbelief as she tries to remind Bobby that he loves her. But he ignores her and drowns out her voice with his own. It’s all too much to deal with at once and I feel my senses shutting down from the overload. I’m short-circuiting.
I don’t remember the cab ride back to my apartment. I don’t remember walking into my building, past the doorman and the security desk. I don’t remember getting into my apartment. The alternating ringing of my landline and my cell phone brings me out of my stupor. A quick glance at my caller ID shows Bobby has been calling repeatedly for the past hour. An hour that I don’t even remember being here.
After I unplug the phone, I start to turn off my cell phone and notice I have ten voicemails from Bobby. I just can’t deal with them right now, so I turn off my phone and crawl into my bed. It’s still early Saturday, barely even noon, but I don’t leave my bed until I have to get ready for work Monday morning. Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I’m not sure how I’ll pull off this look today. I’m relatively new and still very concerned with making a good impression.
Visine drops help tame my bloodshot eyes, makeup expertly applied hides the red splotches, and my hair is styled with my bangs swept to the side, long and partially covering my face. As long as I don’t have to look anyone in the eye, speak to anyone, or interact with any personal contact whatsoever, I should be fine. I just have to make it through today, tomorrow, this week, this month…
I don’t know how to do this.
But I refuse to just lie down and give up.
Pulling myself up by my imaginary bootstraps, I put one foot in front of the other and walk out my door. When the elevator doors open, the heavy fragrance of fresh flowers instantly engulfs me. The sweet scents of roses, lilies, hydrangeas, and lilacs are the most pronounced. Without conscious thought, I inhale deeply, drawing the bold aromas into me. The scents flow over my frayed nerves and soothe them, reminding me of a rural area I visited briefly during my summer internship. I round the corner and my eyes land on the security desk that’s lined with vases and vases of beautiful flower bouquets.
“Wow,” I remark to Daniel, the security guard. “These are gorgeous. Someone is lucky.”
“Someone?” he chuckles. “These are all for you. They started arriving last night and have kept coming, almost hourly. Someone loves you.”
“All of these are for me?” My eyebrows disappear into my hairline, my jaw is slack, and my eyes are transfixed on the dozen or so vases of flower arrangements.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replies. “Jim and I called you last night, but we didn’t reach you. Do you want us to take them up to your apartment for you?”
The shock of the moment wears off, and I quickly step away from the desk as if it’ll burn me. My gaze flits over each one and I finally see the small, square card sticking out of each arrangement. No doubt there are various renditions of “I’m sorry,” “I love you,” or “I’m a f*cking bastard who deserves to have my balls cut off and force-fed to me,” marring the perfectly designed generic florist cards.
My rage has returned full force when I meet Daniel’s eyes again. “No. I don’t want them. Any of them,” I say through gritted teeth. “Throw the cards in the garbage and give the flowers away. Take them home to your wife, Jim’s wife, your neighbors’ wives. Whatever. I don’t care. Just make sure they’re gone before I get back.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replies. He keeps his tone even, his posture relaxed, and his eyes neutral, as if he’s heard this demand every day. I can’t tell him how much I appreciate it, as that would break the facade, but I do give him a single nod of appreciation. He understands, returning the nod and doesn’t make another comment.