Push(83)

“Emma, don’t,” he says. “Don’t do this.”
“Fuck you, David,” I spit at him, the alcohol and emotion surging through my veins. He looks at me as if I am completely insane. It is infuriating. I want to castigate him. I want to make him pay for both the way he is belittling my anger and whatever the f*ck it is he’s hiding. “This is your fault, David. It’s your fault that I am acting like an out-of-control circus freak right now. And this time, you’ll be the one holding my f*cking hair when I’m retching my guts out. You hate not being in control? Well, f*ck that shit. Things are gonna get way outta control tonight, my friend, unless you make the decision to man up and tell me the f*cking truth about why you made that phone call.” I lift the bottle to my mouth again, and when I drink from it, a small trickle of whisky runs down my chin. I am getting sloppy already—but I am not stopping until he f*cking talks. I am on fire.
David reaches up and runs his index finger across my chin, wiping the stream of whisky away. He puts his finger into his mouth and cocks his head. His eyes are narrow, and he looks more bemused and entertained than angry. It makes me want to punch him in the f*cking face.
“Fuck you, David Calgaro,” I scream at him, lifting the bottle to my lips again and taking another series of sips. “Talk!”
David is still regarding me as if I am utterly nuts, and I know that the crazy current is there, pushing through his body and thrilling him. “You’re drunk already, Emma,” he laughs, “and it will not be my fault if you spend the night retching your guts out. This is your choice—and it is not a very mature one at that. I am not explaining anything to you when I can see that you are clearly not behaving rationally.” Oh. My. Fucking. God. Who the hell does he think he is?
“You’re a jackass,” I sneer at him. “What f*cking high horse did you ride in on?”
“The one that gives a flying f*ck about your pretty little ass,” he says smartly as I am sloshing down more whisky. “I’m not watching this, and I’m not holding your f*cking hair either. You have completely lost it, Emma. And, the crazy thing is, you don’t even know why.” David walks to the door. His hand is on the knob as he turns to look back at me. “Eat that food, Emma, and call me tomorrow. When you’re done retching.” And then he is gone. And I am lifting the whisky bottle to my lips again.
* * *

I wake up in my bed on Monday morning with the alarm buzzing full blast into my ear. I don’t even remember setting it. Come to think of it, I don’t remember getting into bed either. The last thing I recall was lying down on the couch and closing my eyes. And before that, I was drinking. A lot. I don’t remember puking either, but the taste in my mouth suggests that was part of my evening, too. I sit up in the bed and put my hands on my head, trying to squeeze out the monumental headache raging inside of it. I am wearing a T-shirt and panties and nothing else. The clothes I was wearing yesterday are draped neatly over the end of the bed. I glance over at the clock as I switch it off, thankful that I have time for a quick shower before I have to leave for work. It is going to be a long day.
As I climb out of bed, I am struck by how dark the room is. It is then that I notice a large piece of plywood nestled into what was one of my bedroom windows. It is duct-taped into the opening, and all the glass has been cleaned up off the floor. I carefully run my hand across the top of my comforter, and there is not a single shard of glass there either.
Why did he come back here? I had every right to be pissed off at him last night for contacting my family and not telling me why, but I feel ridiculous for sinking into such a livid rage over it. The idea of him returning to close up the broken window and put me to bed confuses the f*ck out of me. I sink to the floor and drop my face into my hands.
* * *

Despite my hangover, I manage to make it to the bus stop on time. The ride is blissfully quiet, and I spend the entire trip thinking about what I should say to David about last night. I am still furious at him for keeping the phone call’s reason a secret. Why didn’t he just answer me? This whole screwed-up situation could have been avoided if he had just told me the damn reason in the first place. And I never even had the chance to ask about the earlier calls—my own ridiculous insanity kept me from that. I am upset with myself for getting so out of hand. Still, the thing that confuses me the most is the fact that David came back. He didn’t have to come back to check on me. He didn’t have to put me to bed or set my alarm or clean up the broken window. But he did, and I can only imagine what went through his mind when he saw the mess.
As I ride the elevator up to my office, I flip open my phone, hoping that David might have sent me a message last night or this morning. There’s no message waiting for me, but my fingers begin to type one of their own. I stop them, though, because I have no idea what to say. I have no idea where to go from here. I close the phone and slip it back into my purse.
At lunchtime I check my phone again. There is still no message from David. Part of me wants to extend an olive branch to him, to apologize for being so belligerent, to start the conversation all over again and ask him nicely why he made those phone calls. But the rest of me, the stubborn part, wants him to take the first step. I want him to apologize for opening that damned bottle of whisky instead of answering my question. I want him to apologize for walking out on me when I challenged him to man up. And then I want to thank him for cleaning up my mess and for sealing the broken window and for putting me to bed and probably for holding my hair while I retched.