I listen, and the voices disappear.
My chest is heavy.
Chelsea’s voice, without a shadow of a doubt, is echoing in my ear.
I grab the white lace in my hand and walk over to the kitchen, emptying the contents in the sink and scrubbing my hands with scolding hot water until they are red and raw.
But the pain is nothing compared to what my heart feels.
And with that, I sink to the floor with the tears swallowing me whole, the sobs achingly loud, and I scream her n
ame just like I did on the night of the fire.
The wood panels of the door become a big blur as I stay stagnant, gathering my thoughts.
What am I going to say? And why the hell do I need to say anything? Because he’s your nephew, and you’re the biggest douche for hurting your family.
I decide not to call ahead in case he won’t talk to me. I wouldn’t talk to me right now. My finger gently presses the buzzer, and the sounds of ‘La Cucaracha’ echo in the background.
Only Eric would have a doorbell like that.
Relief washes over me when Eric is the one to open the door. I don’t, however, appreciate his sympathetic gaze. Sure, I look like roadkill, and there’s a chance I smell like it, too. If anyone is going to give me grief about my appearance, it will be Eric.
“Hey, Batman,” Eric greets with a small smile. “I’ll just grab him.”
Eric walks away, and I stand uncomfortably in the living room taking in my surroundings. Eric, being Eric, definitely knows what style means. His apartment is decorated like a photoshoot from a Martha Stewart book. I actually see a picture of Martha Stewart in a frame against a back wall. I want to laugh, but it doesn’t quite connect with my face.
There’s a white leather sofa smothered with a million pillows perfectly positioned—different colors, textures, and oriental patterns. Looking around, I notice more oriental pieces. He’s true to his heritage, even a Buddha is sitting on a floating shelf. There are other ornaments surrounding it and a line of books sitting between bookends. On closer inspection, the bookends are of two male statues doing it doggy-style. Where on earth does he find this shit?
There’s a creak in the room. I turn around to see Tristan, who’s avoiding eye contact with me. I couldn’t feel any smaller right now. What kind of a fucking role model am I?
“Hey, mate.” Jesus, the nerves are coming out.
He remains quiet, then clears his throat. “Channeling your inner Aussie?”
“I’m trying here. Look, I had no idea. I’d never intentionally sleep with someone you were seeing,” I confess.
“I’m not pissed. Well, I was pissed. You can have her.”
“Tristan, it was a one-time thing. I’m not after a serious relationship. I’ve got a lot of things I need to work through.”
His eyes meet mine, and just like in Eric’s, I see pity. “I know, and I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry, too. Maybe I could’ve done something to help you.”
“Well, I’m glad you didn’t. Charlie wouldn’t be alive if you had stopped me.”
“You really loved her, didn’t you?” he asks.
I hesitate. “I did. I do. Just not the way she deserves.” It’s the God-honest truth. “So, when are you coming back home?”
He places his hands in his pockets and rocks back and forth. “I’m kinda hoping I can bum here until Eric kicks me out.”
It’s a small kick in the gut, a much-deserved one. I kind of got used to him being around despite my constant complaining.
“Sure, just don’t be a stranger, okay? I’m gonna miss your damn PlayStation.” I chuckle.
“Yeah, maybe… I might be back soon. It hasn’t been unpacked. Eric says part of the roommate agreement is no electrical devices that don’t have the intention of getting you off.” Tristan rolls his eyes.
Eric yells from the balcony, “I heard that eye-rolling!”