Fast & Wet (The Fast 2)

“Where you going?”

“To talk to her.”

Cambridge is about an hour away, so I have a fair amount of time to consider what I want to say to Emily. How I want to say it.

She has every right to be pissed at me, but maybe she will understand why I left. Maybe she will understand why I stayed away, though I don’t want to hurt her more. I definitely will if I tell her everything, and some truths are not mine to tell.

Either way, I am an adult, and she is an adult, and both of us should be free to make our own educated decisions.

Given how sassy she was at work the other day, I’m pretty sure she will tell me to piss off, but I chased Emily down once and made her listen to me. I can do it again.

Pulling up to her block that’s lined with old brick buildings housing off-campus students, I can see from the street that her flat lights are still on. I assume she’s home because, well, Emily is always home on Saturday night. She’s still a good girl, unlike the path I’ve gone down.

It’s all the more reason I should stay away from her if I were a better man.

Finding a parking spot on the street, I back my car into the space and remember the first time I found myself here. I didn’t mean to turn up, it was like I was compelled here. She had just started at the university, and I was quickly reminded that Emily was better off without me. But there was something inside me that just had to see it for myself, to know for sure.

So, every now and again, when the pull became too strong, I’d come see for myself. Check on her. And, sure enough, Emily was alive and well. She had friends and a roommate and would sit inside a cafe nearby reading on her Kindle for hours. She studied, she tutored other students, she was doing what she came here to do.

She wouldn’t be doing that if I were in her life. So, I stayed away.

Once in a while, some guy would pick her up at her front door or walk her home. It was then that I had to fight myself to stay in the car. Because they were all the kind of guys that Emily should probably be with. Post-grad guys who wore suits and could talk about physics or engineering with her. Guys who would be gentle and treat her right.

Guys who didn’t come with a shitload of baggage.

Not guys like me who learned from an early age, and still have it instilled in me every time my father shows up, that it’s okay to beat women and children, then throw them out when you’re sick of them. I kept myself firmly inside of my car all those times I saw her with another guy because I refuse to be that guy. I refuse to saddle her with someone like my father.

As much as it guts me, if she’s happy without me, then I won’t stand in her way.

I will stab a knife through my own heart before I ever become my father and lay a finger on a woman, but it’s part of my DNA, isn’t it? My very birth was a result of what he did to my mother.

I hate that I’ve followed in his footsteps with a revolving door of women. Mine are consensual and leave satisfied, but it’s long since been satisfying for me.

And I am not proud. I hate sharing any traits with my father at all.

The last woman who not only knew the real me but liked me for it was Emily Walker. Everyone since wants Cole Ballentine the wealthy athlete or, like Selfie Sally tonight, they don’t even need to know my name. A penthouse on the river or a three-hundred-thousand dollar sports car is enough for them.

She’s the only one who saw real worth in this fucked up shell of a body. Maybe she still does.

As I’m about to get out of the car, the lights in Emily’s flat go out, so I hang tight. A moment later, the front door to the building opens, and her tall, blond roommate comes out, and she holds the door as Emily follows behind her.

What the fuck is she wearing?

Both of the girls are dressed in tiny little dresses and sky-high heels, which is not unusual for her roommate, but… I have never seen Emily like this. My heart is racing not just because she looks absolutely incredible, but also because I am shocked by this new look.

This is not an outfit that says, ‘let’s have dinner and a pleasant conversation about current news in materials science.’

My plans of finally having an honest conversation with her are put on the back burner. It’s dark out, it’s nearly 11:00 pm, and they’re both walking down the sidewalk alone.

They make it to the end of their block and turn left. I don’t want to be a creeper, but I follow far behind the girls in my car and watch where they’re going. I’ll just make sure they get there safely.

Then you’ll probably make sure they get home safely four hours later.

Several blocks later, they both enter some dance club called ‘The Jungle.’ I can hear the bass thumping from the street, and there’s a bouncer outside sitting on a stool who quickly checks their IDs and lets them inside. The windows are blacked out, but neon red and green strobe lights flash to the sidewalk when the heavy door opens.

This is not at all what I was expecting when I left London tonight.

After half an hour of stewing, I can’t take it anymore. I root around in the backseat and find a hoodie and a baseball hat and throw them both on. I look like the Unabomber, but I don’t want anyone to recognize me. I don’t want to cause a scene. I don’t want to sign autographs or take selfies. I just want to talk to Em, really talk to her. We could always talk, about anything.