I had to try.
“It’s not in the cards,” I began, haltingly, gasping with the effort, as though my body were so at war that my lungs would not cooperate, and my vocal cords would no longer take direction from my brain. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do this anymore. It’s not an option. I know you think I’m good for you. I get that now. But can’t you see that you aren’t good for me? I’m trading my peace of mind for split seconds of bliss here. I look at you, and I remember. I remember what I’ve lost, what I should have been, what I could have had. Some of it feels good, but just as much of it is near unbearable for me. I could find someone, someone else, who didn’t only remind me of the things I’m not. Of the things I’ve lost. In fact, I intend to. And you, you can find someone else that doesn’t make you remember, either, doesn’t tear you up with guilt. Some relationship without a lifetime’s worth of baggage, weighing it down. I’m sorry, but I can’t see you anymore. I wish you the best in your life, and so I’m setting you free.”
Somehow, I peeled myself away from him and left.
He let me.
I couldn’t even look at him after that last bit, so I had no clue what it cost him to keep his silence while I sliced us both open and walked away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
I did what I always did when I was too weak to stand. I went home.
Bev welcomed me with her warm heart and her open arms, as she always had.
I poured my heart out to her and told her everything I’d avoided telling since Tristan and I had started seeing each other again.
She took it well, didn’t judge, only soothed and listened and soothed some more.
I hadn’t even been there for five hours when Frankie showed up, and I wasn’t at all surprised. It seemed to be her MO.
She was like our combat nurse, always showing up after a battle to help each side nurse its wounds. I must have been the one she’d decided was more badly injured, if she’d found me this fast.
Bev let her in and poured her a glass of red wine.
“Why do I always take life so seriously?” I asked them both.
Neither had an answer except to give me sympathetic looks.
“You know, I’ve never smoked crack,” I told mostly Frankie, but of course, Bev had the stronger reaction.
“What the hell are you talking about?” She sounded appalled.
“We used to have this homeless guy that would creep into the gallery, like a couple of times a week.”
“Dirty Jim,” Frankie guessed.
I nodded.
“He sounds charming,” Bev said, sounding appalled.
“Not so much.”
“He had Hep C,” Frankie added her two cents. “Liked to talk about it. In fact, he had a rap about it. Shit, I can’t remember what it was, but he actually found a word that rhymed with hepatitis.”
“We’d always have him escorted out,” I continued, ignoring her. “Since he tended to shout obscenities at the other patrons. But whenever security would start to drag him out, his last line was always, ‘You haven’t lived until you’ve smoked crack.’ Hell, for all I know, he had a point.”
They both stared at me like I was crazy, and that’s when I realized that I was drunk. I started laughing.
“Now I remember! It was meningitis. That’s the word he used to rhyme with hepatitis in his rap. Not as clever of a rhyme as it seemed like at the time, but oh well. God, he was a crazy motherfucker. I shit you not, he asked me to tattoo some balls on his chin, like, a dozen times.”
I shook my head at her, laughing harder.
“He offered to pay for it by donating his sperm to the parlor. He was a dick, always trying to get on the TV show, but he never said anything that could get past the censors, the weirdo. The producers even tried to coach him, because they thought he’d be a funny touch for the show, but he couldn’t go two words with dropping the F-bomb.”
I lost it.
“I thought you both worked in a nice casino,” Bev gasped as if in outrage, but I could tell she was trying not to laugh.
“You’ve been cooped up in your office too much,” Frankie told her. “This is Vegas. It’s like the weirdo capital of the universe. Just drive down Boulder Highway sometime, if you don’t believe me. There will be at least one crazy motherfucker wandering around in his boxers, looking like he just walked off the set of The Hangover. Guaranteed.”
“Well, what does it say about all of us that we live here?” Bev asked.
“We like spontaneity?” Frankie tried.
“I hate spontaneity,” I pointed out. “God, I hate surprises. How did I get so screwed up?”
I started bawling. Neither of them could seem to get to me fast enough, but it was Bev that got there first, pulling me into her, patting my back, and making soothing noises while I cried it out.
I’d calmed considerably when she spoke.
“I’ve never smoked crack, but I swear snorting coke helped me get through law school,” Bev revealed.
We couldn’t stop laughing after that, and I hadn’t a clue if she was joking or not. I knew she’d been through some serious partying days, once upon a time, so it was anybody’s guess.