F is for Finn (Men of ALPHAbet Mountain)

As soon as he was gone, I got my phone and called Deana. I’d managed to keep it together and not let myself really feel the emotions that were trying to creep up on me. She sounded tired when she answered, but I all but begged her to come over. That night I needed to pull the best-friend card. Fortunately, it didn’t take too much.

Deana was an incredible friend. Even if she did show up to the door in her pajamas, her hair not brushed, and a grumbling stream of unintelligible words I was probably glad I couldn’t hear coming out of her mouth.

I didn’t care. As soon as she got there, I broke down. Olly had gone to bed between the offending chicken parmesan and the uncomfortable pie, but she went in to check on him to make sure he was steadily asleep. When she came back, she sat me down in the living room, and I spilled everything.

25

FINN

The next few days swirled together in a fog. It was like I was barely even functioning, much less getting up, going to work, coming home—to my actual home—and going to bed. I found myself snacking during the day but not sitting down to eat meals. I occasionally stuffed a burger in my face while I was at work, but that was about it. If it weren’t for the routine of when I usually took my lunch break, I wasn’t sure I would have eaten much at all.

What I was doing was working. I was working a lot. I barely left the damn diner, even when I wasn’t scheduled to stay. Helen had made a comment about it after the third day, but I ignored her. If she wanted me to go home, she would have told me. But since I wasn’t screwing up orders and there was always something to do around the place, she didn’t really have a reason to do so.

If the kitchen were filled up with other cooks, I bussed tables and cleaned around the place. If there were enough bussers, I would do paperwork. Helen couldn’t do paperwork and work in the kitchen at the same time, so I took whichever one she wasn’t doing.

I wasn’t sleeping much, even when I went home. Coming in the door, I would drop off my knife bag on the table, hang up my hat on the coat rack, tear off my shirt and pants, kick off my shoes and fall down onto the couch. I barely had the television on before I would zone out, staring blankly at it while I waited, hoping for sleep.

It never really came.

All I could do was think about how I didn’t even understand how we had messed up. I’d been happy for her, I really had. I knew she loved her job and loved working. She was fiercely protective of her ability to work in a “man’s field” and be not only good at it, but better than most of the men. She was tough and smart and had worked hard for the advances she had made. I really was proud of her and excited for her.

But my own insecurities took over, and now I feared that I had caused so much irreparable harm that I couldn’t get us back to where we were. What would I be able to say at that point? A simple sorry wasn’t going to cut it. I basically left her house, where she was clearly expecting me to stay and celebrate with her, and then ghosted her for a few days after.

I was a massive idiot. That’s how I felt, but I didn’t know how to fix it. If I had just been able to get past my own fear of getting hurt and talked to her before all this happened, then I wouldn’t have felt so insecure about her changing the routine and going back to work.

As I passed out on Tuesday night, I dreamed of Wendy. When I woke up, clutching a pillow the way I had been holding her in the dream, I knew I’d fucked up. Badly.

Struggling out of bed, I forced myself into a shower. Depression was a son of a bitch, and I knew it well enough to know the signs. I was working swing shift and probably would end up closing, so I had my morning to myself.

With memories of my parents running through my mind, I pushed myself into the shower and stood there while the hot water rolled over me and woke me up a bit. The only thing that was going to help after that was coffee, and thankfully, my coffee maker was set on a timer. I would have a fresh brewed pot waiting for me when I got out.

For the first time in a few days, I was actively hungry, and when I was shaved and dressed in at least new underwear and socks, I went into the kitchen and made myself breakfast. Sitting down in the living room, I flipped on the television while I ate. Maybe I still could salvage things with Wendy. Maybe if I went over to her place and tried to talk to her, maybe explained why I felt the way I did, we could fix it.