Can't Go Home (Oasis Waterfall) (22 page)

I was a goddamn little kid who wanted to dress up for Halloween, for mother fuck’s sake. Incidentally, I went as a heavy-weight champion that year; it was the last year I ever participated in Halloween. Dressing up and being something other people wanted you to be never appealed to me after that—Hell, I did that every day.

Thankfully, I’m no longer doing that. I’m not going to be someone else’s idea of me. I’m not living my life to someone’s standards, especially if they can’t accept it. It’s ridiculous how intolerant people can be; I’m not adhering to what other people want. It’s my life. It’s what I want, and that’s it.

Sadly though, what I want just walked away, leaving me alone on the sidewalk in the dark. I just wish I would’ve given Kathryn a chance to decide for herself; a part of me thinks she might’ve been able to accept the truth. Another part of me believes that all people are made from the same materialistic, money-grubbing, selfish, intolerant fucking cloth. Kathryn’s gone. I’m alone. And that’s the way fucking life goes, people.

“What? What the fuck? How in the goddamn world did you sit here and listen to me tell you fucking detail after detail about Rory fucking my brains out while all that shit with Dre went on?” Sydney hisses, trying to keep her voice low.

We’re eating lunch in downtown Charleston on the patio of a swanky, upscale restaurant. “Ivy” just got this month’s check, so Sydney wanted to splurge a little. However, we don’t have to pay for our lunches. Apparently, the “fan in the corner” already paid for them. Sydney quickly morphed into “Ivy” and went and thanked him, signing his napkin with her signature and a lipstick kiss.

“And crabs? He gave you crabs?” she yelled, getting us a few nasty glares.

“Oh for God’s sake! Would you keep it down,” I whispered, trying to duck my head from the accusatory stares.

“I just think that’s incredibly fucking romantic. I don’t under-fucking-stand what went wrong,” Sydney questions.

“Me neither,” I confess. “Me neither.”

This morning after a sleepless night, I went out early to get some doughnuts and milk. After what I’d been through the past few days, Weight Watchers could suck it, shove those points up their rear, and lick the glazed frosting straight from my fingers while they were at. There was no way I was going to get through this mess without a sugar-induced coma to calm me down.

Evidently, when I was gone, Dre must’ve stopped by with a gift for me. When I got to my apartment door, there was a box without a lid sitting in the hallway. I looked down and in the box was an aquarium, housing two hermit crabs with hand-painted shells. There was a note from Dre that said:

“You gotta make him tell you what he’s hiding. Fuck, he might not even be hiding anything,” Sydney says. “He might just be one of those chronic commitment-phobes who don’t know how to be in a relationship.”

“It’s more than that. He doesn’t tell me anything. Just keeps saying ‘I can’t.’ Well, screw that. How long am I supposed to wait to know anything about the guy I’m sleeping with? That’s just nuts,” I argue, getting angry and hurt all over again.

A few days ago, I was perfectly fine with carefree and “just having fun.” But then, things started moving really fast and getting pretty heavy. Dre and I connected, intimately, intellectually, and emotionally, whether he wants to accept that or not. I guess I can pretend all I want that I’m a “go with the flow” kind of girl, but the reality is; I’m insecure, romantic, and old-fashioned at heart. Trying to be someone or something you’re not is just so freaking hard.

Continuing, I say, “And he didn’t go to Brown! What the heck?”

“Yeah, what the fuck is that all about? Rory did. Rory even said that Dre did. Fuck that, if Rory wants to tap this again, he better start talking,” Sydney threatens, grabbing her phone off the table and frantically tapping the keys. “I’ll fuck him up if he lies to me.”

“Theodore said there’s no record of ‘Dre Donley’ at Brown,” I reiterate. “I mean someone’s obviously lying, and I doubt Theodore would make that up.”

“Oh yeah right, why would Theodore lie? What does he have to gain?” Sydney says, rolling her eyes. “I can’t believe that douchebag came here and proposed. I thought we were done with that piece of shit?” Sydney downs her mimosa, motioning for the server to bring her another one.

“I’m serious, don’t even think about entertaining that thought. If you do, I would take you … along with the ring … and chuck you right in the fucking Cooper River.”

“But Syd, what if Theodore’s my only chance at the fairy tale?” I ask.

“What the fuck ever! You’re not settling for Theo-dork as long as I’m around,” she argues. “Snow White didn’t fucking marry Dopey the Dwarf, and I’m not about to let you marry Theodore. Fuck that shit,” she declares.

Syd’s phone dings, alerting her to a new message. She reads it, nodding, biting on the corner of her lower lip. “Rory said that they both went to Brown. He also said that you shouldn’t give up on Dre.”

I gave him three weeks. Three long, lonely, and depressing weeks. Dre hasn’t called me, stopped by, or done anything to make me think he’s even thought about me once. Sydney saw him once at the hotel; she said he looked like shit and didn’t talk to her. Apparently, Rory keeps trying to convince Sydney to use the “best friend card” to convince me to go see him or call him. Frankly, Dre’s the one who screwed this up by not being upfront and open with me. Why should it be me who goes running back to him? Probably because I really can’t eat, sleep, think, heck function, without him. When you experience a few seconds of bliss, a lifetime of mediocrity isn’t going to cut it. Those dang “what ifs” can haunt you for a lifetime.

Leaving work, I have a plan; it’s the worst plan I’ve ever had. However, it’s a plan nonetheless, and I need to do something—anything. This whole thing with Dre has me so confused, so angry, and so utterly crushed.

You can tell yourself that you’re not going to get caught up in someone, not going to get close, and heck, not fall in love, but damn it, sometimes your head and heart are at odds. There’s nothing you can do to reconcile the war between the head and the heart. The heart always wins, and when it does get shattered, the smug little head, sits back, folds its arms, and says, “I told you so.”

I traded cars with Warren for the night. It was pretty amusing watching a 55-year-old man drive off in my yellow Volkswagen Bug. I look pretty rugged in his black Ford F-150, if I do say so myself. My plan is basic, pretty silly and simple actually. I’m going to drive around this city in this man’s car, searching for Dre, hoping to see him walking down the street. I just want to see him, see what he’s doing. Not too complicated, but the slight complication is that I can’t find him anywhere. I tried the Oasis, the marina, the docks, Battery Park, Meeting Street, and all the other scenic areas of historical Charleston. I’ve been driving around for over an hour when I decide that I just have to go see Rory. I’ll be honest and tell him that I miss Dre and need to see him.

“It’s about fucking time, woman,” Rory says, smiling, when he sees me. He hugs me, and whispers in my ear, “He’s wrecked without you.”

“Sure doesn’t show it,” I say, releasing him. “I can’t believe he hasn’t stopped over, called, done anything to fix this. I left the ball in his court, hoping—”

“Have a seat,” Rory instructs, directing me to a table. “Bring us a bottle of Pinot, would you?” The server heads off as if his butt is on fire.

“Niiiice,” I respond, “Someone’s got some pull around here.”

Rory is an attractive man; Sydney really shouldn’t blow this. His style is impressive. He’s always dressed impeccably. Today, he’s not wearing a jacket or tie, but is in his gray suit pants, a fitted, front-button gray vest, and a sharp light blue button-down with his sleeves rolled up. On three occasions, I’ve gotten to see his sleeves rolled up; his forearms are nicely chiseled and sculpted. I wish he would’ve been a bit more like Sydney at the beach and worn a little less. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to see a little more of his physique. Sure, I’m into Dre and would never think of his friend that way, but I wouldn’t mind a little peek. I am human.

“That’s what they pay me the big bucks for,” he replies, grinning. “Listen Kathryn, I know you’re torn. He’s been such a shit to you. But trust me, he’s dealing with a lot. I wish I could tell you everything—”

“So do it. Anything, just tell me anything,” I say, pleading with him. The server comes back with the wine, pours Rory a small amount, allowing Rory to smell, swirl, and swig it before pouring each of us a glass.

“I can’t,” he says, savoring his wine. “It’s not my place or my story to tell.”

“Rory, this is so messed up. How do I go back to him, trust him, when he’s never given me anything to hold on to, to trust?” I ask, praying that Rory has the magic words to fix this. “I don’t even know where to find him—how to find him.”

“Do you care about him?” Rory asks, intently.

“How can I? He won’t let me in,” I ask, hoping for answers.

“It’s a yes or no question, Kathryn,” Rory states.

“Yes … yes … of course. I wouldn’t be so hurt, so confused, and so freaking angry if I didn’t care for him,” I relent.

“What would your deal-breaker be?” Rory inquires; waiting for my answer, he drinks more of his wine.

“My deal-breaker? I don’t know. How can I answer that?” I ask, sipping my wine thoughtfully. This is all just insane. Rory knows something and won’t tell me. Dre’s hiding something that he refuses to reveal and yet, I’m left alone in the dark, wondering everything.

“Think about it. What would make you lose all respect for him, stop caring, and walk away without ever looking back?” he repeats.

“I don’t know. I guess … if he was … like … a … a pedophile … rapist … murderer. All deal-breakers,” I state, gulping down my wine, praying that we’re about to take all of those scenarios off the table.

Laughing, Rory says, “Dre’s messed up, but Honey, I can promise you he’s none of those things.” He leans forward, puts his hand on mine and says, “Dre thinks you’d never forgive him or accept him if you knew the truth. I think he’s wrong … if you ask me, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him … and he agrees.”