The Start Of Something

9: beneath the surface

♫ Engine – Neutral Milk Hotel ♫

Ringo had a slash of black across his muzzle and a little patch below his chin that earned him his name. His tail had been bitten off prior to his arrival at the shelter, probably by a dog or a raccoon. These were the features that left him without a permanent home, and they were the very things that made Georgia love him instantly when she saw him. She stared at the pictures on her phone and wondered if he had taken her one framed photo of Ringo on purpose—as a reminder or a warning. Or perhaps it was because it was the only framed photo that she had, and its significance to her was enough to make it valuable to him as well. It was a simple thing to let her know that it was him without being more explicit. What could the cops do without any actual evidence that he'd been there? They would call him, certainly, and that would make him angry, and then what? Maybe she could get a restraining order simply based on what had happened when they were dating—and she wasn't even sure about that—but what good would that really do? People who want to hurt others rarely care about the consequences.

But maybe he didn't want to hurt her. Maybe he himself was hurting and simply wanted to talk, and she had cut off all possible routes of communication. But wasn't that her right, and wasn't he supposed to respect it regardless of how it made him feel? And who the hell breaks into someone's apartment to speak with them? She remembered how he was when he was angry, or desperate, or drunk, and it made her nauseous to think of how he would be upon seeing her again. Unless her mom was right and he was over her, and she was simply making up some infatuation to flatter herself. But who the hell breaks into someone's apartment when they're over them? Or maybe it wasn't him. Then why steal the damn picture?

It was as it always had been—he acted and she picked up the pieces and tried to decipher what it meant, or what she could have done to prevent it. She'd forgotten just how exhausting it was to constantly have him spinning in her mind, lacing each thought with just enough doubt to keep her from forming any solid conclusions. She knew that's how he operated, whether he was aware of it or not. He'd always manipulated her, as well as their friends, their parents. Only Max was ever suspicious of him, even when Georgia tried to convince him that Damien was harmless. She knew it, and still a creeping feeling of dread within her told her that the connections she'd drawn to Damien were imagined, and that all this time she'd been thinking of him while she had left his mind completely.

A knock on the door startled her, and she closed her phone and set it in her lap as Marion entered. "You're still awake," she said, glancing up to where she leaned against the door frame. It was amazing how pajamas softened someone. No, it wasn't the pajamas. Marion really was softer. In a way, she hated the idea that she was pitiable enough to earn her kindness. But god did she need it, and she felt too broken open in this moment to put a wall between them.

"I'm kind of an insomniac," Marion replied, slipping inside and closing the door behind her. She held a bottle of wine beneath her arm like a football. "Figured you'd be up here stewing."

"Got me."

"Mind if I stew with you? I have wine."

She opened her mouth to tell her that she didn't have to be nice to her but thought better of it. It would only force Marion to reiterate her offer, and she was sure that she was growing tired of reassuring her. "That sounds amazing."

Marion plopped onto the bed beside her and unscrewed the lid before passing the bottle to Georgia. She took a swig of the cheap, bitter wine that reminded her of her college days before passing it back. "And what are you stewing about tonight?"

Marion offered a smile and shrugged, taking a long drink in response. "There's always something to stew on."

It wasn't just her college days, she realized, it was Damien, too. He had been there through college, through her first real job, her first apartment, her first pet. They'd drink wine in the study rooms at the library during finals, the cheapest wine a college student could buy with a part-time wage. He was a bartender then, and maybe that's why they were almost always drunk together, and maybe that's why sometimes he was too drunk. Too drunk to talk things through, too drunk for her to leave, too drunk to have sex without hurting her.