Lisa
"Hey, you've reached Jennie..."
Fuck.
I end the call and slam my phone down on the coffee table, wondering what the fuck I'm doing. I've already left her two messages. How many until it's desperate? Do I want to seem desperate? Is being desperate a good thing in this type of situation?
I don't expect her to answer her phone, but that doesn't stop me from trying. I just want her to hear me out for five minutes, even if I don't deserve it. Because I'm a selfish fuck that way.
I call her again.
Please pick up. Please pick up...
"Hey, you've reached Jennie..."
"Fuck." I say the word aloud this time and helplessly listen to the rest of her message. Then I begin my desperate plea for redemption, though I know it's probably useless.
"Jennie, I know you're pissed. And I don't blame you. But please hear me out for five minutes. If you still hate me after that, I'll leave you alone. I promise. This is all just so fucked up and... God, Jennie. I really do care about you. And I'm not saying that because of the bet. I never meant to care for you, but I do. And I know that sounds fucked up, too, but God...I just want to make things right."
I pause and sigh heavily, trying to gather my next thoughts. Then her voicemail cuts me off; I curse again and toss the phone aside, scrubbing my face with my hands. But the tension lingers there, taunting and persistent.
True to his word, Hae-in didn't offer any advice on the ride home. I guess that was to be expected, considering I basically shunned all of his previous advice. And we still weren't on great speaking terms.
The silence was broken only briefly, and by one simple statement from me.
"I told her I'd take her to her friend's wedding tomorrow."
Hae-in snorted obnoxiously from the driver's seat. "Somehow, I think leaving you chained to the headboard kind of made that promise null and void."
He was right, of course. I'm not even sure why I said it out loud. She obviously isn't going to want to get cosy with me at her friend's wedding tomorrow. Not now.
I thought of throwing the headboard away, but Ho-jin insisted it was salvageable. "The wood is splintered a bit here, but you can easily drill a little higher when you put the bolts back in and it'll be good as new," he explained.
The headboard is currently propped against the wall of the house outside. My mattress and box spring remained propped against the wall upstairs. And my body is propped against the back of the couch, defeated and unwilling to move. I couldn't care less if the headboard is ever repaired. I honestly don't think I'll ever look at one the same way again.
I tap my fingers on the armrest, considering calling Jennie again, but I eventually decide against it. It's late; Jennie is either asleep or ignoring me.
I want to go to her apartment - to pound on her door and refuse to leave until she listens - but I don't think it's the best course of action. Not to mention it would probably land me a set of real handcuffs before the night's end.
Eventually, I climb into my car and begin to cruise. I have no destination in mind, but the thought of sitting on my couch and doing nothing is torturous. It's late, but I can't sleep. And I need to move before I go crazy. I need to keep my mind occupied, even if it's on something as mundane as driving. I drive for nearly two hours, passing Jennie's apartment twice. Is this stalking? I think it probably is, but at least I'm not watching her through her window with a pair of binoculars or something really creepy. Each time I pass her place I try to convince myself it's accidental - just a coincidence - but I know it's not the truth. I know I'm really that pathetic.
And I will never doubt this fact again, not now or ever, as I sidle up to Jennie's car and write a hasty note on the back of a McDonald's receipt. I tack it carefully beneath her windshield wiper, the sloppy script facing out.
The words are simple. They're direct. And although I don't leave a signature, I can guarantee she'll know who it's from.
I'm sorry.
I want to do a lot of things to portray my sorrow. I want to write her a mournful poem or buy her flowers or... something. But none of those things are good enough. Jennie can't be bought off with flowers. Not when she's been wronged the way she has been.
The only solution is for her to listen and possibly understand. And if she doesn't understand, well... I can only hope for the best. I don't think I'm ready to face the what-ifs and repercussions of my bad decisions right now. Not after today.
I run a nervous hand through my hair as I drive away. I wonder if it's too much and I wonder if it's not enough. I have no idea what I'm doing and I'm lost and desperate to find a way.
She deserves more than a greasy old receipt tacked against her window. She deserves to have the message written in the sky, in the heavens. She deserves the world, and even that wouldn't be enough.
The more I think about it, the more the note seems... insulting.
I'm nearly at my house when I angrily decide to turn around. I tear down the road, to her parking lot, and rip the note from the window. I ball it in my fist and toss it to the ground.
If that's really the best I can do, I don't even deserve the chance to try.
