Between Octobers

Ready-Set-Go

PART TWO

Evan—Ready-Set-Go

Marcus rang a bit ago, asking how my talk with Grace went. I had to sit down. Apparently, he spoke to her directly. She asked about me and gave the impression she was going to call.

I've called her several times since, but she's not picking up.

I know how timid she can be when it comes to confrontation—Grace will jump to defend anyone but herself. She's probably sitting there, biting her nails to nothing, listening to my messages and over-thinking everything. The reason she wants to talk is the very reason she won't answer.

Grace doesn't know I've spent the last two months preparing for this conversation. That I've contacted the family who owns the home she grew up in. It's a little white house with blue trim, nestled in the evergreen hills of a tiny community called Bothell, a stone's throw from Seattle. I convinced the owner to sell and am renovating. It's small, only two bedrooms, but the basement's being converted. There'll be a movie theatre, gym, and master suite with an intercom system to link every room in the house. 

Just last week, I picked up her new ring—fire opals this time—because I'm planning on going big with this proposal. I'll make it all up to her; show her how much she means to me. I'm even arranging to have the family flown in. Her timing puts me in a pinch because we don't wrap for another week, but she showed interest in speaking to me and that can only be a good thing. 

If I know her, she's probably convinced herself to forgive my imagined sins and now she wants to talk. What she doesn't realize is that, though there are millions of reasons I seek her forgiveness, none of them involve other women. I'm not a monk, but have a very singular taste. Even if I wanted another, I couldn't. She's ruined me.

I went to see her on her birthday, to give her Nigel. I heard her on the phone with Ronnie, telling how she was in love. As if what we had meant nothing. I wanted to find out who he was and beat the living shit out of him. But honestly, it would've only pushed her further away. She was already so far from my reach, I couldn't have her out of sight as well. And I had no right to complain, not after what I did.

Up to that point, I'd only done what I wanted. I wanted her to want me and stayed until she did. I wanted to marry her. I wanted her to live and breathe for me. When she didn't, I didn't know how to handle it.

I followed her home when she left my hotel, waited for her while she visited her brother in Kansas City for spring holiday. While she was gone, I stayed at the house, she said I could have the two-weeks to go through it. I took the opportunity to touch her world since I couldn't touch her. I slept in our bed, with her laundry piled beside me.  The day before she came home, I knew I had to go—that was what we had agreed upon—but I took her pillow with me. She said I could have whatever I wanted.

Through all of that, I imagined myself explaining everything to her. So, when I saw her in the back garden, it made perfect sense to speak with her. But things didn't go like I thought they would. As we stood there on her porch, I reached, and she shied away. I couldn't touch her and all became clear—a positive reaction on her part was only going to happen in my head. When she looked at me, I saw disgust and pity.

In my addicted haze, she was the one at fault. She rejected me and I took it out on Marcus' kitchen, and inadvertently her, as well.  

What most people don't know is that I've been using, mostly meth, recreationally since I first came to LA. I like the energy, the clarity, and control that brings everything into focus.