As sweet as you can be most of the time, you still have those cliché 'man' days when you just don't want to talk. Even though I have plenty of examples of times you've talked through something and either the problem solved itself or you simply felt a little better, it still takes a ridiculous amount of coaxing to get you to talk about anything. It kills me seeing you wallow like that, as much as I want to think it's out of stubbornness, I'm afraid that you don't really see what you're doing to yourself. And whatever I do, I can't force you to let me in.
.
.
.
As much as I want to go, I don't want to go. It almost feels like cheating, but is it? Surely not if it isn't even a date,
'There is another reason this can't be considered cheating, genius.' This is just talking. Drinking and talking, you do that with you're grandma, Chris. Even so, I'm sitting on my couch, staring at a stack of your books convinced that I'm not going to go.
'So, you're just gonna stand her up, then?'
"I'm not standing her up... I'll text her-"
'And tell her what?' I stop, phone in hand, my chest tightening,
"I'm not ready for this." I whisper.
I bring her number up and start tapping out a message,
'Chris...'
"Hey, I'm really sorry to do this to you so last minute..."
'Chris... listen to me...'
"Not sure I'm exactly up for coming out tonight..."
'CHRIS!' My phone slips from my hand,
"Did you just-"
'There is nothing to be ready for. You keep saying it's not a date,'
"I can't do this right now."
'You have to stop secluding yourself.' I heave myself up off the couch and shuffle over to the window, staring out over the city, and my phone vibrates in my hand. A text from her,
"Hey, I'm leaning more toward the Irish coffee tonight, so meet me at Crossroads, Beacon St. 7:30. See you later!"
My stomach jumps a little bit, and I'm still not sure yet if it's in a good or bad way.
.
.
.
My cab drops me off at Crossroads a little late, partly thanks to traffic, and partly my stalling, I was still trying to decide if I really wanted to come tonight. I pace in front of the door a few times, then I hear,
"Hey, Evans. Sorry I'm late, I hope you haven't been waiting long." You come jogging around the corner, apparently having walked,
"No, not at all. Got stuck in traffic, actually. Just got here."
She makes me feel at ease almost immediately, basically taking charge, getting us a table and our first round. Insisting to pay for it, she tells me I can get the next one.
"You know this isn't Irish coffee, right?"
"So, I'm feeling just whiskey, you got a problem with that?" she jokes, making me chuckle a little bit. After our second round and random conversation jumping from movies to sports, then somehow around to the weather, she leans forward on her elbows,
"Okay," she begins, "TMI away. Anything that helps you." Normally I would close up, shrug off the question and change the subject, but after the whiskey, and with her looking so expectantly, I actually almost felt like maybe sharing wouldn't be too bad an idea. Almost.
"I usually try not to unload on friends. I have a therapist for that." I wait for the cringe, or the jokes that I go to therapy.
"When was the last time you went?"
'Busted', your sing-song rings in my head. Very funny.
"I haven't since... I think since before I met..."
"Her." She finishes for me, "It sounds like you may want to get back into that. Or, you can save your money and unload now." I hesitate,
"I think I may need a few more rounds before I can do that." She raises her arm calling for a third round,
"One more, then I expect you to spill. The story, not the whiskey. It doesn't have to be detailed, it doesn't even have to be the real story, but help yourself here. You need to talk this through."
'Thank you. See?' I can't help the eye roll, thankfully she doesn't catch it.
"Look, this is really dark, I'm not sure you really want to hear it." The waitress brings our glasses, clearing the empties from the table, then Y/N leans across the table again, staring at me, considering something before she sets her jaw and takes a deep breath.
"My fiancé was a military man. Did two tours, his first straight out of college. The first time he came home he was worn out, I could see that, but beyond just being physically exhausted. He was stretched thin straight through to his soul, I tried to help, making life as easy as I could for him, but his second tour broke him. He never told me what exactly what it was that hit him so hard, I just know that I was there for the nightmares, the mood swings, for when his temper snapped. Sometimes he would get to talk it out with his buddies and he would come back for a while, but I saw him slipping away, and nothing I did helped."
"Where is your fiancé now?" she looks almost uncomfortable, shifting in her seat.
"He'd been home three months, but he was never really home. One night I came back from work and found him on the living room floor. He overdosed on sleeping pills. Long gone before I even got there." She tells me with tears in her eyes, but they don't fall.
"Why are you telling me this?" I ask
"To tell you that I'm no stranger to darkness. I know what it's like. Not just to lose someone, but to watch them slip out of your reach. And to tell you that to work through it, you need to talk through it. Now you can talk to your therapist or your dog or a brick wall, it doesn't matter, so long as you are giving yourself the chance to truly process."
"What is there to process? She's... She's..."
"Exactly. Process reality." I can feel myself closing off, so I down my whiskey in one gulp, focusing on the burn as it works its way down. "Where's your girlfriend now?"
'Do it. Talk to her.'
"No." I whisper, she blinks at me,
"No?"
"I can't do this. I'm sorry." I'm not sure if I'm talking to her or to you, but I jump up, tossing a few bills on the table, hoping it's at least close to the bill total, and I take off, trying to catch my breath on the way to the door. I leave her sitting there, confused, maybe a bit worried, but I'm not ready for this.
