Say You'll Remember Me(22)

“I know what she told you. I just didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to actually do it.”

“What else am I supposed to do?” I said. “She’s two thousand miles away.”

“People date long-distance,” Chris said.

“How?” I said. “I barely get days off. How would I see her if she’s not here?”

“Aren’t you the boss? Can’t you decide what days you get off work?” Mike asked.

“It’s not that easy. I have to be available on Saturdays for my patients because I’m the only doctor. And I have the rescue.”

“Then do less of the rescue shit,” Mike said. “They don’t even pay you.”

“That’s not the point. They need me,” I said.

“You can take a pass once in a while, it’s not gonna be the end of the world.” He picked up his weight again. “I have never seen you like that with anyone. Why would you let that go, dude?” Mike shook his head.

“Agree,” Jesse said.

Chris nodded.

I stared out into the gym. They weren’t wrong.

I checked Murkle’s Instagram half a dozen times a day. It was getting pathetic. I had to physically restrain myself from liking every mustard post she did so I didn’t look like a serial killer.

“Why don’t you fly out and see her?” Chris asked.

I raked my fingers into my hair and squeezed. “I can’t afford to start something like this. The clinic isn’t paid off. I barely take a paycheck. I have rent, student loans, a car payment, bills.”

“Okay. Then forget her,” Mike said, doing his reps.

I couldn’t do that either.

The truth was I’d already planned the trip. I’d done everything short of actually booking it. I’d been doing it since three days after she left.

I was hoping my friends would talk me off this ledge or at least talk some sense into me because every single thing I’d said was true. I didn’t have the money or the time. There was absolutely nothing rational or practical about any of this. But…

Maybe I needed to go.

Maybe I would see her and the magic would be gone. Or maybe she was dating someone else already. An old boyfriend who’d popped up when she got back in town. Some guy in my same situation, who’d lost her to the Minnesota relocation and was just waiting for the chance to have another shot, swooping in and sweeping her off her feet. Maybe it was the semiprofessional baseball player. I definitely did not like the ex-boyfriend scenario. At all.

In fact, now I felt a little panicked. What if I’d messed up and waited too long and now she was with someone else and I’d never know if it could have been something. I’d have zero closure, I’d always wonder what if.

All this for a woman I’d spent twelve hours with and hadn’t even kissed. It was absolutely ridiculous.

My brain didn’t care.

I slipped into a dark silence while the guys talked among themselves. When it was my turn to do reps, I waved them off.

I felt like I should call her. Now. Get up and go to the parking lot and call her from the car.

Or text her. Maybe calling was too aggressive.

But I really wanted to talk to her.

Fuck, I was a mess.

I pulled out my phone and checked the newest post on Murkle’s Instagram page. It was a meme of a woman looking longingly at a mustard bottle with the caption “Mustard doesn’t ask silly questions. Mustard understands.”

The corner of my lip twitched up.

We’d never followed each other on socials. I’d tried to search for her, but she didn’t come up so I’d made my account public in case she tried to find me instead. I’d posted an Instagram story yesterday of me holding a puppy at the clinic. I knew she’d like it if she saw it.

I went to the story and clicked to see who’d viewed it, hoping maybe her name would be there. Then I remembered why I kept my personal socials private.

My dad’s little profile picture made my jaw go tight.

My parents didn’t keep tabs on me because they were proud. They did it because they wanted to be proven right: that I was a failure and didn’t amount to anything after I’d left the regiment that was their household. And even though it was clear that I had made something of myself, I knew what they were hoping for every time they looked. They didn’t wish me well, they didn’t smile when they saw me thriving.

An old family friend had reached out to me a few years ago. Sent as an ambassador in an attempt at a reconciliation.

Apparently my mother had developed MS and my dad was disabled. The friend left the details of that part of it vague, but if I had to guess it was alcohol-related in one way or another.

This friend let me know that it was my duty to honor my aging parents and care for them after “all they did for me.” I’d scoffed in his face.

No apology, no reflection on their behavior, no ownership over how I was treated or mention of them missing me. Just indignation that I wouldn’t blindly cater to and respect them simply for bringing me into this world.

A few days later my dad emailed me an incoherent rant about how ungrateful I was and how I’d die alone for how I’d treated my family. And now he checked on me every chance he got, just to make sure he was right.

He was too social media inept to know I could see when he viewed my stories.