“What are you talking about?”
I smooth my hands over my pant legs and say, “Kelsey has insecurities about being loveable. I keep telling her it’s because she hasn’t found the right guy, but I don’t think that translates in her head. She believes it has to do with her. Last night, she was looking for that reassurance, but like a fucking moron, I didn’t give her what she needed. I didn’t see it then, but now that I played it over in my head, I realize that I’m the biggest fucking idiot. I inadvertently played into those insecurities. And it makes me fucking sick.”
“Shit . . .” Breaker rests one of his arms on the table as he looks out at the dance floor with me. “What are you going to do?”
“She asked for time, so I’m going to give it to her.”
“Are you broken up?”
“Not sure. Feels like it, though, and I only have myself to blame.”
“Don’t text her, she wants some space. Texting her will only irritate her,” I say to myself as I pace the length of my kitchen island the day after the wedding. “Do not text her. DO NOT.”
I stare down at my phone on my marble countertop.
DON’T!
My hand itches to grab the phone, my heart making the decision.
And before I can stop myself, I grab my phone and press send on the text I’ve already composed.
JP: Good morning, baby. I hope you got home all right last night. I know you want space and I’m going to give you what you want, but I need you to know that I’m still thinking about you, every goddamn second. I sent over a morning-after basket with a few things to help you recover from last night. I’m here for you.
I curl my lips over my teeth, staring at the text, reading it over and over again. When it’s marked as read with no response, I inwardly cringe, hating myself.
Should’ve listened to your goddamn brain.
JP: Still giving you space, but just wanted to tell you that I miss you. I miss your warm hugs, your soft lips, the way you make me feel when you’re around. I miss everything about you, baby.
JP: Also, I just found out Kazoo, the pigeon, was adopted and I didn’t know how to tell you. I feel like maybe I played a small part in him finding a good home. I hope they treat him well.
JP: I asked for his new home address and the shelter told me that information was private. Understandable, but I really just wanted to send him a few things, you know? I’m going to miss looking at his picture on the website.
JP: Anyway, just had to tell you that. Miss you, babe.
JP: I haven’t seen any new podcast episodes. I was hoping to listen to your voice this morning on my run, so I just replayed an old one. Have I ever told you what a great host you are? You’re really funny, you ask great questions, and I can truly feel how passionate you are about romance. It’s one of the reasons why I really like you—your love for love.
JP: I shouldn’t be texting you, I know, but I had to tell you that. Okay, bye, baby.
JP: That pool float you ordered for my pool, the giant pigeon, it came in. I laughed for a solid ten minutes, blew it up, and it’s where I am now, floating naked on the pigeon. I’d send you a picture, but I shouldn’t even be contacting you. Made me laugh, and made me miss you more. I wish you were floating on it with me.
JP: I’m here, waiting for when you’re ready to talk.
JP: Fuck . . . I just miss you, Kelsey.
JP: I miss you so fucking much.
JP: Call me when you’re ready.
The front door to my house opens and shuts, the sound echoing through the emptiness of my dark house.
“Dude, I know you’re in here,” Breaker says. “Are you going to make me follow the scent of your unwashed body, or are you going to help a guy out and at least groan so I know where you are?”
“In here,” I say somberly from where I’m spread across the couch in my living room.
I’m not prepared for the blast of ungodly light that fills the dark room when he flips on the switch to the overhead lights.
I cover my eyes with my forearm and mutter, “Fuck . . . you.”
“Jesus Christ,” Breaker says from the entrance of the living room. “Have you fucking moved from the couch in the last week?”
“Yes.” I roll over on the couch so my stomach is pressed against the cushions. I bury my head into a throw pillow and mutter against the fabric, “I’ve gotten up to pee.”
“Shocking, I thought you’d have peed in one of the many bottles of . . . what is this?” From the corner of my eye, I see him pick up an empty bottle. “Is this root beer?”