Page 43 of Contingently Yours

Andrew

Sucking on the end of my fingertip, I pull it from my mouth and blow on the blister where a needle from my artificial Christmas tree poked it.

Maybe I lit a few too many candles in anticipation of Lucas coming over last night.

My bedroom looked like I was prepared for a seance.

A seance that never happened and ended in physical misery.

Ouch! That hurts.

Sighing, I glance down at my phone. No new messages. Still. I’m starting to worry. Did he slip in the bathroom from the way he takes off his pants, fall, crack his head open, and is now lying there in need of medical attention? What other explanation can there be for ghosting me?

He stopped answering my text messages last night and didn’t pick up when I called.

Which is fine. Maybe he fell asleep. He went to a bachelor party, after all.

But that’s no explanation of why he hasn’t answered yet.

I’ve been waking up at the crack of dawn, feeling invigorated since I got home.

Maybe my adjustment to different time zones is still in effect.

Lucas was always early for work, though, so I assumed he’d be awake by now, especially since he’s in wedding mode.

I called him when I got up, and the call went to voicemail again.

I left one, but he still hasn’t called me back.

Admiring the way his little piano looks front and center on my tree, I smile to myself. I don’t have any showings lined up, so I needed something to do to kill time. Christmas in July it is.

Padding my way to the kitchen, I pour myself a cup of coffee. I could probably get dressed, but I have nowhere to be, and these sweatpants are mighty comfy now that I’ve cranked my air conditioning to give my living room a winter effect.

I wonder if Lucas wears those cheesy Christmas sweaters with all the embroidery work on them. I can just picture it, and oddly enough, I think he could be the only person to actually pull off looking good in them.

Checking the time, I see it’s eleven o’clock. There is no way he’s not up and at ’em by now. Pulling out my phone, I try again.

It rings several times rather than going to voicemail, which gives me hope. Finally, he answers, causing a big, stupid grin on my face.

“Would you stop fucking texting and calling me? I don’t have time for this today.”

Damn. He sounds like he hasn’t had his morning granola yet.

“Whoa! Someone’s hungover,” I tease, imagining his close-cropped hair a fine mess the way it was that night in Darwin.

“I’m not hungover. I barely drank,” he grumbles. “I told you, I have to try to find another band for the reception at the last minute.”

“You’re serious?”

“ Yes , I’m serious. The girls wanted a band, so I’m going to get them a band.”

“How the fuck are you going to find a band in like forty-eight hours? Why would you do that to yourself?”

An exasperated sigh floods over the line. It’s like a claw reaching across the miles, pulling at my guts, hearing how worked up he has himself. “Just forget it. It’s not your problem.”

“Yeah, but I’m trying to help.”

I don’t understand the sardonic laugh I hear next. “ Help? Is that what you call leaving me a stream of texts and voicemails to come over and let you fuck me when I have shit to do?”

Whoa! Is that what he got from that?

I wouldn’t have said no to sex, but I just wanted to see him.

Tempting him with offers of sexy times was supposed to be the lure to get him in the same room as me, so I could see his grumpy, bearded face again.

I’d have been fully satisfied with just a sniff and a snuggle.

Someone has a case of the Brother-zillas . Geez.

“I was being flirtatious,” I defend. “And I did try to help. I told you—just find a young person to stream some shit. There’s technology at everyone’s fingertips now, and you can pair a phone with speakers.

It’s not like you need to kill yourself to find a DJ at the last minute, and bands are always a bad idea.

Name one wedding you’ve been to where people said, ‘ Oh, my God, that band was amazing! ’”

“Andrew! Just…stop.”

Damn. I think he just used his army voice on me.

“Okay, stopping.”

“No, I mean…just stop all of it. This .” Another of those frustrated sighs comes over the phone. “You and me. What the fuck are we doing anyway?”

I thought we were on the road to monster truck season, but apparently, I was wrong. I don’t get it.

“We’re…”

Before I can come up with a guess that might appease him, he cuts me off.

“See? You can’t even name it. We’re… It’s just… What’s the point? We’re too fucking old to…whatever this is. Or at least, I am. I can’t be like you. I…I’m not… you .”

Like me? What does that mean?

As I stare dumbly into my coffee cup, I have a feeling it means some of the less pleasant things he said in that sunroom in Harlow’s Landing the night of the power outage, the things he said before the redeeming qualities—coward, cynical, dishonest. But that’s what’s so confusing.

I thought he said I’m not really any of those things, even if I spent most of my life trying to convince my family that I was.

Something twists in my chest contemplating that I’ve lost whatever appeal he found in me.

How is that possible when I’m still riding the high from our time together?

“What are you saying?”

“I’ll just…see you at work, and we’ll go back to trying not to kill each other,” he mumbles, sounding as defeated as I feel. “That’s where it would have ended up anyway, right? I’ve got to go.”

I don’t know how long I stare at my silent phone, but at some point, I stagger my way out of my kitchen. It feels like my monster truck just crashed into a damn mountain.