Page 45 of Delayed Intention

By the time I get to the mountains, it’s dark, and I’m able to drive myself through the cut-out parts that I know are there.

It does help that I can’t see them. Once I pass the parts that usually have me panicked, I say a brief prayer of thanks for my safe arrival.

As I continue to journey through the dark, a waning moon gives some intermittent light, obscured in part by clouds.

Driving on the main street, the town seems even tinier than usual, as it is only represented by a few scattered lights.

Starting to fear Josh’s reaction to my intrusion, I go to a motel first to book a room.

Once I retrieve a key and toothbrush from guest services, I bring them back to my car and head over to Josh’s.

I parked in the municipal lot a block away and texted Nona and Michelle to let them know I arrived in one piece.

I started to falter and considered calling Abbie or Roselyn as well.

Over seven hours on the road, I’m now aware of how nervous I am.

I step out of my car, and stretch. Getting back in, I finish my leftover lunch.

It’s already after nine and most things have closed for the night, while I’m realizing how hungry I am.

I huff out a laugh to myself because this night has something between stakeout and stalker vibes.

After finishing up, I toss my trash in a can near my car, check my reflection in the window of my car before squaring my shoulders and getting ready to face Josh.

As I’m waiting to cross the street, I try to psych myself up.

I can do this; look at what I’ve already done.

He is my friend, and I know I need to try to be here for him.

He may not want me to, and he may be feeling sorry for himself to the point of being bitter.

But I know, in my heart, I need to show up for him.

There were so many things I missed over the years, and now it is time for me to be present.

More than anything, I need him to know I’m here for our friendship, not the benefits.

Although those were nice. Okay, they were better than nice, and I’ll miss it.

I can’t lie to myself about that either.

Some things are more important than sex and romance, though.

Besides, I’ve lived without that shit most of my life. I know I can do it again.

I realize, with a start, I am already at his door.

I walk up and knock. I can hear Ginger running to the door and sitting, waiting for the door to open.

No answer. I knocked again and this time, I tried the doorbell.

I can hear Ginger’s tail rapping on the floor inside the door, which means she is sitting right there.

If something were wrong inside, she would be barking; I’m certain of it.

His car and his SUV are here… He must be at one of the bars in town.

Okay, this isn’t ideal, but there is no doubt in my mind I’m going to go bar hopping, looking for him.

I walk down to the first bar on the left, The Broken Wheel.

Not for the first time, I wonder if the uninspired name is due to the broken wagon wheel propped up next to the door.

Or maybe the owner came up with the name and then found the wheel somewhere.

It is the same bar where we slaughtered a karaoke song and danced to “Careless Whisper.” Best not to think about that right now.

I enter the bar to find about a dozen people sitting around in a kind of drunken diaspora.

My eyes aren’t adjusted to the dimness of the bar, coming from the more cheerful streetlamps and string lights outside.

None of the patrons spare me so much as a glance.

Not seeing Josh right away, I take a lap around the room, my head on a swivel.

One of the bathroom doors swings open, and I spot him making a graceless exit.

My heart and belly both ache at the sight of him.

“Stop that right now,” I mutter to myself.

He does not indicate that he’s seen me. I watch as he stumbles a bit, lists to his left, into an empty table, and knocks the pepper shaker onto the floor.

He bends to pick it up as I move toward him; he overshoots his reach and falls forward onto his head with a grunt.

Once he’s down, he rolls over and starts laughing an odd, hysterical-sounding laugh.

It sounds empty and false, and it’s hard to believe this is the same man I spoke to yesterday.

The bartender comes out from behind his bar, and I watch as he approaches Josh’s supine form.

“Okay, Doc. That’s it, I’m cutting you off.

You can sober up in one of the booths over there,” he nods his head to his left, “and then you can walk home. If you try to leave now, though, I’ll call the sheriff.

I don’t want to find out that you fell into the river because I let you leave here too lit to get to your door. ”

“Fuck you, James,” Josh says from the floor before he starts laughing again. “And stop calling me Doc.”

Oh boy. I step into his view, and he stops laughing.

“Oh, now that’s perfect. What are you doing here?!? I told you to stay the hell away from me.”

Ouch . His words slur while his glare confirms his intention to push me as far away as possible. Time for me to stand resolute.

“Josh, everyone’s worried. I come in peace.” I hold my hands up in the universal sign of nonviolence. “Can I help you up off the floor?”

“Just can’t keep your fucking hands off me, can you?”

The derision in his voice is about as comfortable for me as a steel wool shirt would be.

I’ve never wanted to cut and run so badly in my life.

But it’s Josh. Drunk Josh is an asshole, but he is also my friend.

And I can’t bail on him, not like I did before.

After his text, I came here aware that this would be a tough visit.

Girding myself for more insults, I’m resolved to remind him why it’s important for me to stay.

Before I get the words out, he sits up on the floor and locks his eyes on me.

My courage flags, and instead of speaking my mind, I try to make myself sound useful. “Josh, let me walk you home, okay? You took care of me when I was trashed once, I can return the favor.”

“Listen, Lily,” he slurs out ‘Lily’ like it’s an expletive rather than my name. “I have my own fucking problems now. I don’t have time for your head-case shit right now, okay? Go home.”

Feeling like I’ve been slapped, I close my eyes tight and remind myself to breathe. Tears sting behind my eyelids. Pull yourself together, Lily; this isn’t about you! I’ve survived Ellen Mendes; I can put up with this.

“Dr. Cohen, listen to the lady.” The bartender, James, shifts on his feet. “Or I can call the sheriff to pick you up.”

“I’m fine.” He grins in a way that makes me think of maniacal demon clowns. “I’ll get in a booth and rest up for my walk home. Good enough for you?” He looks between James and me like we are the ones being unreasonable. He pulls himself up and stumbles over to the nearest booth.

“Will you be all right, miss?” James asks me.

“Thank you. I’ll be okay. We’re old friends since childhood. I’ll take responsibility for him, okay?” He looks skeptical of Josh and me. After considering us, he nods. “Get you something to drink?”

“I’ll take a Shirley Temple, please.” I smile. “On his tab.”

James grins, “You’ve got it.”

I go to sit in the booth opposite Josh.

“What are you doing here, Lily? How did you even get here without me rescuing you?”

Damn, he’s a mean drunk.

“I’m here as your friend. And it turns out I’m sometimes capable of rescuing myself.”

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it, and I brace myself for another attack, but nothing happens. James brings over my Shirley Temple while making it obvious he is keeping an eye on me. He looks between us again before he goes back to the bar.

Josh breaks the silence first. “Okay, fine.”

“Okay, fine, what?”

He leans forward, with nothing behind his eyes, saying, “I’ll have sex with you.”

“Josh!?!” I whisper-shout as my eyes dart around the room. This bar appears to be ideal for this conversation since no one shows interest in anything besides the drinks in front of them.

“Really, Josh? First of all, I wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole right now. Second, I’m your friend. We’ve been friends since we were babies. Your text worried me. Michelle felt worried. For now, I want to make sure you get home safe, and we can talk more about the rest tomorrow.”

“Lily. I don’t wanna talk with you, okay? I don’t know why the fuck you drove up here. It was for nothing. I can’t handle your shit right now. I’ve got my own.”

Okay, now I’m angry, an emotion I can use to speak up. “My shit? Josh, I have a psychiatrist, I have a therapist, and you’re not it. I have my shit handled.”

“Right.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” The words are out of my mouth before I’ve thought them through—I don’t know why I’m asking him anything right now.

He’s clearly in a mood; he knows all my insecurities and tender spots.

He’s angry and drunk and trying to push me away.

But, like when there’s roadkill on the side of the road, I can’t seem to look away.

“Look, Lily. You’re fucked up. It’s no wonder, with your narcissistic mother, your absent father, both of them pimping you out for their friend’s pleasure.”

At his words, I make an almost inhuman sound, somewhere between a gasp and a sob.

Before, I had felt the shock of his words like a slap.

This was more like an evisceration, but he’s not done.

“Now you’re a thirty-something-year-old-prude, desperate for my attention.

You drove seven and a half hours to fix me and maybe get some more of that repressed sexuality worked out. It’s clear you have your shit handled.”

And there is my breaking point, as the tears in my eyes blurt everything in front of me. Looking down, I’m unsurprised when a few of them drop into my Shirley Temple. I take a sip anyway. The sweetness of the drink is a direct contrast to everything Josh is spewing at me.

“I drove here,” I grind out each word, trying to push down the urge to sob, unwilling to show him any weakness, “because you matter to me, Josh.” And then it comes out, “I love you.”

What in the hell am I doing? As soon as I say it, I realize several truths at once.

I love Josh; of course I do. But I’m also in love with Josh.

At the same time, I recognize how little self-preservation I have.

In the last ten minutes, he has been nothing but cruel to me, and I pick now to confess that I love him.

The third thing is I love him so much I’d sacrifice myself, let him hurt me, to be whatever he needs.

Every part of me that has worked hard to try to get well, to be better, is screaming at me to run from this table.

When I finally dare to look up, Josh is staring at me. There’s no warmth in his expression, and the floor feels like it’s shifting under me.

“You love me? I told you—” With that, he stands up, pointing a finger in my face—the other hand is in a fist at his side—raising his voice to a volume that carries across the entire bar, “I don’t do that!!!”

Josh is still glowering and pointing at me, for what seems like forever. Closing my eyes, I want relief, and instead, images of Ellen, Kellerman, and bullies at school all float behind my eyelids.

I force myself to look back up at him, staring down his accusing finger.

“Josh, you’ve made your point,” I say in a soft voice. You’re breaking my heart into a thousand pieces .

After about ten seconds, I realized people weren’t as self-absorbed in this bar as I had thought because James and two other men had appeared at our booth. They have the look of people who are ready to intervene.

“You should take a step back from the lady now Doc,” James warned. Josh looks around at the group of men and back to me and seems to have sobered somewhat in the last several seconds.

“These fellows and I are going to get you home now, Doc.” James’s tone brokers no argument. Josh is looking at his hands now, as if they were foreign to him. He turns and looks at James, deflated.

“Sure, James, whatever you think,” Josh stammers.

I wipe my eyes with a cocktail napkin, leave a twenty-dollar tip, and follow the group out of the bar.