Page 184 of Theirs to Desire (Club M: Boxed Set)

DIXIE

I weep all the way back home. I cry as I search for quarters for the washer and dryer. Tears fill my eyes as I pick dirty laundry off my bedroom floor, and they roll down my cheeks as I lug the basket to the basement.

I have a dreadful feeling I’ve made a mistake. My brain keeps circling back to the same thought. I shouldn’t have broken up with them. I shouldn’t have left. I should call Eric and Hunter.

Why? You don’t even have the courage to tell Hira about Eric. What makes you think you’re brave enough to be in a relationship with them?

Please talk to us, Hunter had said. Let us help.

I hadn’t listened. I’d run away. I’m pretty sure I hurt them in the process.

Over and over, my thoughts whirl around, like bits and pieces of garbage circling a drain. I’m up and down and sideways, confused and clueless and messed up. I want to call and apologize, but what am I going to say? I want to hear the sound of their voices, but I don’t have that right. Not anymore.

After about a couple of hours of misery, I call Fiona. She picks up right away. “Hey Dix,” she says cheerfully. “What’s up?”

“You’re probably driving back to DC, right?”

“No, Adrian’s meeting got canceled, so we decided to stick around.” Her voice sharpens. “You sound dreadful. Do you have a cold, or have you been crying?”

“Crying,” I admit, fresh tears welling up in my eyes. I’ve been weeping all morning—you think I’d be cried out by now. “I broke up with them.”

“Oh, Dix.” She sighs into the receiver. “Why?”

“I don’t?—”

“Actually, don’t tell me over the phone. Tell me in person. Meet me at the taco place near your office in an hour, the one we tried a couple of months ago?”

It takes me a second to figure out which restaurant she’s talking about, and then I remember. John Stone, of all the people, had discovered the unassuming taqueria located in a strip mall, sandwiched between a dry cleaner and a raw food store. “Okay, see you there.”

Fiona is already there when I arrive, seated at a table at the front. She takes a look at my face and grimaces. “I ordered us both margaritas.”

They’re already on the table. Bless her heart. “Wise move.” I sink into my chair and down half my drink in one gulp. “I ended things with them.”

“Yes, you said that on the phone. Why?”

Because I’m a coward and an idiot. “Do you think I made a mistake? Should I call them?”

She grimaces. “I can’t tell you what to do, Dix. Only you can decide what you want out of life.”

The waitress appears to take our orders. I get the al pastor, and Fiona opts for the barbacoa. “And another pitcher of margaritas, please,” I say, draining the rest of my drink.

“Oh dear,” Fiona says. “It’s going to be one of those afternoons, is it?” She shrugs. “Ah well, who needs a functioning liver.”

“Why won’t you tell me what to do?” I grumble once the waitress leaves. “Haven’t you ever wanted to run someone’s life? Here it is, your perfect opportunity.”

“Ah, I see the tequila is working already.” She leans back. “What brought this on?” An expression of guilt flashes over her face. “Was it us showing up at Hunter’s place yesterday? Shit, I’m so sorry, Dix.”

“It wasn’t really. I mean, it sort of was, but if it wasn’t you, it would have been something else.” I fix my eyes on the table. “My brother called me this morning, and I couldn’t take his call. What would he think about what I’m doing?”

“Do you care?”

“Of course I do,” I retort. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Let’s see. You never talk about him, you barely see him, and while you might be family, you have nothing in common.”

“I talk to him,” I say defensively. No wonder people hire her. She’s scarily good.

“No, you talk to your nephews,” she replies patiently. “But okay. Your brother will probably struggle with your relationship with Hunter and Eric. Many people do—a couple is still the default, and there are a lot of people that care about the status quo. I just never took you for one of them.”

“You didn’t?”

“You haven’t judged me for my lifestyle,” she points out. “Or if you have, you’re good at hiding it.”

“I haven’t,” I murmur. “Why would I? I admire you, Fiona. I wish I were more like you.”

She gazes at me for a long second. “I’m not telling you it’ll be easy. I’m not going to tell you that Hunter and Eric will be worth it—you already know they are.”

“I do.” I moodily dunk a chip in salsa. “That’s what makes this so hard.”

Our food arrives, along with a much-needed pitcher of margaritas. “But while I can’t tell you what to do, I will make sure you drink a glass of water between each drink.” She refills both our glasses and lifts hers in the air. “Here’s to drinking.”

And so I proceed to do something I’ve never done in my life.

I get completely wasted in the middle of the afternoon.

Over the course of the next three hours, I drink margarita after margarita.

I drunkenly fill Fiona in on the gory details—at least, I think I do.

It’s all a little blurry. At some point, Fiona tells me that time heals all wounds.

“I don’t want this wound to heal,” I snarl in response. “I don’t want this wound at all.”

She’s a good friend. She stays with me through two and a half pitchers.

She calls a cab, gets in with me, and makes sure I get to my apartment.

She finds me an ibuprofen and makes me swallow it.

She helps me get into my PJs, hands me a glass of water to drink, refills it when I’m done, and sets it on my bedside table, and then, she leaves.

I’ve had far too much to drink. I’m having trouble keeping my eyes open. But still, sleep doesn’t come easy. Bitter regret keeps me awake.