More Than Enough
Page 67
“Bacon?” Leroy asks.
“Our dog,” Riley replies.
“You named your dog Bacon?” he quips.
I sit up slightly. “Her dog. Not mine. And she fucking named him.”
“I’ll be back,” Riley says.
Leroy waits until we hear the front door close and Riley’s car start in the garage before turning to me. “Riley’s a nice girl, Banks.”
“I know that,” I say quickly.
“Do you? Because you’re kind of being an ass.”
My eyes snap to his and whatever he sees has his hands going up in surrender. “Sorry, man. Not my place.”
“I fucking hate Kanye,” Conway says, changing the subject.
They go back to watching the television, and I go back to drowning in a million different emotions. But there’s one that never seems to fade, always forefront, always leading the charge.
Guilt.
Riley
Even though it wasn’t a lie—that I am a recovering alcoholic—Dylan’s never used that term before. Not to me, and hopefully not to anyone else. It hurt. It hurt so damn much that now I’m sitting in my car—a car he made me—crying my eyes out in the almost empty parking lot at the store.
I can’t be angry, I try to convince myself, because he’s not being himself.
“It isn’t you,” I whisper, wiping the tears off my cheek. I flip the visor and check my face in the mirror. “It isn’t you,” I repeat, looking at the sad, broken eyes staring back at me.
If I say it enough, I might finally believe it.
I take my time in the store, not in any rush to go back to what awaits at the house. I push the cart aisle by aisle without really seeing anything through the tears clouding my vision. I grab enough food and snacks to feed an army—or three Marines—and make my way to the register. Still slow. Still avoiding.
“How you going, Riley?” Sally, the elderly clerk, asks.
I fake another smile. Maybe if I smile enough, I might finally believe I have a reason to do it.
She turns to me, clueless of my heartbreak. “How’s that boyfriend of yours doing?”
“Good,” I lie.
“You tell him we appreciate his service.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” I smile and nod.
She continues to make small talk as she checks out all the items. Her brother’s cousin’s son’s girlfriend’s sister’s boyfriend is a marine. Does my boyfriend know him? Am I having a party? What’s with all the food? Did I see the game over the weekend? Am I still swimming? There’s a sale on canned green beans if I wanted to stock up.
I want to roll my eyes.
I want even more to tell her to shut the hell up.
I do neither.
I stand.
I nod.
I smile.
I wait.
Which is exactly the same thing I do around Dylan. Because anything else would mean I’m letting the pain win.
I keep it together, just long enough to get out of the store and push my cart to my car. And then I let it out. Again and again. Over and over. Sob after sob. Tear after endless tear.
Then a message comes through on my phone.
Dylan: You been gome forever.
Riley: Leaving the store now, babe. I’ll be home soon.
Dylan: K. You get beers?
I inhale deeply, waiting for the calm to set in. It doesn’t.
Riley: Yes.
Then I go back into the store, buy a case of beer which is forbidden in our home, and listen to Sally tell me about her cat’s urinary tract infection.
I cry the entire drive home—only stopping when I pull into the garage. And then I repeat the same process I had when I got to the store. I wipe my tears, tell myself that it isn’t me. That it can’t be.
I carry the case of beer, struggling to unlock the back door, and walk into the living room. Nothing’s changed. “Here,” I say, opening the box and handing them one each. “You’re the best, Riley. Honestly,” Conway says, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out his wallet but before he can do anything, Dylan interrupts.
“We got it.” He looks up at me, his right hand stroking Bacon. “Can you put the rest in the fridge?”
I’m getting really sick of fake smiling. “Sure.”
Once all the beers are put away, Conway walks into the kitchen, trashing his empty bottle. I reach into the fridge and grab another one for him but he declines. “I was just seeing if you needed help bringing any bags in.”
“Please.”
It takes both of us two trips to bring in all the groceries. He helps put them away before turning to me. “I take it this food’s for us?” he asks.
I nod.
“We really don’t want to inconvenience you in any way,” he says.
“It’s no problem. Make yourself at home.”
“We’re assholes. We ate all your food and didn’t even think about you. I really am sorry.” I can tell by the plea in his eyes that he means it. “It’s been a while since we’ve had access to that much food, you know? Occasionally we’ll get packages but they don’t last long between twelve men so…”
I shrug. “It’s honestly fine.”
He nods, his hands going in his pockets. But he doesn’t leave. He just stands there, as if waiting for me to say something more. I don’t. Finally, he breaks. “My parents moved up north when I left for basic. My girlfriend broke up with me while I was deployed. We shared a house. Now she’s living with her new boyfriend and I kind of got nowhere to go so Dylan’s really helping me out here…”
I turn around and run the water into a pot so I can start on my dinner. “I’m glad,” I tell him over my shoulder. “Not about the girlfriend thing. I’m sorry about that. I meant that Dylan’s able to help you out. He’s a good man.”
And right on cue, Dylan walks into the kitchen holding Bacon under his arm like a football. He doesn’t speak, just opens the fridge, grabs another beer, and walks back out.
I switch my gaze back to Conway.
He shrugs. “You need help with dinner?”
“It’s fine. I was just going to make pasta real quick.”
He grins from ear to ear and rolls up his sleeves. I don’t think it’s me he’s smiling about. I think it’s the prospect of more food. “Put me to work, boss,” he says.
I tilt my head, eyeing him curiously. If something as simple as food can make him happy, then why doesn’t it do the same for Dylan?
Why can’t I make him happy?
We eat the pasta at the kitchen table after Conway clears it of all the other trash it was covered in. Leroy and Conway talk about the news they’d just seen. Dylan stares at his untouched plate. I stare at him. Then suddenly, he stands. “I’m going to bed,” he announces to no one in particular. He grabs another beer before he leaves, leaving me sitting with two people I know nothing about. I quickly finish my meal, tell them to leave everything and that I’ll take care of it in the morning.
Dylan’s already in bed, facing the wall when I enter the bedroom. I go straight to the bathroom and turn on the shower. I spend as long in there as I did in the store and ignore the fact that he is now sitting on the edge of the bed watching me. And I avoid the thoughts running through my head—the million questions I’m too afraid to ask.
“Our dog,” Riley replies.
“You named your dog Bacon?” he quips.
I sit up slightly. “Her dog. Not mine. And she fucking named him.”
“I’ll be back,” Riley says.
Leroy waits until we hear the front door close and Riley’s car start in the garage before turning to me. “Riley’s a nice girl, Banks.”
“I know that,” I say quickly.
“Do you? Because you’re kind of being an ass.”
My eyes snap to his and whatever he sees has his hands going up in surrender. “Sorry, man. Not my place.”
“I fucking hate Kanye,” Conway says, changing the subject.
They go back to watching the television, and I go back to drowning in a million different emotions. But there’s one that never seems to fade, always forefront, always leading the charge.
Guilt.
Riley
Even though it wasn’t a lie—that I am a recovering alcoholic—Dylan’s never used that term before. Not to me, and hopefully not to anyone else. It hurt. It hurt so damn much that now I’m sitting in my car—a car he made me—crying my eyes out in the almost empty parking lot at the store.
I can’t be angry, I try to convince myself, because he’s not being himself.
“It isn’t you,” I whisper, wiping the tears off my cheek. I flip the visor and check my face in the mirror. “It isn’t you,” I repeat, looking at the sad, broken eyes staring back at me.
If I say it enough, I might finally believe it.
I take my time in the store, not in any rush to go back to what awaits at the house. I push the cart aisle by aisle without really seeing anything through the tears clouding my vision. I grab enough food and snacks to feed an army—or three Marines—and make my way to the register. Still slow. Still avoiding.
“How you going, Riley?” Sally, the elderly clerk, asks.
I fake another smile. Maybe if I smile enough, I might finally believe I have a reason to do it.
She turns to me, clueless of my heartbreak. “How’s that boyfriend of yours doing?”
“Good,” I lie.
“You tell him we appreciate his service.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” I smile and nod.
She continues to make small talk as she checks out all the items. Her brother’s cousin’s son’s girlfriend’s sister’s boyfriend is a marine. Does my boyfriend know him? Am I having a party? What’s with all the food? Did I see the game over the weekend? Am I still swimming? There’s a sale on canned green beans if I wanted to stock up.
I want to roll my eyes.
I want even more to tell her to shut the hell up.
I do neither.
I stand.
I nod.
I smile.
I wait.
Which is exactly the same thing I do around Dylan. Because anything else would mean I’m letting the pain win.
I keep it together, just long enough to get out of the store and push my cart to my car. And then I let it out. Again and again. Over and over. Sob after sob. Tear after endless tear.
Then a message comes through on my phone.
Dylan: You been gome forever.
Riley: Leaving the store now, babe. I’ll be home soon.
Dylan: K. You get beers?
I inhale deeply, waiting for the calm to set in. It doesn’t.
Riley: Yes.
Then I go back into the store, buy a case of beer which is forbidden in our home, and listen to Sally tell me about her cat’s urinary tract infection.
I cry the entire drive home—only stopping when I pull into the garage. And then I repeat the same process I had when I got to the store. I wipe my tears, tell myself that it isn’t me. That it can’t be.
I carry the case of beer, struggling to unlock the back door, and walk into the living room. Nothing’s changed. “Here,” I say, opening the box and handing them one each. “You’re the best, Riley. Honestly,” Conway says, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out his wallet but before he can do anything, Dylan interrupts.
“We got it.” He looks up at me, his right hand stroking Bacon. “Can you put the rest in the fridge?”
I’m getting really sick of fake smiling. “Sure.”
Once all the beers are put away, Conway walks into the kitchen, trashing his empty bottle. I reach into the fridge and grab another one for him but he declines. “I was just seeing if you needed help bringing any bags in.”
“Please.”
It takes both of us two trips to bring in all the groceries. He helps put them away before turning to me. “I take it this food’s for us?” he asks.
I nod.
“We really don’t want to inconvenience you in any way,” he says.
“It’s no problem. Make yourself at home.”
“We’re assholes. We ate all your food and didn’t even think about you. I really am sorry.” I can tell by the plea in his eyes that he means it. “It’s been a while since we’ve had access to that much food, you know? Occasionally we’ll get packages but they don’t last long between twelve men so…”
I shrug. “It’s honestly fine.”
He nods, his hands going in his pockets. But he doesn’t leave. He just stands there, as if waiting for me to say something more. I don’t. Finally, he breaks. “My parents moved up north when I left for basic. My girlfriend broke up with me while I was deployed. We shared a house. Now she’s living with her new boyfriend and I kind of got nowhere to go so Dylan’s really helping me out here…”
I turn around and run the water into a pot so I can start on my dinner. “I’m glad,” I tell him over my shoulder. “Not about the girlfriend thing. I’m sorry about that. I meant that Dylan’s able to help you out. He’s a good man.”
And right on cue, Dylan walks into the kitchen holding Bacon under his arm like a football. He doesn’t speak, just opens the fridge, grabs another beer, and walks back out.
I switch my gaze back to Conway.
He shrugs. “You need help with dinner?”
“It’s fine. I was just going to make pasta real quick.”
He grins from ear to ear and rolls up his sleeves. I don’t think it’s me he’s smiling about. I think it’s the prospect of more food. “Put me to work, boss,” he says.
I tilt my head, eyeing him curiously. If something as simple as food can make him happy, then why doesn’t it do the same for Dylan?
Why can’t I make him happy?
We eat the pasta at the kitchen table after Conway clears it of all the other trash it was covered in. Leroy and Conway talk about the news they’d just seen. Dylan stares at his untouched plate. I stare at him. Then suddenly, he stands. “I’m going to bed,” he announces to no one in particular. He grabs another beer before he leaves, leaving me sitting with two people I know nothing about. I quickly finish my meal, tell them to leave everything and that I’ll take care of it in the morning.
Dylan’s already in bed, facing the wall when I enter the bedroom. I go straight to the bathroom and turn on the shower. I spend as long in there as I did in the store and ignore the fact that he is now sitting on the edge of the bed watching me. And I avoid the thoughts running through my head—the million questions I’m too afraid to ask.
