I’m pouring my first cup of coffee when my phone vibrates against the black granite countertop, wriggling like it has an itch to scratch. My white ceramic mug proclaims: DON’T TALK TO ME UNTIL I’VE HAD MY COFFEE.
A good rule.
But I decide to break it when I see the incoming number. I answer and put the call on speaker. “Hey there.”
“Hey,” he responds. His baritone voice is even deeper than usual, as if it’s drowning in his throat. He must be tired.
“You’re up early,” I observe, my tone wry and welcoming. If he wants to get together, I’m game. Yeah, we saw each other last night, but I’m happy to hear from him. And a gorgeous day is shaping up outside, all blue sky and warm sunshine. A good day to take out my pride and joy. A cherry-red ’68 Firebird convertible. I’ll cruise the bustling streets of L.A. Let the wind tangle my hair.
“I’m sorry to call so early,” he says. His apology rings with anxious undertones. I know it’s genuine. He hates inconveniencing anyone. An endearing quality, really. Most people in this town don’t care. Bulldozers, most of them. A staccato thump of footsteps comes from the other end of the line. I picture him pacing, his lean frame jittery with energy, his shaggy dark hair flopping in his face. He asks, “Did I wake you up?”
“Nah,” I tell him.
“Okay, good,” he says then falls silent.
I let his pause linger. Our relationship has developed its own rhythm. He’ll get to the point when he’s ready.
But the silence grows. Metastasizes.
Concern takes root in my mind. I lean against the counter, its sharp edge digging into my back. I take a slow sip of coffee. Despite its rich caramel scent, the brew tastes bitter and thin. My heartbeat picks up the pace, as if a treadmill inside me has accelerated. Finally, I ask, “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, everything is okay,” he replies with a nervous laugh.
Well. He doesn’t sound okay. Which isn’t a bad thing for me. If things aren’t good, he needs me. I like to be needed. So, I ease him into an invitation. “You at home today?”
“No, I’m not at home.” He punctuates his statement with that nervy laugh. Then, in a rush, he adds, “You and me? This is over.”
That catches me off guard.
A break-up.
I never see it coming. After all these years, you’d think I’d spot the signs. But Brandon and I were in a good place. Casual, but solid. Steady. Keeping my tone bright, I cajole him. “Are you sure? I could come over today. Or later this week. Up to you. But I’m here for you.”
“No, no … I can’t see you anymore.”
He sounds close to tears. That tugs at my heartstrings. Now I’m feeling bad for him even though I’m getting dumped. I sigh. Maybe I should let him off the hook. He was polite to call, I guess. People usually ghost me. But I can’t help needling him a little. “You found someone better, huh? Seems unlikely.”
Yeah, that’s right. I know my worth.
“No, it’s not that …” he says quietly.
My radar pings. Someone has come between us. But not my competition. “Is this about your family?”
“And my friends. They, uh, had a little get together for me.”
Intervention. The unspoken word hangs in the radio waves connecting us. “I see.”
“I’m at the Malibu Recovery Center. I’m here with a counselor, Julie.” He fades out slightly as if he’s turned to her for moral support. He probably has because his voice is stronger, firmer, when he returns. “Anyway, I’m calling to let you know I won’t be buying from you anymore. I’m not doing coke anymore.”
My jaw tightens. I can’t believe the weak-willed little shit dragged me into his rehab. Fucking addicts. With all the sincerity I can muster, I say, “I don’t know what you’ve told Julie, but I fully support your recovery, Brandon. Best of luck to you.”
Then I hang up the phone. Sip my coffee. Smile to myself.
He’ll be back.
~ fin ~
Meghan Leigh Paulk is a Texas writer. She made her fiction debut this year with a short story in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine in their Department of First Stories. Her novel Hollywood Down Low was a finalist in the 2019 Writers’ League of Texas manuscript contest and was selected for Pitch Wars 2022.
Comments are closed for this post.
