The Weekend Pt. 02

I leave before midnight, getting a tepid hug from you. I suggest we could get coffee tomorrow morning before my drive back, but you glance back at your brother and mumble some lame excuse about working part of the day. I give him a pointed look and say tomorrow is Sunday, and your sister-in-law agrees with me. For as much as your brother hates me, she is in my corner, and has always rooted for us. I'm not sure why she is with your brother, but I'm grateful she has been such a good friend to me all these years later.

I'm awakened at 5 am, my phone ringing non-stop. I immediately answer, worried it's about my son, but it's you. You're drunk. You're rambling. It sounds like you're at my hotel and I'm already pissed because you shouldn't be driving.

I let you in my room, but I'm fully dressed. Your eyes are red, your breath too rank to withstand kissing you. You blubber an apology, you tell me you fucked it all up. You say this over and over, crying in turns, then trying to leave. I take your keys; I won't let you drive. I try to give you some food, but you won't eat. It does make you finally vomit. I nurse you through two rounds of puking, clean you off, and then help you to the couch. I manage to get a few more hours of sleep until we both wake up.

You look rightfully mortified, your shirt stained with beer. I tell you to take a shower, I give you some Advil from my purse and a large glass of water. You come out of the bathroom without a shirt on, and even in your skinny state, I feel my body stirring. You apologize and I scoff at you. I tell you I have to check out by 11 am. You nod, a silent glance at my luggage, a glance at me that lingers when you sit down on the couch.

I tell you I don't like this. I don't like how your brother treats you and bosses you around. You get defensive and tell me I'm not around enough to know what he's really like. I say that I know what you're really like, and you're not yourself around him. This touches a nerve. How would I know who you are? How would I even know what's it's been like for you? How would I know what it feels like to be this fucked up and broke and have nothing?

I get angry. Furious. I tell you I would know if you would ever fucking talk to me. If you would just quit being so fucking macho and tell me what it's like, then I would know. Then I could maybe help. Maybe I could be there for you before you drink yourself into a stupor and puke in my hotel room. You stand up and put the stained shirt back on, you ready to leave. I tell you that I came all this way because I wanted to see you. That the conference was just an excuse and you should fucking know that. I came because I don't know what's happening to you, or if you had a new girlfriend, because you won't fucking talk to me. I take a step closer to you when I repeat my demand that I want you to TALK to me.

We glower at each other in frustration, my body shaking as it gets closer to you. I'm surprised by how fast you dart forward, how quickly you move after being so hung over. You crush me into you with a kiss that is equal parts anger and desire. I kiss you back, but I try to wriggle out of your arms. I gasp for air, getting a brief look at your eyes before you pull me back into you. You kiss me with scorching mouthfuls, getting a handhold on my bottom, pushing me into you. I say your name, feeling you're still not sober, and try to get your attention. You lean in at my resistance, your breath a mixture of minty beer. Isn't this what I want, you whisper into my ear. Isn't this all I ever want from you?

I struggle to get enough leverage to slap you with my arm still tucked under yours, but I manage it. You let me go with a mean-spirited chuckle. I point out that YOU came to my hotel. You came to me. The grimace on your face knows I'm right. You challenge me with the question: So, I don't want to fuck you? My reply is instant: of course I want to fuck you. But not when you're being an asshole. It makes you grin, and we nearly laugh. But we're both too invested in this drama, a stalemate of who's wrong and who's right. I open the door and tell you to go home. You walk past me with narrowed eyes, a look that knows this isn't over. And I know it isn't either.

I come home frustrated and hurt, angry and horny. My boyfriend doesn't want to have sex that night. He yawns about an early morning meeting. I'm 99% certain he is cheating on me, and I think I deserve to be cheated on. I don't love him, and I'm not sure he ever loved me. I stayed with him to make a family for my son, and instead I've recreated the dysfunctional relationship of my own parents.

*****

I'm too busy with opening my salon that I don't call or text you. I'm also waiting you out, to see which one of us will grovel for the thing we both desperately want. When Saturday night rolls around, you call me. You're not as drunk as before, but more... uninhibited. You ask where my boyfriend is and I say he is out on a business trip. Even with a few drinks in you, you put the pieces together. Why didn't I tell you he was going to be gone, you ask? So we don't get into trouble, I snap back. You snicker into the phone. I'm trouble, alright. You proceed to say how you'd never leave me at home alone, how you would keep me warm at night... I tell you not to talk like this, but I don't mean it. And you know it, so you say that you'd always please me. How you'd make me say your name when I come.

You snicker again when you hear how quiet I've become. You ask if I want to hear more. I don't want to admit it, my lips pursed in frustration. I've gone into my master bathroom and closed the door, I've switched on the fan for white noise. Yes, I meekly reply. Your chuckle is maddeningly sexy, and your low voice instructs me to stroke myself, which I had already started doing anyway. I pull down my yoga pants and kneel on the bathmat in front of my shower. You make me come with nothing but your voice, and my two hands. In fact, together, we bring me to orgasm a few more times, until you say your phone's battery is dying. It takes all my self-control to not get in my car and make the 7 hour drive north. If my son had not been sleeping in his bed, I would have driven to yours.

I can't wait to do this again, but my boyfriend's looming presence makes it challenging. Which is ridiculous because he is also sexting someone, and still trying to hide it from me. You tease me with text messages that tell me to find somewhere private so no one hears me scream. You tell me to pack extra panties for when I gush. I tease you back with a photo of my cleavage, my nipples peeking out from my sexiest push-up bra. I ask for a photo of your hard cock, clothing optional. It takes repeated begging, but you finally reply with a cropped photo of your cock bulging beneath your briefs. As soon as I receive it, I lock myself in the bathroom at my work. I chuckle that you were right- I should've brought extra panties.

It's a Saturday night when I'm all set up in the bathroom of my salon, telling some lie to my boyfriend about needing to fix a few things. I've made sure the doors are all locked, I've worn sexy things to tell you about. Your call doesn't come. I wait till almost 2 am before I give up. I'm horny and frustrated, but more than that, I'm worried.

You don't answer your phone and you don't respond to texts. Two excruciating days go by before I hear from you. When I get the text, I stop in my tracks. You were arrested. Drunken and disorderly; a fight in a bar. Your brother bailed you out. He's really pissed at you. And you know I'm probably pissed at you. My reply is I'm not mad, I'm worried. I want you to take care of yourself. I ask you to call me so we can chat, but you don't.

I feel a strange guilt. All those racy texts from you, the photo, are probably a result of inebriation. You needed the alcohol to say how you felt, to admit your desires, to be able to reach out to me. Without it, you leave me in silence. I wish I could tell you not to be ashamed, to give yourself the voice you deserve. To not mumble your way through life.

When I hear nothing back after a week of unanswered texts, I reach out to your sister-in-law. She tells me you had an awful fight with your brother and didn't show up for work. You won't answer their calls either. She made your brother put in a missing person's report, but the police are unhelpful.

Fifteen painful days go by before you are found. I'm at work when I get the call, sitting in my office at my salon. I hold my breath when I answer the call from your sister-in-law. You were arrested for a DUI, driving down 101, only an hour away from me. You didn't want to talk to your brother, but you wanted him to know you were ok. And you asked her to call me. She says you sounded tired, embarrassed. I thank her for the update, and then I call you.

I am actually surprised when you answer your phone. You sound like you just woke up; your voice is congested and gravely. You hardly speak but you answer my questions: you're in Oceanside, you're in a hotel just outside of town. They impounded your car and you don't have the money to get it out so you can't drive, which makes me feel slightly better. I'm trying to be calm and upbeat, but my voices wavers when you ask how I am. I'm fine, my son is fine. I can drive up there this weekend, I can bring you some clothes and things; but you turn down my offer. You firmly tell me you're fine. You don't need me to drive out of my way just for you. You'll be fine. Ok, I reply, not wanting to argue. I tell you I'm glad you are ok and to take care of yourself. I can hear a catch in your voice when you grunt your goodbye.

When I hang up, I go and close the door of my office, and lock it. I turn my chair around so I'm facing the wall, and I sob into my hands. You didn't sound fine. You sounded awful. You kept coughing with this deep bark, clearing your throat. You sounded weak and defeated. I want to help you, I want to take your pain away. But I am part of this problem; your heart is tangled up and confused. You smother your feelings with a drink, but you still want me, so you have another, and then another. Until you forget me. Until you forget everything. I keep crying until I've let all the despair out, and then I absolve myself by deleting your sexy texts. I tell myself I'm not going to be selfish anymore.

I know you don't want me to see you, as much as I want to be there. Instead, I look up ways to help you; I visit websites about alcoholism. I want to call your brother and see if he will help you, but I'm also furious at him. Mostly, I hope he could help you out financially if he still cares about you.

More weeks of silence goes by, so once again I reach out to your sister-in-law. She says you haven't contacted them and I'm not surprised. You are angry at all of us and everyone, and I can't really blame you. You cared about two things in this life: being a marine, and being with me. And now, you have neither. When I find a nonprofit organization that specializes in helping veterans with substance abuse, I text the links to you. I follow it up with a text saying I hope you're doing ok, that I think about you. You reply with the thumbs up emoji, probably the most civil way you could tell me to mind my own business.

These are the years we lost. The years where we barely speak even though you're close enough to meet me at our taco truck. The years of cryptic texts, the distant concern that I try to convey through written word. I send memes and GIF's; I send you occasional photos of me and my son. I try to keep you in my life, when I can only guess what is going on in yours.

*****

It's not until my son needs another surgery that I get a response from you. Within minutes of my text, you ask what happened; I explain how his arm has outgrown the plates and screws they put in after the accident, so they need to update it. I take a chance, and ask if you could call my son beforehand, to lend him a little courage. You say you will come to see us. To visit.

I arrange to have you meet us at the surgery center, and I purposefully lie to my boyfriend about when the surgery starts so you two will avoid each other. My son is excited to see you; he tells the nurses that his "mom's friend" is coming, and this friend is a marine. I am a mixture of anxiety and elation to see you, unable to sit still while we wait in the pre-op room.

I'm staring at my phone, re-reading our messages, verifying this is really happening, making sure I haven't misunderstood your texts and set myself up for a giant disappointment... and suddenly you are there.

You are dressed nicely in a flannel button-down shirt, neatly tucked into your jeans. You always tuck your shirts in. Your hair is shorter than when I saw you last, but still long enough for you to have some curls. You've re-gained some of the weight you lost at your brother's house, your face is not as gaunt. You've even tried to grow a goatee. You're older, but still adorable. I can feel my eyes sting and my mouth trembles when I try to smile at you.

It's been so long that we don't hug, a separation that designates we are only friends. My son, however, reaches out for you and you hug him back. You sit down and chat with him; my son asks you more questions than I would ask, but I'm grateful for his precociousness. You're not on active duty anymore; you work at an auto shop, you fix cars. You live in San Diego again. I'm stunned by this. You've been here all this time and I haven't seen you once. You haven't reached out to me. I seal up my anger so that you two can visit, but I'm not going to let that go so easily, and you know it.

They send the nurse out to take my son to surgery and he asks if you will be there when he comes out. He is so enamored with you, it's as if he loves you by genetic proxy to me. He even gives you the same wide-eyed smile, the hopelessly naïve one. You tell him you have to get back to work, but you'll see him soon. Your eyes dart over to me when you say this; you aren't sure you'll be allowed to see him again. Or it means you have no intention of coming back and repeating this awkwardness. I tell my son that "we'll figure it out" and give you a look that says you will not lie to my son.

When we are alone, I hit you with the questions: how long have you lived here? You can see I'm upset. But at least you don't give me any bullshit excuse. You say you needed time. Just time. I nod my head, taking a deep breath. I know this, but it still hurts. When I no longer feel like punching you in the gut, I tell you I'm still with my son's father. We broke up for a while, he cheated on me, we went to counseling, things are better now, yada yada. Your eyes watch me carefully, a twist of your mouth says that you don't believe me. And I'm angry at myself for lying to you.

What I don't say is that my son's father is barely a boyfriend at all. We still live together, but in a very estranged setup. We don't fight anymore; we don't make a scene in front of our son. But we stay apart, we keep our lives civilly arranged. He's been looking for his own place, but housing in southern California is insanely unaffordable. Our setup helps us each afford to live in a home, in a good neighborhood, with a good school. We live a sexless partnership, waiting out the years until our son is grown.

I lied to you because I was hurt and angry. You've been hiding from me, so I'll hide something from you. But your eyes perceive an inkling of the truth. We stare at each other with so much hurt in our hearts it's a wonder we can keep chatting about nothing like this is what we care about. When my phone buzzes with a text from boyfriend saying he's on his way, you seize the opportunity to make your getaway. You tell me it was good to see me, you tell me I've "hardly changed". I give you a skeptical shake of my dyed black hair, and for the first time, you give me one of your old-fashioned grins. That little twinkle in your eye makes my heart burn for the old you, the old us. I tell you I'll text you when my son's out of surgery. You say goodbye. And finally, we decide we can hug.

I try to keep my body from fully making contact with yours, I try to leave some distance, but my breasts always get in the way. You lean into my hair, I can feel you take a deep breath that inhales some of me. You whisper a thank you. Thank you for letting me see you, ninita. You can see me anytime, I reply. I'm not that far away.

Watching you walk away breaks my heart again. I was testing myself to see how I felt, if I still felt something for you, and I failed my test. There was no way I would ever not want you. Even if you had waddled in looking like death warmed over, I'd still want you. I'd still want the only man I'd ever loved.

I text you when my son's out of surgery; it was a success, he's resting. You text back with a "good to hear it". I'm hopeful you'll text more, but you don't. A few more days pass, I hope you'll check in. You don't. Two weeks later, I text you a photo of me with my son. He's by my side and holding up his arm, showing off his scar. I tell you he wants to "compare scars". You text back the emoji of a laughing face. I hate myself for trying, for opening up old wounds. Eventually my son will quit asking about you, eventually he'll get distracted by something else and move on. But I won't.

*****

One night, I get a call from an unknown number, but the area code says it's local. It's almost midnight. My mom is now in an assisted living facility, and sometimes her caregivers will call me from their own cell phones. I answer, thinking it may be one of them. Instead, I hear a cacophony of loud voices and the clinking of glasses. A deep, gravelly voice barks out a hello. He says my name, but I have no idea who this is. His rough voice is offset by his polite demeanor. He calls me mam', and explains that his name is Rick and he runs a bar off Highway 15. There is a young man in his bar who is very inebriated and in no shape to drive, let alone walk. He took this man's phone and saw that the young man had been staring at the photo of this very pretty girl and a kid, and it seems she had been the last person to text him. He thought maybe I knew this young man well enough that I knew where he belonged, or who he belonged with, and could take him home so he could sleep it off.

I am amused, I'm amazed, and ultimately I'm just thankful. I tell Rick that yes, I know this young man and I can come get him. Rick thanks me profusely and gives me the address to his bar. It's all the way on the other end of town, going south. It will take me about 30 minutes to drive there.

I wake up my groggy boyfriend and explain what's happened. I tell him you need help and I'm going to pick you up; I will be out late and maybe not back till the morning. He doesn't argue with my determined face, and promises he will handle my son tomorrow.

The bar is in the middle of nowhere, past all the outlying suburbs, past the strip malls and rundown shops. It's close to the border. I wonder if you were going to drive to Mexico. It's only an hour away from Tijuana, where your dad lives. You hardly ever talk about him, you haven't seen him in years as far as I know. Perhaps there is another wound you need to heal besides the ones inflicted by war, and by us.

I can see why you picked the bar- it looks like a cozy cabin, it's remote. It's fairly busy inside, but it's a Friday night and there are a couple of pool tables. I walk up to the bar and see an older man, about 6 feet tall with silvery hair; I assume he matches the gravelly voice I've spoken to. Rick recognizes me from my photo and waves me back behind the bar. We snake around to the end of the wall full of bottles, and turn sharply into a little room, an office. You are laying on a small, leather couch, sleeping with your head sprawled back and your mouth gaping open.