“Are you alright?” I asked immediately.
“Yeah. I’m fine. I just have the flu or something. I thought you were the delivery guy with my soup.”
“Do you need anything? I can go get soup.”
“I ordered soup. That’s why I thought you were the delivery,” she said flatly.
“I just came to give you this,” I said, holding out the folded letter.
Looking at it I wondered if I should have gotten an envelope, since the folded notebook paper didn’t look that romantic. She folded her arms and shook her head.
“I wrote this letter. I need you to read it,” I said.
“If writing helps you to sort through your feelings, that’s great. I’ve recommended journaling in the past. Alan is a good therapist if you want someone to talk to or to read your reflections. I’m not going to be involved with you as a counselor or a friend.” she said, determined.
“I don’t want either. I love you,” I said. I knew when I said it that the arrow didn’t strike. I had fired my best weapon, had told her the bare truth. She had her armor on, her shields up. It didn’t land. Her face never changed from its pale, grim expression.
“I’m sorry.”
“Just take the letter. And tell me why the hell you ‘can’t’ be with the man who loves you,” I said, my voice hard.
Layla fixed her eyes on the wall behind me and never wavered. She didn’t answer me. Not a single word.
“Knowing what you know. That I came here with this—this letter and my heart in my hand, and all you can say is that you can’t. I want to know what your reason is. I deserve an answer,” I said.
Still nothing. She stood there, impervious. Her cheeks never flushed, tears never fell, and she stood firm and silent. She didn’t look at me. And I didn’t touch her. I had that much pride left at least. I didn’t reach for her. I didn’t beg.
I crossed my arms and stood there facing her, looking just over her shoulder the way she was looking just past mine. Time passed in our stony silence, the tension between us now of a different kind. I still felt that relentless pull, that primal conviction that I should, that I must take her in my arms, that we should be touching at all times. I just held out against it. She didn’t waver. I knew she wouldn’t. Because she was stubborn, and whatever it was she believed, she believed in it completely. She had the courage of her convictions, even if it was punishing us both.
Completely let down, I went straight to the bar. Fuck the gym. That would be a healthy coping mechanism. I didn’t want to be responsible. I wanted to forget. Because it felt like there was a hole in my chest, like I was bleeding out. I sat at one end of the bar alone. After a couple of shots, I switched to nursing a beer and pretending to watch the game on the TV. It was baseball. I didn’t even give a shit enough to see who was playing. I had to count just to breathe in and out, to look down from time to time and see that, surprisingly, no blood was staining my shirt and pouring out of my chest. I definitely hadn’t had enough to drink to forget the way she had avoided my eyes, had obviously wanted me gone. She clammed up, shut down, shut me out. Every time I blinked, I could see her like her image was burned in my eyelids.
I can’t. More like I don’t want you. Or sex is good but relationship-wise, crazy handyman isn’t my type. I ordered another shot. A manicured hand appeared in front of me, waving cash at the bartender.
“Get him a refill, and I’ll have what he’s having,” she said.
I glanced her way. Some brunette in a business outfit, skirt and a red shirt that was unbuttoned four down. I turned my eyes back to the TV.
“You look miserable. Your team losing?” she asked, indicating the game.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Padres fan? You’re not from around here. I’m Cathleen. And you are?”
“Not here for this, sorry,” I said.
“Oh,” she said, “well, that’s rude.”
“I know. I said I’m sorry. But my answer isn’t gonna change. Have a nice night.”
I did to her what Layla had done to me. I wouldn’t even look at her. She took her drink and left. It would’ve been so easy, effortless, to answer a couple questions and let her laugh too loud and hang all over me, go hook up with her. It might have even made me forget for ten or twenty seconds. But I only glanced at her once, and saw that she wasn’t Layla. No overalls. No smart mouth. No drama. An attractive, well-dressed woman was friendly to me, bought me a drink, showed her interest in me, and all my body did was recoil like she was fucking Jabba the Hutt. I downed my shot in one and figured that was what Layla thought about me when I had showed up at her door.