30. Tyson

I huffas I push Lance and leave the kitchen. My place is a wreck with broken glass and shit everywhere. Vodka from a fall on the floor saturates my shirt. I flex and relax my hands, walking in a circle.

“Hey, the guys checked, and he’s gone. Everyone left is cleaning the mess. What the hell happened, man?” Lance asks me.

I stop pacing and place my hands on my hips. “Man, did she leave?”

He said he’s gone. Is she still here?

“That dude and his friends, they all left.”

My chest splits; it’s full-on open, exposing my nerves. I rub the spot as I bite my lip.

“Thanks, uh, I’m— I need a minute,” I say, jogging to my room. The echoes of glass being swept and furniture moving filters in, but not enough for me to stop. Once I’m in the back, I close my door and slide to the floor, putting my knees to my chin and burying my face. I’m not sure I’ve felt pain so sharp before. Her face is still flashing in my mind. I jump up and reach for my phone, pulling up her contact. My finger hovers over her name.

Issa.

I growl and throw the phone, hitting the bathroom door. Shit!

After a few minutes, I walk over and pick up the phone, running my fingers over the cracks on the screen. The uneven surface scrapes my fingertips as a jagged line splits down an image of her favorite tulips from the gardens. I smile as tears fall.

We stayed at the Botanical Gardens for an hour that day to cheer her up. This was the last shot I took. She went on and on about the way they smelled and stuffed her face in the arrangements, turning in a split second to the camera. Her smile is cracked under the glass, but her eyes are bright. A thick lump shifts up and settles in my throat. No matter how many times I swallow, it doesn’t move.

“Hey, Tyson. You good?” Lance asks through my closed door as I rub the image.

I clear my throat and swallow again. “Yeah. Hey, you can head out.”

Rustling from the other side of the door sounds, and he hesitates. Lance is one of the top executives at my firm. He moved from our old company to follow me when I decided it was time to make my own path. I know he wants to ask questions, and he’s cool, but I’m not about to spill my guts to him. Ironically, the person I would normally call wants to kick my ass. Fuck!

“Okay, we’ll lock up.”

“Thanks, man.”

Silence.

Some housewarming…

I didn’t sleep last night, so when the sun filters into my bedroom, my eyes are still open as I lie back with my arm behind my head.

I’m not sure what I expected. Shit, I’m not sure why I did it. Well, I know why. But I had every intention of holding my tongue. I wanted to distance myself from my feelings, but things I would normally bite back my words on pissed me off.

It’s the little shit I don’t like. The things that seem small enough but, to me, mean more. Like how do you forget your fiancée hates oranges? I’ve heard them have the same conversation too many times when we were doing menu tasting or just out to eat.

“Here, try this, Clarissa.”

“I don’t like oranges, remember?”

“Damn, that’s right. Why don’t you like oranges?”

Shit aggravated me, but I never spoke up about it. Then he forgot last night again, and I don’t know, it fucked with me.

I roll over, deciding to get ready. Walking into the bathroom, I pull out my toothbrush and start brushing my teeth. My reflection looks tired, but I focus on the water in the sink.

After I finish, I turn on the shower and grab some clothes while it warms up. Nothing I do seems to dissipate the tenderness in my bones. While I scrub my body and face, it persists. When I dry off and moisturize, it’s there. When I get dressed and leave my room, it’s still there.

In the living room, my furniture is still spread out from the party. A glimpse in the kitchen makes me grimace. The broken glass is cleaned up, but the cabinets at the bottom are askew. My fridge has a big ass dent now, and the counters are a mess. I throw my head back and put my hands on my hips. My doorbell rings, and for some reason, I think it might be Issa. I jog to the door and yank it open.

Standing on my porch is August with his arms crossed and his face in a scowl.

I blow out a breath and move to the side, using one hand to gesture for him to come in. He doesn’t speak, and I’m glad it’s just him and not Tyree.

He walks in, and I close the door and follow him to the living room. He stops and turns to me, still with his arms crossed and that deep scowl.

I stand back with my hands in my pockets and wait.

“You don’t want to explain?”

“I don’t feel the need to explain anything to you, no.”

“Dawg, we been boys since college. You can’t be serious.”

I take my hands out of my pockets and lift them in the air to say, what do you want? I literally left it all on the table last night. I bled my feelings and bared my heart in front of everybody. If anybody deserves an explanation, it’s her. Not August or anybody else.

“Tyson, for real?”

“I’m not sure what you want me to say.”

“Shit, I want you to say this is fucked up and that you didn’t fall in love with Clarissa. How the hell would that even happen? This is so fucking foul, Ty.”

I nod because he’s not wrong. It is foul. I know it is, but when it comes to her, I feel too much. I’d burn to my core for a glimpse of her smile. I know I’m the worst friend. That what I did is unforgivable, but I’m also not asking for August’s or anyone else’s forgiveness. I don’t deserve it because if given a chance, I’d choose her.

“I know it’s wrong.” I shrug and lower my head. “But August, I’m not about to justify anything to you. Take that any way you want. I know we’ve been boys. I know I’m foul for falling for a girl who belongs to someone else, but if it were up to me, she would be mine.” I shrug again, and he stands straighter.

“So you throw away a fourteen-year friendship behind a woman?”

I shake my head because he’s not getting it. She’s more than a woman. She’s everything.

“I’ve known you since you were a scrawny eighteen-year-old leaving home for the first time. I was there when you took your first drink. I was there when Faith dumped you, so yeah, I deserve an explanation. I deserve to fucking know why you did this shit.”

I walk to my couch and take a seat. Shit, maybe he’s right. I rub my hands down my face and look back at him. His hands are on his hips, and his face isn’t twisted in a scowl now. It’s twisted in sorrow. And I realize what I’ve done. There’s no fixing this. There are no words to make it better.

“August, man—I fell. I didn’t mean to, but I did.”

“Ty, man, damn,” he says, falling to sit in a chair off to the side.

We don’t speak but sit in silence. Tyree and he got tighter when I left after college, and yeah, we kept in touch, but they have a deeper bond. So I know what this means. I know that this is the end of a friendship. I know it’s all my fault. And I know I don’t give a damn because my heart fucking aches for Issa. I know if given the chance, I’d run off with her and never look back. There’s no sense in lying to myself or anyone else, so I say nothing. He doesn’t want to hear the thoughts whirling in my mind. So I lie back with my face to the ceiling, and we sit in silence.