53. Fischer

53

FISCHER

I text him first. If he doesn't want to see me, I'm not going to force myself on him. Also, I'm sort of drunk. Less so after watching the video and speaking with Nicole, but still. I'm thinking maybe we can schedule something, for when I sober up.

I need to see you.

So, maybe that doesn't sound like I'm trying to schedule an appointment, but like I said—vodka.

Matthew

You sure about that? I'd hate to make you act outside your own best interest.

You're my only interest.

Matthew

I'm fine.

Matthew, I need to see you. I can't do this anymore.

Matthew

Enough said. No reason to see each other then.

Something snaps inside me at that.

Don't fucking misunderstand me. I'm not okay. Neither are you. We need to see each other.

Matthew

Who says I'm not okay?

Maybe it's just me then.

Matthew

You can't come over here. It's a mess.

I don't care.

Okay, maybe I don't want to schedule something. Maybe this is urgent, and these crumbs he's throwing at me are making me crave the whole cake.

Matthew

Fine. Do you.

I order a car before I'm even off the couch. I showered a few hours before I started hitting the bottle, so all I need is clean clothes. I fall on my ass as I'm getting dressed, losing my balance as I try to lace my shoes, but I grab some water on my way out the door and chug it in the elevator, hoping it helps dilute my blood alcohol level.

A doorman I vaguely recognize takes stock of me as I limp without my cane through the lobby, using the wall and his desk to balance my steps. He's gorgeous. Blond. Blue, soulful eyes. He looks exhausted, like night shifts aren't his usual. I feel bad for him, like his being here is my fault, too.

"Is someone picking you up, Mr. Elliot?" he asks, properly assessing the state I'm in.

How does he know my name ? Before I ask, I stop myself. On second thought, I don't want to know. "I have a car coming."

"I'll walk you out. I could use the fresh air."

"Thanks." He looks strong. He could probably pick me up if I fall again. "What's your name?"

"Christian. Chris. I'm filling in for a few nights."

"It's nice to meet you. You work at one of Gibson's other properties?" Jesus, I'm chatty tonight.

"Yeah. Gramercy."

Ah. That's where I must have seen him.

"You know Mr. Hayes?" he asks.

"We went to college together." I check my phone. My ride is close. When I look back up, Christian is studying me like he has questions. I nod to let him know he can ask whatever he wants.

"Do you know his wife?" is his unexpected question.

"They met our freshman year. Why?"

"Just he seems…devoted."

"Oh, sure. They were friends first. They say that always leads to the best marriages."

A confused look crosses his pretty face. "Right. I think that might be your ride."

I look out at the street and sure enough—silver Kia. Chris is kind enough to see me into the backseat safely. He wishes me a good night, and I want to thank him for distracting me for three minutes, but I tip him instead.

On the way to the Bronx, a headache threatens, and I wish I had more water. I should have taken some Motrin before I left, but if I managed to forget my cane in my rush to get to Matthew, I don't know how I would have remembered to prepare for a hangover.

I'm extremely anxious to see him, but the closer I get, the less noise there is in my head about whether this is a good move or not. It's the only move.

The rest of my life begins and ends with him. I'm lost without him, existence has no meaning, and all that cliché shit. He's an infection I can't shake. Or, perhaps more accurately, he's the stake through my heart that can't be removed without causing my instant death.

He's killing me, and I need him.

It's a slow, painful walk up the stairs to his loft. My leg doesn't hurt, but my head is pounding. I have no clue what time it is except for late. After midnight maybe. Fuck, I'm not even sure what day of the week it is.

Finally, I get to his door and knock.

He's practically naked, the asshole. Fresh from the shower in black boxer briefs and nothing else. His chest, arms, and hair are damp and slick. I can't bring myself to look to the left where the tree used to be. I nearly start crying again on the spot because I'd wanted so badly for him to sell that piece. Now it only exists as shards and cuts all over his upper body.

I lean on the doorframe, not in a sexy way. More like I'm leaning into it with the front of my shoulder to keep myself from falling over. "My head is fucking killing me," I blurt out instead of hi or I miss you or you're so fucking beautiful, please drug me and chain me to your bed so I never leave again.

"Where's your cane?"

"Forgot it," I say.

"You're making this complicated," he tells me, frowning and conflicted.

"Making what complicated how?"

"You weren't supposed to show up here looking like you needed me."

"Why the hell else would I be here?"

"To break up with me like a man for once."

I shake my head, but that's a terrible idea. I palm my forehead and groan. "I need to sit."

He grabs me by the arm, pulls me inside, and leads me to the couch."Let me get you some water and pills," he says once I'm safely seated.

I reach for him, but he's already walking away. I slump to the side and am forced to come to terms with the fact that I'm still somewhat drunk.

When he gets back to me, he's got all of what he promised, but he's also wearing a t-shirt and sweats. "Message received," I mutter.

"I'm sorry?"

Jesus, I need to shut up. I avoid the question, taking the three tablets he hands me and the glass of water. I down it all and sit back, closing my eyes, and rubbing my temples. I inhale the enticing aroma of him after a shower. It's soothing. After a week of upheaval and fear and listening to the people who claim to care about me tell me what they really think about me, I finally relax.

"So, you said you needed to see me," he says after what I'm guessing was too long of a silence while I soaked up the vibe.

"Yeah, but maybe I should have waited."

"No shit," he says.

"I'm drunk."

"I can see that."

"I've been drunk a lot."

"Yeah, well…" He sinks down low on the couch, propping his bare feet on the coffee table and crossing his arms and ankles. "I haven't been feeling so hot either."

"I'm sorry," I say.

"Yeah, about that," Matthew says, not cutting me any slack with his tone. "What did you mean by that text?"

"At the time? You said you were sorry, and I assumed you meant something like sorry this didn't work out the way we talked about wanting it to, and I was sorry, too. Why? What did you mean?"

"I meant I was sorry for missing your call, but also because I couldn't talk then, and I was sorry about that, too, and also because if it weren't for me, Nicole never would have done that shit to you. I meant a lot of things. But mostly I was sorry I missed your call. Why did you call?"

"Because I wanted to talk to you."

"About what?"

"To see if you were okay."

"Define okay," he says.

I wave in the direction of his workshop. "It's fine. I got my answer."

"Did you see that?" he asks.

"Yeah. I cried."

He sighs. "It was cathartic."

"You're all cut up."

"At least I'm not having sex with a stranger."

I wince at that. "Is that what's next? Or do you have more stuff you want to break first?"

"I don't know what's next," he says. "The tree wasn't me. I figured it would sell. I knew it was pretty, and it was just interesting enough but not too deep, and someone would find a place for it. It was meaningful in a way, but the parts that meant something are all still there—the foundation. I actually think I like it better this way." He gestures at the skeletal collection of twisted wires, now bent and battered but still reaching out in all directions forming words that don't make sense to anyone but him. "That's me," he says.

"The words?" I ask.

"Yeah."

"What's meaningful about the words?"

"It's all about that time," he says.

I don't follow.

"It's about us, Fischer."

I scowl at what's left of the tree. I even start to stand, but he stops me. "Don't you dare go over there. There aren't enough bandaids in the world." He yanks me back to sitting, and I land right next to him.