You and Everything After

Somewhere…somewhere deep inside…there is still a faint voice that is telling me it’s just a watch. That voice is trying to be heard, trying to tell me that this isn’t Cass’s fault, accidents happen, it’s okay…and I might love this girl. Don’t fuck it up over a watch.

I step on that voice. Then I kick it in the groin, and shove it in an alley.

“Did you lose it? I mean…do you at least know where the fuck it is?” I ask. I’m lost to the asshole now. There’s no coming back out of this gracefully.

“Ty… please. Don’t talk to me like that,” she says, and for a small second or two, my voice, the good voice, pipes in telling me she’s right. I kick it again.

“Cass,” I take a deep breath, bringing my voice down to a calm tone because that’s really the least I could do. I don’t need to make this a show for everyone else. I lean forward to her, my hands folded together while my elbows rest on my knees, my wrist bare. “When you give someone something…let them borrow something…say something that might have a certain sentimental value to it—you kind of make this verbal contract. Do you follow me?”

“Ty, I’m sorry. I left it in the classroom. I’m sure it’s there. I’ll get it,” she’s talking, but I’m not hearing. All of my senses are closed off. The asshole has moved in, and he ain’t budging.

“Go on. Go get it,” I say, like there’s any chance that could really happen. Fuck, why can’t I stop this?

“Ty, you know I can’t right now. I’ll go, first thing Monday morning. I’ll get up early,” she looks flustered. Shit. I did this.

“Fine,” I say, sulking back into my chair. I watch her open her mouth to talk at least six times, each time lying back in her seat, unable to let the words out. I’ve stunned her, and I’m such an asshole that I’m proud of it. And then it comes crashing down all at once. I’m blinded by cold hands with manicured nails and a voice behind me hell-bent on ruining any hope I might be clinging to.

“Guess who?” she asks, her voice raspy, drunk. Why do girls do that, ambush you from behind and play this game, knowing the high probability that you’re going to guess wrong, and leave everyone feeling stupid?

“No idea,” I huff, and as her hands slide away from my face, I get a good look at Cass. She. Is. Livid. A girl with long brown hair slides into my lap. She’s dressed like one of the waitresses, and I recognize her. But fuck if I can remember her name.

“Hey, you,” she says. “I just got off. You wanna take me home?”

Oh wow. This is really happening.

“Hi, yeah. So…I’m on a date. With my girlfriend,” I say, doing my best to encourage her to get off of me. She slides awkwardly down my leg, her stupor causing her to slip and fall on her ass, her skirt sliding up enough to show off her thong, and everything around it.

Cass looks disgusted. She should be. I’m disgusted. I’m disgusted at myself. But I still want my watch. And I can’t bring myself to forgive her for leaving it behind…carelessly.

“You know what? It’s fine. He can take you home. Because it turns out I’m not his girlfriend,” she says, standing and dropping a ten dollar bill on the small table in front of me to pay for her drink. I blink again, and she’s gone.

“Excuse me,” I say, pushing through this mystery girl’s gaggle of drunken groupies.

I find Cass quickly. She’s not even trying to run. She’s walking fast, but more angry than running away.

“Hey! What the hell?” I yell, and she halts fast, spinning on her heels and closing the gap between us, her arms crossed in front of her body to fight off the night chill.

“Go on,” she says, waving her hand to direct me back inside. I get it; she’s imitating me, and how I told her to go get the watch. It’s almost funny. But it’s not.

“Cass, you’re being unfair,” I say, and she laughs. Hard.

“Oh really? I’m new at this, Ty. Explain to me, how does a girlfriend usually react when some hooker practically lap dances her boyfriend in front of her?” she asks.

“She’s not a hooker,” I say, rolling my eyes. I mean, please—I have standards. Cass is leaning on her hip, her lips pursed. Clearly, she doesn’t think I have standards. “Before I met you, I dated. You know this.”

“Yeah, boy do I know this,” she says, throwing my past in my face. I don’t like apologizing, and I won’t apologize for things I can’t change.