Page 74 of Intoxicated
Chapter 24
DREW
What do you do when the girl you like runs out after making love?
I was hoping you could tell me, because I’m honestly at my wit’s end here.
I think it’s safe to say that Cher and I are at the pivotal crunch point of our so-called relationship. I’ve broken the fundamental rule of casual, friends-with-benefits arrangements. I’ve gone and caught a few feelings. Against the advice ofeveryoneI know, by the way, including her. Somewhere in Seattle, Brent is clicking his tongue and wondering if this means the end of his job. It’s certainly the end of my sanity.
You know what the worst thing about her walking out was? How beautiful she was in her self-doubt and confusion. The humanity was on her face. Even from across the room, with my whole body aching from the love we had made, I could see those lines of uncertainty and the clouded look in her eyes. Cher was caught off-guard. Unawares. Wondering how the hell she would face me again should our paths ever cross. This isn’t a woman who is used to falling in love. Neither am I, for that matter. This is uncharted ground for the both of us. That is, if I dare to admit I’m falling in love with the worst woman on Earth.
Is she, really?
Logic says that I should watch myself around her. She could still be playing me for a fool. Tonight, she looks over her shoulder and has the face of a woman battling with her heart. Tomorrow, she’s laughing about me to her gal-pals, if she has them.“You won’t believe it. I totally have him wrapped around my finger. Drew! Drew Benton! The guy my ex hired to fuck me over! Now he’s the one eating out of my hand, waiting for me to slap him silly. How long do you think it will take until he asks me to marry him? Tomorrow? A week from now?”
No, I’m nowhere close to asking her to marry me. I may be foolish at times, but I know better than to propose to a woman I barely know. Let alone one who has a history of running out on guys the moment they pop the question. We’ve established that my father is top-tier trash at doling out advice, but if there’s one thing he told me, it’s that youdon’tpropose to a woman you can’t foresee yourself growing old with. Good advice, isn’t it? Some guys jump to the altar with the first hot girl who says she loves him, but she’s awful wife material and only gets worse with age. Granted, the guys aren’t much better themselves. I’ve gone to many of these weddings. I’ve also gone to thecongrats, you’re divorced!bashes that usually follow two or three years later.
The next day, I get a call from Brent asking when I’ll be back. I don’t know. Cher won’t respond to the single text I’ve sent her. I should head back to Seattle sooner rather than later, but a part of me stays here in Portland, wondering if she’ll show up again by the evening.
She doesn’t.
Finally, I drive to her place late Friday morning. My overnight bag is packed and ready for the drive back up to Seattle, but I’m willing to hang out here if that’s what Cher wants. She could ask me to crawl into her bed and stay there until I waste away, and I might do it.
Infatuation. Is that what this really is? How badly do I want to behold my raven-haired beauty as she goes about her business, however dirty it may be?
I buzz her apartment. Like last time, she doesn’t answer. I’m pretty good at guessing which unit might be hears. She’s the type to cling to a reading nook in a bay window overlooking the street below. Ivory pillows with gold stitching adorn one of the nooks on the second floor. A feminine wind-chime hangs in front of the glass. Every time it catches a bit of the sunlight, I imagine Cher sitting beneath it, gazing out at the Northwest Portland goings-on as she either reads a book or holds her phone to her head.
There are no lights on. No signs of life. She’s not home.
At least that tells me what I need to know. Go back to Seattle. Figure out what I want to do with my life. If Cher contacts me, great. She can meet me up there again. I’ll pay for her ticket. Maybe we’ll talk things over like mature adults. I’ll lay out what I’m feeling at the ripe old age of thirty, and she can rebut with what a loner she is. It’ll be perfect. A perfect way to reach an impasse that will only end when one of us needs to bail.
You know, there was something kinda strange about her behavior when I last saw her. While Cher is never forthright about her emotions, she never hesitates to tell me – actually, that’sdemand,if we’re being honest – what she wants. It’s one of the hottest things about hooking up with her. How many women will look you in the eye and tell you to call them a filthy slut? I mean, you’re sitting there with your dick hard in your hand like a total jackass, wondering how far you can push the dirty talk. When you’re in the heat of the moment, things get…crazy.
Crazy enough that you’re making connections that you never thought possible.
Cher was mute the other night. Although she followed my lead and appeared to enjoy herself, I can’t say she wasinto it.The more I attempted to engage her with my words or kisses, the more she pulled away from me. Am I really surprised that she ran off when it was over? This was a woman I had asked to be my girlfriend. My declarations for something more concrete between us only made her skittish. Whatever went through her head wasn’t good news for me.
I think it’s best if I don’t hunt her down. Nor should I be quick to get back to Seattle, where I’ll only stew in everything that upsets me. That’s not how I want to live my life. I’m better off with more distractions.
Who better to give me something productive to do than my own grandmother? I had promised her I’d stop by soon, anyway. Not sure if she actually wants me there, but I’m not big on leaving her alone for weeks at a time. This is a woman who is getting a bit up there in age. Irene Benton may be perfectly capable of taking care of herself when she’s sound of mind and able in body, but who knows how long that will last? Besides, knowing my luck, she’s lost another chicken and hasn’t bothered to tell me. Probably thinks my work was so shoddy that it’s my fault she’s lost one of her feathered daughters.
I veer off I5 when I reach Centralia. I’m already alleviated to get the hell away from both Portland and Seattle. This time of year, Eastern Washington is a sight to behold. The mountains are crisp with the very last remnants of snow, assuming it hasn’t all melted yet. The trees are full and green, with wildflowers blooming on the sides of the highway and deer and elk crossing signs giving you a taste of what you might encounter around another curve. The buildings are old, but functional. Occasionally, you see an old, dilapidated barn, but there’s usually a more recent one another mile down the road. Pastures of cows, sheep, and horses are the norm in this part of the country. Your cell reception comes in and out. More in than out. If you don’t get gas now, you’re looking at a 47 mile wait, and the prices will make you laugh until you realize how serious they are.
This part of the world gets a lot of grief. While it’s true you meet some interesting characters on your travels – some who make you feel safer than others – most of the people out here are all talk and little real interest to ram their hunting rifles up your ass. Or, at least, I’ve never gotten the feeling they’ll make good on their anti-trespassing promises. Sure, that trailer may be cooking meth, and that barn is home to a breed of raccoons you don’twantto ever see, but people are honest. Not like in the city. What you see is what you get. Nobody’s going to pretend to be anyone other than who they are. It’s pretty great, especially if you’re not naturally the most trusting person.
Liiiike my grandma.
