Page 18 of Love Resurrected
“I doubt that’s true. I have a feeling no onemakesyou do anything you don’t want to.”
“Fine. I’m trying to make an effort.”
“Why?”
“Because I promised Kat I would before she died.”
“An effort for what?”
“To keep on living and not let her death rule my life.”
“Okay,” she says. “No offense, but—”
“Every time someone saysno offense,they’re about to be offensive,” I say.
“I would say that you aren’t doing that. You aren’t living.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Not really.”
I glance down at myself and take my hand off her to gesture to my body. “Looks like I’m here to me.”
“You know what I mean,” she says.
She’s right, I do. Doesn’t mean I have to admit it to her.
“You may be here physically, but emotionally and mentally, you’ve fought it since the second you arrived.”
I grunt in response. I know she’s right. She’s knows she’s right. And further, I’m sure she knows that I know she’s right.
“If you wanted to keep your promise to your . . . to Kat, you would attempt to take part fully. Not just take up physical space.”
Who the fuck put her in charge of me and my actions?
I repeat my internal accusations out loud. “Who the fuck put you in charge of what I do?”
“No one, I’m just calling it like I see it. And I see you pretend that you are living by going through the motions in a half-assed manner, like you are tonight, and then justifying that you’re upholding your promise.”
“Fuck you, lady. You don’t know a goddamn thing about me. What the hell gives you the right—”
“Nothing. Okay. Nothing gives me the right and I’m sorry. That was out of line.” She stops and looks at me. “I have a horrible habit of speaking before thinking.”
She sounds genuinely sorry, and I feel my anger dissipate.
Fine. I get it.
Audibly, I sigh and try to move her into resuming our dance. She doesn’t budge.
“What are you doing?” I ask. “Aren’t we supposed to be dancing?”
She points to the ceiling. “Song’s over. You fulfilled your commitment, congratulations.” Her voice is flat.
I hadn’t even realized the song was over, replaced by something up-tempo, not suitable for my mood or my flip-flop clad feet.
“Great, thanks,” I mumble, relieved to be through, and leave her standing alone on the dance floor.
I’ve almost reached the exit when someone pulls at my hand.
