Page 3 of Bear with Me
My roommate, Vic, called right before I left the office. He knew what time I was leaving for the airport, and he knew I hated people who talked on the phone in public, so he probably thought he was going to get away with either voicemail or a short call.
The first words out of his mouth when I answered were, "I'm moving out on December 31." His voice wavered. "Don't expect rent money for January."
If he thought this would be a short call, he was wrong. I tugged off my winter coat, sat back down in my cubicle, blew out the breath I'd been holding, and let him have it.
"You can't give me two weeks' notice that you're moving! Most landlord agreements are thirty days."
"My name's not on the lease," he reminded me. "If it was, I would be kicking you out!"
"Me? Why?"
"Blake." He breathed a long-suffering sigh into the phone, catching the microphone and hurting my ears. "Every Friday, you're working on a hangover before I get home. You've gotten into fistfights at every bar in Chicagoland. You almost punched the sweet lady next door when she told you to turn down your music."
"She was being unreasonable," I argued. "It was only eight o'clock."
"The whole building was shaking, and not everyone loves death metal as much as you do."
I didn't even like or listen to death metal. I'd been listening to Nepalese rock. Everyone assumed it was death metal because they didn't understand the words, and the guy had a gravelly voice.
It was my turn to sigh into my phone. "Fine. Leave. Everyone does."
"Come on, man, don't make this about your parents."
How could I not? They were all I could think about for the past nine months since their deaths.
"You need help," Vic continued. "I hope this is a push in the right direction for you, but I can't stay and watch the train wreck you've become. I'm sorry."
The phone went dead. I pulled it from my ear and glared at my blurry lock screen. With my stained sleeve, I tried to wipe it clean until a drop of water splashed onto it. I glanced up at the ceiling, and another tear rolled down my face.
Fuck. I hated crying at work.
I grabbed a tissue from the box on my desk and wiped my phone dry. Then, I used my rideshare app to hire a car to take me to the airport.
The trip was blissfully silent. I watched it snow, ignoring the way it turned to slush on the pavement. Falling snow had always felt like a new beginning to me. That's what I needed this vacation to be. I'd spend some time alone with a bottle of vodka and a new journal and plot the next chapter in my life.
I almost missed my damn flight, only to find myself seated beside the most intimidatingly handsome lumberjack I'd ever seen. This always happened to me. Back at home, I ran into a sexy guy once in a blue moon. Every fucking time I traveled, I met gorgeous guys with whom I had no chance and would never see again.
This time, I would show Mother Nature how much I appreciated her putting this gorgeous and unavailable man in my way. I knocked my bag against his foot, shoved his elbow off my armrest (or tried—he was fucking huge), and said every mean thing that came to my mind.
In short, I was an asshole. Karma was immediate, though. The guy on my other side decided to use me as a pillow and drooled another spot onto my suit jacket.
Spilling water on the sexy hunk in the window seat was a complete blunder on my part. I thought I was next in line for water, but the flight attendant had been handing the cup to him instead. I was going to apologize, but then the attendant said she was sorry, and I … didn't.
Vodka would have made it all better. People loved me when I was drunk, didn't they?
Vic's words made me reconsider. I had gotten into a lot of bar fights since my parents died. Either people dished out too much pity, which I hated, or they downplayed my loss, which I also hated. If people didn't find the exact amount of empathy I could stand, and it varied from moment to moment, I fought them.
Lucky for them, I couldn't fight my way out of a wet paper bag, or off a sticky dance floor. My arms pinwheeled like a cartoon character's, hitting nothing, and my legs couldn't stay under me. Vic pinned my arms behind my back, and if the bouncer saw my erratic movements, we flounced to another bar, where it started all over again.
Vic had been a good friend and a better roommate. I was going to miss him.
The corners of my eyes stung, and I wiped my nose with the back of my hand. I would not cry on the fucking plane, dammit. I could make it to my private cabin in the woods before I broke down.
The bottle of vodka could wait, too. Vic was right. I'd been using alcohol as a crutch to dull the pain. I had two weeks to sit with my grief where no one could see me. That would be enough.
Finally, our plane landed at Pinevale Municipal Airport. It was already dark outside, even with the time difference. It had been almost dark in Chicago when we left.
While waiting for my checked bag, I searched for rideshares. I checked all three applications, but my phone service was spotty and none had rides to Winter Wonderland Wilderness Lodge.
