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Chapter - 7, Part- 1
Beautiful ILLUSION
I dragged myself home. Friday night, let's see what's on the DVR. I found the most mindless thing I could find - Keeping Up With the Kardashians - then found that there was actually a marathon on the previous day, so I could watch that all night if I wanted to. Which was what I chose to do.
Feeling slightly cheered at the prospect, I opened up a bottle of wine and sucked it down from the bottle, not even bothering to pour a glass. I watched the girls go through their silly problems, becoming amused, while also feeling comforted that I wasn't the only woman in the world who had romantic issues. Not that Ryan would be considered to be a romantic issue, per se, but my overall bad luck with men would certainly qualify.
In the middle of the night, I was snoozing on the couch, after drinking an entire Two Buck Chuck, straight from the bottle. I was dreaming about there being somebody at the door. Knock, knock, knock. I tossed a little, putting the pillow over my ears. Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock.
Go away.
Gradually, I started to realize that the knocking was not in my dreams. I stumbled to the door, looking out the peephole.
Huh. Looks like Ryan out there.
Nah, I'm seeing things. I started to lie back down on the couch.
Then a voice. "Iris? Are you there?" Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock.
I got back up off the couch, and opened the door. Ryan was there in the hall, looking stinking drunk, but still beautiful. He was dressed formally, in a silk dress shirt and dress slacks, and expensive Ferragamo wing-tipped shoes. He was wearing a Rolex watch, one that I had never seen before. He wasn't wearing a jacket or tie, but I surmised that these items were a part of his ensemble earlier in the evening.
If I was self-respecting, I would have slammed the door in his face. Coming here, in the middle of the night, after not calling all week, and showing up drunk to boot.
Then I remembered that I was drunk, too, so I went ahead and let him in.
"I am so sorry, Iris, for dropping in like this. I was over at Bristol's for a fundraiser. I am so sorry," he repeated.
Bristol's Restaurant is a tony seafood restaurant just up the street. Of course, "tony" is a relative term, this being Kansas City. This town is not exactly known for its seafood. Except Red Lobster, where I worked one summer. Job from hell, lower than the ninth circle.
I was vaguely aware that the apartment situation was even worse than when I didn't let him in the door the last time. My depression was such that I didn't want to do anything but lie around on the couch and watch trashy television all week. Thank god I didn't really eat that much, though. That helped my weight situation (I lost 5 pounds!), and it also helped the dish situation somewhat. I mean, there was still a week's worth of dishes in the sink, but I just kinda lived on frozen pizza that I sliced up and ate on paper plates, so the dishes weren't that bad. I'm actually a pretty good cook on most days, and use every pot and pan in the place, but this week was the sad exception to that rule.
The wine bottles were another story. I had been making a point to recycle them, but, unfortunately, curbside recycling had not yet hit my neck of the woods. At this point, there was an entire garbage bag filled with empty wine bottles which had accumulated just that week, all of them Two Buck Chuck - thank god for Trader Joe's! His roses were dead, still in the half-there wine bottle. I never bothered to do anything about that, and they were still on my kitchen counter.
Exactly where I left them.
He looked pretty sheepish, standing in front of the door, which was still open. "I, I, uh, I wanted to call."
Yeah, you should've called, so I could've tidied up a bit. Oh, well, nothing that can be done about that now.
It occurred to me that I should probably have him at least sleep off his apparent drunk, but that would mean that he would get the couch. I would just have to sleep on the love seat. I still couldn't really sleep on my bed, at least until I figured out which clothes on the bed were dirty and which were clean. If I wanted to sleep on the bed, I would just have to throw all the clothes onto the floor.
"Hey, it's okay you didn't call," I lied. "You can stay here tonight, or until your drunk wears off. Let me get you a pillow and blanket."
"Iris..." He started, looking pained. "I, I, h-h-h-ope you don't think that I'm only coming here because I got too drunk to drive."
Something struck me. "What time is it?"
"It's around 2 AM."
2 AM? This is a goddamned booty call. "What time does Bristol close?"
"I don't really know. The fundraiser was over around 9."
I narrowed my eyes. "Yet here you are at 2 AM."
"Well, some of us went out afterwards to Harry's."
Harry's. In Westport. A good thirty minute drive. "Yet here you are."
"I, I, I, uh, took a cab here."
I raised an eyebrow. "Daniel busy?"
"He didn't answer his phone."
"Oh." I looked at him. You know, you could've come right over here when the fundraiser was over, as opposed to waking my ass up. Then again, I was probably at the height of drunkenness at 9 PM, so maybe it is a good thing that you are here at 2. I feel at least slightly coherent.
As if reading my mind Ryan said "I'm so sorry, I should've come right over when I was across the street."
I merely grunted at that one. "Let me get you a pillow and a blanket, and I'll drive you to your car in the morning."
"No need, my car is over at Bristol's."
"Good, I guess you can just walk on over there when you sober up," I said with gritted teeth. My head was starting to hurt because my jaw was so clenched as I spoke to this guy.
"You're angry. I don't blame you."
"Listen, I'm used to being treated like shit, so not sure why I ever thought that you would be any different." I was used to this kind of treatment. Booty calls, no calls, text-message break ups, dropping off the face of the earth, any number of coward's way out. Carrie Bradshaw stated once that there was a right way to break up with somebody, and it didn't involve "an e-mail, a door man or a missing person's report." That line always stuck with me, because that seemed to be the modus operandi of the modern male.
However, I melted a little as I looked at him. His beautiful face was contorted, and he appeared to be about to break down in tears. I made fun of tearful guys on The Bachelor, but, in real life, men's tears got me every time.
As I looked at him, the memory of that morning came flooding back. I thought of the phone call from the ex-wife and to Sheldon, and his therapist.
I conveniently pushed aside the phone call to "Nick" in this analysis.
I suddenly had an epiphany. His therapist! He told me about going to see his therapist, and what did I do? I gave him the bum's rush and didn't even bother asking about anything. No wonder he acted the way that he did. He probably thinks that I am insensitive at worst, clueless at best. What's your problem, Iris?
Well, to be fair, I didn't want to pry. But he probably wanted me to pry.
"Listen, Ryan..." I wasn't sure how to broach this topic about how it suddenly occurred to me why he got distant and wanted to get rid of me, without even driving me home.
He wasn't quite crying, but he had the puppy dog look again. He looked at me, saw that I no longer had the mask of anger, and his expression immediately turned hopeful. "Yes?"
"I, uh, I'm sorry."
He looked perplexed. "Why're you sorry? I was the one who dropped off the face of the earth. I didn't even drive you home. That was so shitty of me, I can't stand it." He shook his head, looking miserable.
"I think I know why you did that."
He looked expectantly at me. I continued "You, uh, told me that you were going to see a therapist, and that was my cue to act concerned. But I didn't want to pry. So I blew it off."
He looked relieved. "I thought that you were scared off that I was over-sharing too soon. I thought that you had lost interest in me because I am weak and seeing a therapist."
Beautiful ILLUSION
I dragged myself home. Friday night, let's see what's on the DVR. I found the most mindless thing I could find - Keeping Up With the Kardashians - then found that there was actually a marathon on the previous day, so I could watch that all night if I wanted to. Which was what I chose to do.
Feeling slightly cheered at the prospect, I opened up a bottle of wine and sucked it down from the bottle, not even bothering to pour a glass. I watched the girls go through their silly problems, becoming amused, while also feeling comforted that I wasn't the only woman in the world who had romantic issues. Not that Ryan would be considered to be a romantic issue, per se, but my overall bad luck with men would certainly qualify.
In the middle of the night, I was snoozing on the couch, after drinking an entire Two Buck Chuck, straight from the bottle. I was dreaming about there being somebody at the door. Knock, knock, knock. I tossed a little, putting the pillow over my ears. Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock.
Go away.
Gradually, I started to realize that the knocking was not in my dreams. I stumbled to the door, looking out the peephole.
Huh. Looks like Ryan out there.
Nah, I'm seeing things. I started to lie back down on the couch.
Then a voice. "Iris? Are you there?" Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock.
I got back up off the couch, and opened the door. Ryan was there in the hall, looking stinking drunk, but still beautiful. He was dressed formally, in a silk dress shirt and dress slacks, and expensive Ferragamo wing-tipped shoes. He was wearing a Rolex watch, one that I had never seen before. He wasn't wearing a jacket or tie, but I surmised that these items were a part of his ensemble earlier in the evening.
If I was self-respecting, I would have slammed the door in his face. Coming here, in the middle of the night, after not calling all week, and showing up drunk to boot.
Then I remembered that I was drunk, too, so I went ahead and let him in.
"I am so sorry, Iris, for dropping in like this. I was over at Bristol's for a fundraiser. I am so sorry," he repeated.
Bristol's Restaurant is a tony seafood restaurant just up the street. Of course, "tony" is a relative term, this being Kansas City. This town is not exactly known for its seafood. Except Red Lobster, where I worked one summer. Job from hell, lower than the ninth circle.
I was vaguely aware that the apartment situation was even worse than when I didn't let him in the door the last time. My depression was such that I didn't want to do anything but lie around on the couch and watch trashy television all week. Thank god I didn't really eat that much, though. That helped my weight situation (I lost 5 pounds!), and it also helped the dish situation somewhat. I mean, there was still a week's worth of dishes in the sink, but I just kinda lived on frozen pizza that I sliced up and ate on paper plates, so the dishes weren't that bad. I'm actually a pretty good cook on most days, and use every pot and pan in the place, but this week was the sad exception to that rule.
The wine bottles were another story. I had been making a point to recycle them, but, unfortunately, curbside recycling had not yet hit my neck of the woods. At this point, there was an entire garbage bag filled with empty wine bottles which had accumulated just that week, all of them Two Buck Chuck - thank god for Trader Joe's! His roses were dead, still in the half-there wine bottle. I never bothered to do anything about that, and they were still on my kitchen counter.
Exactly where I left them.
He looked pretty sheepish, standing in front of the door, which was still open. "I, I, uh, I wanted to call."
Yeah, you should've called, so I could've tidied up a bit. Oh, well, nothing that can be done about that now.
It occurred to me that I should probably have him at least sleep off his apparent drunk, but that would mean that he would get the couch. I would just have to sleep on the love seat. I still couldn't really sleep on my bed, at least until I figured out which clothes on the bed were dirty and which were clean. If I wanted to sleep on the bed, I would just have to throw all the clothes onto the floor.
"Hey, it's okay you didn't call," I lied. "You can stay here tonight, or until your drunk wears off. Let me get you a pillow and blanket."
"Iris..." He started, looking pained. "I, I, h-h-h-ope you don't think that I'm only coming here because I got too drunk to drive."
Something struck me. "What time is it?"
"It's around 2 AM."
2 AM? This is a goddamned booty call. "What time does Bristol close?"
"I don't really know. The fundraiser was over around 9."
I narrowed my eyes. "Yet here you are at 2 AM."
"Well, some of us went out afterwards to Harry's."
Harry's. In Westport. A good thirty minute drive. "Yet here you are."
"I, I, I, uh, took a cab here."
I raised an eyebrow. "Daniel busy?"
"He didn't answer his phone."
"Oh." I looked at him. You know, you could've come right over here when the fundraiser was over, as opposed to waking my ass up. Then again, I was probably at the height of drunkenness at 9 PM, so maybe it is a good thing that you are here at 2. I feel at least slightly coherent.
As if reading my mind Ryan said "I'm so sorry, I should've come right over when I was across the street."
I merely grunted at that one. "Let me get you a pillow and a blanket, and I'll drive you to your car in the morning."
"No need, my car is over at Bristol's."
"Good, I guess you can just walk on over there when you sober up," I said with gritted teeth. My head was starting to hurt because my jaw was so clenched as I spoke to this guy.
"You're angry. I don't blame you."
"Listen, I'm used to being treated like shit, so not sure why I ever thought that you would be any different." I was used to this kind of treatment. Booty calls, no calls, text-message break ups, dropping off the face of the earth, any number of coward's way out. Carrie Bradshaw stated once that there was a right way to break up with somebody, and it didn't involve "an e-mail, a door man or a missing person's report." That line always stuck with me, because that seemed to be the modus operandi of the modern male.
However, I melted a little as I looked at him. His beautiful face was contorted, and he appeared to be about to break down in tears. I made fun of tearful guys on The Bachelor, but, in real life, men's tears got me every time.
As I looked at him, the memory of that morning came flooding back. I thought of the phone call from the ex-wife and to Sheldon, and his therapist.
I conveniently pushed aside the phone call to "Nick" in this analysis.
I suddenly had an epiphany. His therapist! He told me about going to see his therapist, and what did I do? I gave him the bum's rush and didn't even bother asking about anything. No wonder he acted the way that he did. He probably thinks that I am insensitive at worst, clueless at best. What's your problem, Iris?
Well, to be fair, I didn't want to pry. But he probably wanted me to pry.
"Listen, Ryan..." I wasn't sure how to broach this topic about how it suddenly occurred to me why he got distant and wanted to get rid of me, without even driving me home.
He wasn't quite crying, but he had the puppy dog look again. He looked at me, saw that I no longer had the mask of anger, and his expression immediately turned hopeful. "Yes?"
"I, uh, I'm sorry."
He looked perplexed. "Why're you sorry? I was the one who dropped off the face of the earth. I didn't even drive you home. That was so shitty of me, I can't stand it." He shook his head, looking miserable.
"I think I know why you did that."
He looked expectantly at me. I continued "You, uh, told me that you were going to see a therapist, and that was my cue to act concerned. But I didn't want to pry. So I blew it off."
He looked relieved. "I thought that you were scared off that I was over-sharing too soon. I thought that you had lost interest in me because I am weak and seeing a therapist."
So, it was all a misunderstanding. I smiled. "You're not weak for seeing a therapist. God, I love that you're getting help for whatever issues you have. It's so much better than keeping it in. And, it takes courage to take that step."
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