"You hate me," I said. "You want to hurt me and hurt me and hurt me."
He shook his head. "No, God, Lydia, no. But I have, and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Finally the apology I'd been waiting for, and it only brought more hazy hurt. I turned away from him, onto my side and let my eyes fall closed. My head was spinning and I was so tired. I just needed to sleep.
A minute later I heard the quiet click of my door being shut, and a second after that I drifted back into a dreamless sleep.
**********
I woke up feeling like hell. Groaning, I opened my heavy lids and looked around, trying to get my bearings. Memories of the night before came flooding back, and I groaned again, louder this time. I sat up, massaging my temples and squinting against the small amount of muted sunlight showing through the closed blinds.
Stumbling to the bathroom I brushed my teeth thoroughly and dared a glance in the mirror. I looked scary: mascara smeared on my cheeks, my eyes red, and my face puffy. My hair was sticking out in every direction.
That's when I noticed the note on the counter along with a bottle of water and two Tylenol. I picked up the note.
Lydia,
These will make you feel better. I'll be home early so we can talk. Please give me a chance to explain.
Brogan (the tool . . . wanker, etc.)
How dare he joke with me? I crumpled it up and hurled it toward the small garbage can next to the sink but missed and stood staring at it bleakly where it landed on the floor. Why that depressed me so much, I wasn't sure. Maybe I just couldn't handle one more failure right now, even a very small, insignificant one. I left the stupid note on the floor and threw back both Tylenol tablets and drank the water.
After a long, hot shower, blowing my hair dry, and putting on some makeup, I felt and looked a little better. I threw on a pair of jean shorts and a loose, blue and white striped V-neck T-shirt and went downstairs. The apartment was empty. I stood at the island and drank a glass of tomato juice—not my favorite but all Brogan had as far as juice in his refrigerator—and forced myself to eat a piece of dry toast.
Fresh anger gripped me when I noticed the unwashed wine glasses next to the sink. I was not staying in Brogan's apartment today waiting for him like some faithful, mistreated puppy dog. Perhaps he hadn't made any promises to me, but I deserved more care than what had happened last night. He didn't even have enough respect to stay home this morning and offer me an explanation as soon as I'd woken up. Instead, I was supposed to spend the day bored out of my mind, waiting for him to grace me with his presence and his sorry explanation? No way.
We're even now, I'd said. Only perhaps in his mind, we weren't. Not yet. Perhaps I was a fool for thinking so.
You can try to dish out more, but I'll fight you from here on out if you do. Just so you're aware. A fool, maybe, but that's what I'd told him and that's what I'd meant.
I threw my clothes back in my bag, grabbed my purse, and let myself out the door of his apartment into the small, private lobby.
I pushed the down button for the elevator and waited impatiently for it to arrive. Once it did, I jumped in and stood in the corner against the wall as it made its way down. Lost in my own head as I stepped out, I nearly missed the burly looking man in a black suit standing by the outside doorway. Surely not. Through the glass, I could see that he was smoking and chatting with a woman who had been walking past with her dog. They were laughing as the dog yapped and the woman tossed her hair, flirting. Stepping back inside the elevator and pushing the close door button, I bit at my thumbnail. I didn't know if the man was someone hired by Brogan or not, but I wasn't going to risk it. Not like he could detain me—I wasn't a prisoner. But I didn't want to deal with being held up. Since Brogan lived in a building without a doorman, I hadn't considered that I wouldn't be able to simply walk out the front door without being noticed. I rode to the garage level and stepped off cautiously, hoping that if Brogan had put security on the building, it had been for those arriving, not those leaving. I remembered that you needed a security code to get in this elevator.
I weaved through the cars instead of walking along the ramp and exited out a side door. Looking both ways, I hurried across the street and only then let out a breath, feeling both a sense of accomplishment and still that unpleasant pit in my stomach.
I hailed a cab a couple blocks from Brogan's building and gave the driver my brother's address. Ten minutes later we pulled up in front of Stuart's building.
While I had apartment hunted in questionable neighborhoods to save on rent, Stuart was living in the Meatpacking District, one of the most expensive neighborhoods in the city. As I exited the cab, tipping the driver and thanking him, I gazed up at the sleek, glass luxury building, feeling a wave of resentment wash over me. Men, wankers and tools, all of them! The anger fortified me and I stiffened my spine as I breezed past Stuart's doorman.
The concierge dialed Stuart's number and after several tense seconds where I thought Stuart wouldn't answer, I heard his voice come through the line and the concierge announced me and then nodded toward the elevator bank. When I arrived at Stuart's floor, he was standing in the doorway of his apartment waiting for me, shirtless, his jeans unbuttoned.
"Christ, Lydia, you should have called and told me you were coming over." His voice was slightly slurred and rough. Had he still been sleeping? Or perhaps drinking before noon? Excellent.
"Nice to see you, too, Stuart. I'm fine, thanks," I said, brushing past him into his apartment, putting my bag down near his couch. His apartment smelled like dirty dishes and funk and looked as if he hadn't cleaned it in weeks. Or as if he'd just had a massive rager here. There were liquor bottles and half-full food cartons littering his coffee table, and two lamps were overturned.