Not Looking for Love: Episode 7 (A New Adult Contemporary Romance Novel) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Lena Bourne
five blocks from my house. It's like seven AM, but it's already humid as fuck, the smell of dirt, piss, tar and puke mixing in the air. I'd almost forgotten how nasty summer in the city really is.
I stop by a deli and pick up some breakfast before heading home, since I haven't eaten since lunch yesterday. I'd fully planned on ordering some room service at Gail's hotel room, but somehow we never got around to it. Somehow I also never got around to making her understand her predicament…our predicament…in all it's fucked up glory. Maybe it's the cool and collected way she views things now, not a tear in sight. A few months ago she couldn't stop crying, and even though I always understood why, I like this Gail so much better.
I guess she wouldn't have dropped me when she got better. I had that figured all wrong. However much it would've been better for her if she had. But that's a distant thought now. Something done and passed. Now if only I could see a future for the two of us together.
This selfishness and weakness of mine have got to go. She's strong. She would get over me eventually. Not that I can even imagine leaving her again. The mere thought sends acid shooting up into my throat.
I'm still hungry when I finish the bagel and coffee, but unfortunately everything in my fridge is so past the expiration date, I can't even pretend it might still be edible. I end up spending the next hour clearing the fridge and cupboards of food too old to eat, then get started on all the dirty dishes piled everywhere, and all my clothes lying all over the apartment.
I'm usually pretty good at keeping the places I live at least sanitary, if not clean, but in the last few months I've gotten worse. At least now it's useful that I have so much to clean up, since it keeps my mind off other things, stuff I can't even begin clearing up.
Letting Gail go again is not an option. Every time I even think of leaving her my whole body freezes, hurts like I'll break.
Mike calls at about noon, and I just stare at his name flashing on the screen, stuck trying to decide what would be better, to ignore his call, or pick up. It's a toss up really, both options are shit.
"Yeah," I say as I pick up, scrubbing at a strange black stain on the coffee table so hard my fingers hurt.
"Do you still have the keys to Mom's place?" Mike asks, and it takes me a few seconds for the words to register, they're so far from anything I'd expected him to say.
"Sure, why?" I finally manage.
"The attic too? There's something I want to look for," he elaborates.
Gail's suggestion to just be nicer to him is floating at the forefront of my mind, sticking to anything I might otherwise want to say. Like, 'Fuck you, go ask dad', or 'Why are you really calling, Mike?'
"Yeah, the attic too," I say instead. "Do you want to go there now? You can help me move some of my shit upstairs."
He actually gasps, as though I surprised him, but I don't think I deviated so far from what I would normally say.
"Sure, OK, why not?" he says, drawing out each word. "I'll pick you up."
He arrives less than twenty minutes later like he's just been waiting for me to invite him over. His cheeks are pretty gaunt, I notice, when I take a good look at him for the first time in months, and his eyes are rimmed in bright red. He fidgets a lot on the way, drives too fast, and doesn't say much. Though he relaxes a little once we're almost there.
"What do you want from the attic anyway?" I ask again, since he's been dodging the question, but it's still the safest one I can ask.
"Do you remember that painting Mom did of the sailboat gliding into the sunset?"
"Which one?" I ask. "She must’ve done hundreds of those. I always thought they were rather empty. Like they needed a dolphin, or a shark fin sticking out of the water."
I actually laugh at the memory. I haven't thought about Mom's paintings in years.
"Maybe someone swimming, or something," Mike adds. "I remember she got pretty
I stop by a deli and pick up some breakfast before heading home, since I haven't eaten since lunch yesterday. I'd fully planned on ordering some room service at Gail's hotel room, but somehow we never got around to it. Somehow I also never got around to making her understand her predicament…our predicament…in all it's fucked up glory. Maybe it's the cool and collected way she views things now, not a tear in sight. A few months ago she couldn't stop crying, and even though I always understood why, I like this Gail so much better.
I guess she wouldn't have dropped me when she got better. I had that figured all wrong. However much it would've been better for her if she had. But that's a distant thought now. Something done and passed. Now if only I could see a future for the two of us together.
This selfishness and weakness of mine have got to go. She's strong. She would get over me eventually. Not that I can even imagine leaving her again. The mere thought sends acid shooting up into my throat.
I'm still hungry when I finish the bagel and coffee, but unfortunately everything in my fridge is so past the expiration date, I can't even pretend it might still be edible. I end up spending the next hour clearing the fridge and cupboards of food too old to eat, then get started on all the dirty dishes piled everywhere, and all my clothes lying all over the apartment.
I'm usually pretty good at keeping the places I live at least sanitary, if not clean, but in the last few months I've gotten worse. At least now it's useful that I have so much to clean up, since it keeps my mind off other things, stuff I can't even begin clearing up.
Letting Gail go again is not an option. Every time I even think of leaving her my whole body freezes, hurts like I'll break.
Mike calls at about noon, and I just stare at his name flashing on the screen, stuck trying to decide what would be better, to ignore his call, or pick up. It's a toss up really, both options are shit.
"Yeah," I say as I pick up, scrubbing at a strange black stain on the coffee table so hard my fingers hurt.
"Do you still have the keys to Mom's place?" Mike asks, and it takes me a few seconds for the words to register, they're so far from anything I'd expected him to say.
"Sure, why?" I finally manage.
"The attic too? There's something I want to look for," he elaborates.
Gail's suggestion to just be nicer to him is floating at the forefront of my mind, sticking to anything I might otherwise want to say. Like, 'Fuck you, go ask dad', or 'Why are you really calling, Mike?'
"Yeah, the attic too," I say instead. "Do you want to go there now? You can help me move some of my shit upstairs."
He actually gasps, as though I surprised him, but I don't think I deviated so far from what I would normally say.
"Sure, OK, why not?" he says, drawing out each word. "I'll pick you up."
He arrives less than twenty minutes later like he's just been waiting for me to invite him over. His cheeks are pretty gaunt, I notice, when I take a good look at him for the first time in months, and his eyes are rimmed in bright red. He fidgets a lot on the way, drives too fast, and doesn't say much. Though he relaxes a little once we're almost there.
"What do you want from the attic anyway?" I ask again, since he's been dodging the question, but it's still the safest one I can ask.
"Do you remember that painting Mom did of the sailboat gliding into the sunset?"
"Which one?" I ask. "She must’ve done hundreds of those. I always thought they were rather empty. Like they needed a dolphin, or a shark fin sticking out of the water."
I actually laugh at the memory. I haven't thought about Mom's paintings in years.
"Maybe someone swimming, or something," Mike adds. "I remember she got pretty
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