Boot(s)

28- Boots

Bobby O'Callahan

This date had been one of the top five worst I've ever been on. Making conversation with him was like pulling teeth: excruciating. For both of us. He told me my taste in restaurants was "boring, like a child's" (could only children enjoy Italian these days?) and had refused to drink the bottle of red I had ordered before he got there. Because it would stain his teeth.

We hadn't even made it past the appetizer before I was already thinking about deleting every single one of the dating apps I used to find him. I had them—about four of them, actually—clustered into a folder on my phone camouflaged under the name "Utilities."

It was my first year back in Atlanta from New York and Jessie had convinced me to try and "get out there." Hence, the apps. This was my second, and last, attempt.

But then, as if the devil was sitting on his shoulder controlling his every syllable, he leaned forward and told me, "You know, I heard about that charity you partner with. The army one. Do you know anyone serving overseas?" It was like this whole thing was a set-up, and someone was in a black van outside listening to the mic tucked in his collar.

If it had been anyone else, any other date, any other man sitting across from me, I would have told him, no. I don't. But I hadn't said more than ten sentences all night—two of them defending my own opinions—and this finally gave me some sort of an opening. Something to pass the time. So, I pushed the image of the men in the black van out of my head, and I lied straight through my teeth.

"Yeah, actually," I told him. I had no idea if Pete was overseas or if he was home. If he was still walking on two feet. But I didn't care. I started pulling at strings I saw hanging in my head. Making things up. Creating his unknown story for him. "My best friend, actually," I felt my chest puff slightly. I could hear the pride in my own voice, now. I couldn't remember the last time I let his name leave my lips. "Peter. He's high-up. Army. He's a leader of his own unit of troops. He served in Iraq, two tours. He's, he's just amazing. He's committed his whole life to serving. He's been there 10 years now. He's my hero. I wish I could see him... I wish..." I had to stop. Swallow. "I wish I could hold him, just once. Just once. I miss him. So much. God, I miss him so much."

At this point, Steven's eyebrows had risen so far up his forehead I couldn't see them behind his stupid bleached hair. He looked at me for a second, eyelids batting as if I had just severely offended him, then he stood up. "Yeah," he tossed his napkin on the table. "This is too weird for me. I'm out. Sorry."

I sighed. "It's alright. Don't blame you."

He snorted, as if that was somehow funny. "I trust you can manage the bill," was the last thing he said before I never saw him again.

Screw top five. This was at least top two.

I did manage the bill, but I sat there for a while. I drank the bottle, then another. I got an Uber home to my apartment. It was a nice one, outside the heart of Atlanta but not yet in the suburbs, away from all the crazy.

But tonight, I was the crazy.

I was drunk, out of my mind. I had stumbled into my bedroom, flipping on all the lights, stepping up into my lofted bedroom as I drunkenly sent off a few desperate texts to Jonathan. Jonathan, who I hadn't seen since a drunken night in a Georgia Tech bar a few years ago at homecoming.

But I hadn't stopped thinking about Peter since I was left alone at that restaurant. His face was the only thing I could see when I closed my eyes... His face when he laughed. His face when he had a pencil stuck between his teeth. His face as he dribbled a basketball between his legs back and forth and back and forth.

I needed someone else's face. Desperately.

My phone buzzed against my hands. It wasn't a text back—it was a call. I fumbled, my sweaty wine-stained fingers slipping around my caseless phone precariously. After a few useless attempts at swiping my phone unlocked, finally, I got it.

"Jonathan? Hey. Hey. You called. You around?"

"Bobby? Jesus, you're drunk. You okay? Should I call Jessica?" I always hated that he called Jessie that.

"What? No. I'm drunk, yeah, but, no. I'm fine. Come over. I'm back in ATL. Come on."

"Bobby are you serious right now?"

I'd like to think I wasn't slurring when I said, "Course. Course I am."

Jon swore on the other end of the line. He took a long deep breath before he said, "Bobby, I've been married for two years. You know that."

A sudden urge to retch up blood red liquid took over my whole body. I stumbled forward again, collapsing onto my bed. Involuntarily, I groaned. "Shit, yeah, I know. I'm sorry. I'm... sorry. Bye Jon."

"Bobby, I should call Jessica."

"No." I swallowed down the vomit that sloshed against the back of my throat. "Don't. I'm fine, I forgot. I'm sorry. Goodnight."

I could barely make it to the bathroom, but when I did, I let my head hang over the toilet bowl as I let everything in my stomach go. And go. When I felt nothing left, I took a shaky breath in, lifted my head up and pulled myself away. I couldn't make it back to my bed. Still in my brand-new blue button down and khakis, I curled up on the fuzzy rug at the foot of the shower. With my face in my hands, and Pete's in my eyes, I did everything I could do to keep from crying. It wasn't enough.