Don't Look Down

thirty: don't apologize

"But I'm definitely judging you for that." His face scrunches in disapproval. "Couldn't you have painted those at the apartment?"

"Then I wouldn't have been able to dust the bookshelves before we left."

"Because the other eighty-five times you've done it this week weren't adequate enough," he deadpans. "I think you've somehow managed to permanently attach the dust rag, paper towels, and Windex to your hands."

I keep my head pointed down at my feet, hiding my smile. I can't dispute his observation. Cleaning has been my primary solace this week, but it gives me purpose when I suddenly have none. And besides, "You have to keep up with it or else dust and mildew pile up."

I catch his eye roll from the corner of mine. "I think the place can survive one afternoon."

"I beg to differ." I stick the brush back into the bottle so I can face him. "Just this morning, I found two of your pubes behind the toilet when I was cleaning the bathroom. And although I've had the pleasure of familiarizing myself with them, it's still disgusting when they're not attached to your body."

"Maybe I leave them there purposefully to get you riled up." He reaches over to walk his fingers along my thigh, just below the hem of my white sundress. "We have the best sex when you're feisty."

Amused, I pull away from his touch. "Even you're not that big of an ass."

He chuckles, reaching up to push a few stray windblown hairs behind my ear. "We'll see tomorrow at the wedding."

At the mention of the wedding and ultimately my mother, I resume my task with my toes. Time trickles by. The smell of summer fills the car, saturating us in a light innocence. It's refreshing. I apply two coats of polish, feeling calmer with the job completed, but all too soon the silence takes over, giving me too much time to think.

Desperate for another distraction, I ask, "Have you given anymore thought about your situation at Pepolino?"

Despite maintaining steady conversation with me throughout the week, he's kept silent about his work situation. And since we're stuck in a car for another five hours, the timing seems ideal to finally get him talking.

"Well, since you went all Carrie at the book launch last weekend, I think I'm staying put for a while."

I'd been so caught up in my own personal diversions lately, consumed with the threat of realizing what I'd given up, I'd forgotten about his life. My choice not only affected him financially but professionally as well. He's been such a great friend it has me feeling selfish.

"I never apologized for that. You know, for swooping in and quitting my job right after I said I'd support you in finding a new one."

He glances in my direction to notice my frown. "Don't apologize." Shaking his head, he grabs my hand with his free one. "Seeing you verbally kick Clive in the nuts has been the highlight of my week."

I bite my lip, appreciating his ever present need to make me feel better but wishing he'd just accept my rightfully deserved apology. "Still, now you're stuck at a job with no hope for promotions -"

"Welcome to the restaurant industry."

"While I search for a new career."

When he realizes I'm not letting up, he sighs. "I'm fine staying at Pepolino." His voice is firm, assertive. "You've worked hard your entire life. You deserve this chance. I don't yet."

He's comparing our lives, conveniently focusing on the portion he isn't proud of and clinging to it like a beacon of reason. He may have been enforcing drug payments and stealing cars while I attended college and planned my professional rainbow, but that doesn't mean we both don't deserve fulfilling careers.

"Oh, shut it. You do, too."

Before he's given the chance to fire back an opposition, I say, "You know, we could always work on your resume since we have a few hours ahead of us, depending on traffic. All we need is a few strengths to list and maybe with a little searching you can find a place that will let you start as a line cook."

He takes his hand back, placing it onto the steering wheel with the other. "I'd rather punch myself in the dick than sit here and work on my resume." When I groan, his chest rises and falls in laughter. "How about we make a deal? We fix your life first, then we'll work on mine."

I rub my temples. There's only so much pushing I can do if he refuses to take my help. "Fine, asshole, what would you rather do than brighten your future?"

He grins victoriously. "Switch spots so I don't have to drive this fucking Prius." His index finger jabs into the air. "Oh wait. We can't."

"Driver's licenses are unnecessary in this city." It's why I'd never renewed mine when the time came. It's wasted money. Taxis and the subway are the only source of transportation a girl needs in the big apple. But since he's taking jabs, I decide to hit him with one of my own. There's only a single reason Seth needed a driver's license and it's the reason he ended up behind bars. Well, that, and a few misdemeanors. "Sorry I don't have grand theft auto on my rap sheet and can't be more accommodating."

He smiles at my burn. It's contagious, since there's nothing like his smiles. I'm talking about the real ones, the ones I'm noticing more now that he's relaxed and let his guards fall down. The precious ones that start slowly and then cover everything, casting away all the darkness he holds, blinding me in his light.

It's blinding me now when he says, "We'd have gotten into a lot of trouble if we got that Mustang. I wanted it bad."

He's referencing the steel blue beauty he'd practically dry humped in the rental parking lot. Unfortunately, it was in the insanely expensive line, the one we couldn't-and probably won't ever be able to-afford.

At his eighth mention of it today, I snort. "So you can relive your Jennifer Aniston dream. I know."

"We could have put that dream to shame."

There's a wicked twinkle in his matching greens. They would have went with the car so well. "Here's to missed opportunities."

"At least we don't have to worry about getting a speeding ticket in this shitbox." He jams his foot onto the accelerator, proving his point. The car barely jumps. It's a 2016 model but functions like an eighty-year old on life support. "The horsepower is non-existent and I think your vibrator makes more noise than this does. It's creepy. A car's supposed to rumble."

I laugh at the accuracy. "I like the silence. It makes for easier conversation." Which is precisely what I need for the next five hours as we head to my sorry excuse of a mother.

"Or we could turn on the radio," he protests, leaning forward, reaching for the dial.

I smack his hand away. "Not a chance. You're stuck entertaining me."

"Good thing I'm so good at it." He laughs again when I blow him a kiss, allowing his light to creep through. "I think you like the sound of my voice almost as much as I do."

"And I think that's impossible."

He twists to face me, his smile still in place. "Admit it, you love having me around."

I do. I always do. But it's better like this. In our compact, slow-as-a-turtle car, I don't just see him, I feel him. He's piecing together, forgetting the life he once lived.

In the process, my own life has become a mess. I'm lost. I've tried not to think about it, but it's definite. The roads I'd set on have ended and I'm stranded with no clear paths in site. But as we charge down I-95 with the windows down, the warm air whipping through my hair, a smile on both our faces as we bicker through our laughter, I realize I don't want to be rescued.

Because I may have lost my way, but I've found him.

I push back words assembling in my throat. Words expressing something I don't have a grasp on yet. Words resembling his, picking one and placing it directly in the center, the same place he's claimed in my life. And instead I say, "You're not the worst company in the world."