One More Time (Bremmy 1)

Chapterish 75

I don't move or open my mouth or make any sign that would indicate intelligent life. He looks at me as he runs his fingers through his outgrown hair. He did it when we were dancing –grinding –ebbing together like an amalgamation of two weirdly fluid bodies. But it's different. This time he is nervous. 

"What?" I say, straight-faced.

"I met some–"

"I heard you," I blurt out, holing up a hand to silence him. Did I hear him? "You met someone?"

He doesn't answer, just shifts back and forth on his heels.

"How?" What a dumb question. Come on, Emmy. What the fuck.

"It doesn't matter how, Em." He sighs, running his fingers through his long hair.

"Yes, it does." I stress. Like somehow having the details will make this easier to grasp.

"She works for Edge... in marketing. We just sort of crossed paths." He begins a story that sounds rehearsed. I'm sure it is –sure he's spent days mapping it out. No wonder he hasn't touched me since I've gotten here. "It became something more. I don't know."

"I mean HOW? Like it's been a fucking month!" I'm almost screaming now. I can't keep the panic from my voice. It latches on to every single weak, pathetic syllable.

"I know, Em." Brooks whispers.

"A fucking month ago you were sitting in Seattle and –and," I start to choke back tears. "You were telling me you LOVED ME!" OK I'm yelling now. I don't care if Brody and Lauren can hear through our conjoined room.

In fact, I hope they can.

"Yea, I DID! I did love you." Brooks is starting to shout back, getting defensive. "And you all but threw me out!"

"I DID NOT! You left yourself!" I can feel tears swelling up from the suppressed depths of my soul.

OMFG. This is happening, actually happening.

AGAIN.

"Were you with her then? When you came to see me?" The disgust is clear in my voice. I think I might vomit if I hear his answer.

"Em," he whispers, hardly audible.

"Were you?" I spit. The room is spinning and I'm fanning myself with my hands.

"I had met her by then if that's what you mean," he says, sighing again and trying to touch my hand. "But nothing had happened yet. I wanted to see you."

Suddenly I'm reliving that fateful night. How he showed up drunk to my apartment, slurring and emotional and clearly struggling with himself. I can picture myself in his T-shirt, the way he avoided looking me in the eye afterwards, the way I scooched over to the edge of the bed when he walked to the door.

The way I didn't stop him.

And the strangest fact hits me: We haven't had sex this year.

It seems like such a random thought, a ridiculous thing to think at a time like this. But it's all I can focus on. The last time we slept together was on the moonlit balcony at Château Rosé. I remember trying to freeze-frame it in my mind –a mental snapshot I wanted to be able to take back home with me. And now it'll be our last time. It will always be our last time.

I'm 18 again and here we are. I still hate myself more than I hate him. Some things never change.

You knew, Emmy.

"I never wanted to hurt you, Ems." Brooks's voice is close to me now and I see that he's trying to reach for my hand. I yank it away.

"That's fucking rich. Comforting," I say in a fake cheery voice. "You know Brooks, I seem to remember we've had this exact conversation before."

"Here we go. This is your problem Emmy. You can't let anything go. EVER!" He yells at me, groaning. Fingers running through hair.

"Well, why let it go when it's just going to happen again?" I curse again under my breath. "Seems like I fucking knew! I was the only one thinking clearly!"

"And the joke is still on me.

Maybe it's the look on his face and that he's almost close to tears too. Maybe it's the impending sense of DOOM. But my mind is drudging up memories –images of barns and diamond rings and taco wrappers and bonfires and Brooks's shoulders as he's walking away from me.

Everything I didn't think I wanted is now gone. It's replaced with images of Brooks and some fake blonde girl with huge tits and a useless degree in marketing. I hear her screeching laugh through the phone call that Brooks made to me at 2 AM. In my mind it's the same girl from 10 years ago. The girl I found out about after we mutually departed.

"I wanted you, Em. Fuck, I wanted you –I wanted US! You just don't want to be happy," Brooks says quietly. "Or you won't let yourself be happy."

I stare at the walls. The room somehow feels smaller now, like it's shrinking or I'm growing too big for the cage. The décor I found soothing earlier is now irritating. The abstract ocean waves swirling, swirling, swirling. My stomach swirls with them.

Somehow I find my voice. "I'll be happy one day. It just won't be with you."

Good one, Em.

"Why did you even bring me down here?" I find myself asking before I can stop. I sound pathetic, I know. Almost like I'm pleading.

"I thought we needed to talk... in person." He says, his eyes blank.

It's like I'm seeing this look on his face for the first time. How stupid have I been all night to believe he was looking at me the same way he used to. Was I just seeing what I wanted to see? Now I see that he almost looks miserable –pained even.

"How kind of you! Bring me down here to end things, to... to..." I trail off. I can't say the words dump me.

"I wanted to see you one more time," he says, his head low. Get the fuck out. Like, GTMFO.

Hearing those words –our words –used in this context, well they almost sound dirty. Tainted.

"Well, you saw me," I choke on my salty tears. "Happy?"

Brooks drops his head in an almost defeated manner. "It didn't have to be like this."

"No. It did." I whisper.