Take My Hand, Just Hold On

“I’ll go away after I see you. Just give me a minute!” he states. I look through the peephole at him again, he looks tired and there’s a giant bag at his feet.

“It looks like you’ve packed to stay, actually,” I respond through the door. I watch him look at his bag then right at me in the peephole. He gives a sad smile, still holding my gaze – even though he couldn’t see me.

“I just got off the plane. I was heading to my hotel, but… I just had to make sure you were still around. You didn’t answer any of my calls or texts, Brenna. I wasn’t sure what happened to you!” he exclaims, his voice getting near to a yell at the end.

Well, if it’ll make him leave… I unlock my three deadbolts and my regular door lock and open the door a tad. I kept the chain lock on though, I didn’t want him forcing his way in and taking in my whole appearance. I peeked out and he looks at me, slightly relieved.

“At least I know you’re alive now. Jesus Christ, Brenna!”

“Yeah, I am. Happy now? You saw me, now go to your hotel,” I tell him, starting to close the door.

“Whoa! Wait up. Can’t I come in?”

I shake my head, “Not tonight, Robert. Give me a call tomorrow, maybe we can meet somewhere,” I suggest, fully intending to never pick up my phone again.

“Yeah, because you answered all my other calls so well,” he retorts, rolling his eyes sadly. “Look, I don’t want this to be the last time I see you. Please, just let me in for a few minutes.”

I close the door and back away slightly. I didn’t want anyone in here ever again. I didn’t want to be here myself, actually. Not to mention I look absolutely terrible. I mean no make-up, no haircut for over six months, anorexic-skinny, sallow-skinned terrible.

“Are you opening the door?” I hear his tentative question. God, I didn’t want to. “I’ll stay in this hall until you let me have a real conversation with you, Brenna.” Why did he care so much as well? First Tom, and now Robert.

Maybe it’d be good to let him in… Maybe he’d help again, like last time. Or maybe he’d only help again until I left, or he left… A part-time solution is no solution at all. Or maybe it is? I don’t particularly trust my own judgment at this point.

He’s been silent for a couple minutes. I take a couple slow steps back to the door and look out; he is sitting against the wall opposite my door, one leg up, and one hand grabbing a fistful of hair. His hair! He’s cut it, I just noticed. It’s no longer wildly strewn about, but a clean cut. His eyes are downcast, resigned to looking at the floor for the night.

I unlock my chain lock and open the door, hiding behind it. I hear him get up and grab his bag. He steps in quickly, as if afraid I was teasing him and would have closed the door had he been any slower. I might have, too.

I can tell his eyes are on me, but I don’t look up. I turn to the kitchen, “Glass of water? I’m afraid I don’t have much else… Haven’t been to the store in a while,” I say, grabbing two glasses without waiting for his reply.

“Sure,” he replies, I can hear him placing his bag down near the doorway and him shuffling to the living room side of the kitchen counter. I glance at him as he takes a seat on one of the stools while I pour a couple glasses of cool water. I place a glass in front of him and take mine with me to the fridge. I look in for a long while, really just avoiding facing him.

“Brenna, look at me. Please?”

A pang of guilt washed over me; here was this man who cared enough about me to nurse me back to something resembling healthy and then didn’t give up trying to contact me for an entire month after I shut him out, and here I was doing anything to avoid him whilst he was sitting in my apartment… I closed the fridge and turned around slowly, still unable to meet his eyes. I walked over to the counter until I was straight across from him. I studied his hand that was sitting on the counter and it started twitching; nervously, perhaps. I watched with curiosity as it reached out toward me, and I involuntarily jumped back when it brushed against my arm, “What happened to you after you left?” he asked me, taking back his hand.

I finally look up to meet his currently deep grey eyes and I break; I tell him everything right up to the point where I’m about to lose what was pretty much my dream job. He sits there quietly the entire time, not interrupting or asking questions, just listening.

“So, are you going to go to the therapist, then?” he questions after a moment of silence.

I shrug, “I haven’t decided. Part of me thinks why not try, but then there’s this other part of me who has always believed that therapy just doesn’t help. I mean, it’s always seemed incredulous to me that just talking to a person could help someone solve some deep emotional issue,” I tell him honestly. “Then again, I don’t know, maybe I’m just fucking stupid,” I say quietly as I bend down to rest my forehead on the counter. I was kind of feeling nauseous and that was the closest I could get to head between the knees, I suppose.

“Hey, even if you’re right and it doesn’t help, don’t you think it’s better to try than to just give up?” his voice breaks as he says ‘give up’, as if that’s the worst thing someone could do.

“I don’t know if you were listening to my whole story of the past couple months Robert, but I gave up a long time ago,” I lift my head off the counter and look at him with hollow eyes as I give my honest answer.