Another Sentimental Argument

A few nights later, I find myself sitting on the floor of my bedroom with the telephone in my hand.

I stare at it for such a long time my vision becomes blurry and that's when I decide to call.

When I hear him say hello, my mouth becomes dry and I choke a little before being able to respond. When I say that I want him to come over there is no hesitation before he says 'okay' and we hang up.

My breathing is irregular as I run back and forth from my bedroom to the bathroom, making sure that my clothes are in tact and I look a little decent and the bags under my eyes aren't too noticeable. Pictures of myself from when he last saw me flood my mind and I cringe each and every time. I looked so horrible and he knew it. Why else would have stood at the door of the bathroom when I was getting sick instead of comforting me? And that's why, I concluded in my head, that he told me about the other girl he was about to hook up with because in his mind, he finally realized that I'm a piece of shit—and that I looked the part too.

There are three steady knocks at my door and I am almost entirely positive that I feel my soul leap out of my skin upon hearing it. I gulp hard enough to where it hurts a little and make my way to where there is only a piece of wood separating me from him. My sickly sweaty palm twists the doorknob and pulls it open.

He doesn't smile like I expect him too. I want to blame his lack of enthusiasm on the late hour and that he is tired, but there is a slight glow of alertness under his eyes and I know he can't be tired.

He walks in, barely passing me and turning back around. "So what's up?" He asks, referring to my mostly sober telephone plea for him to come by my apartment.

I immediately feel embarrassed because I can tell by the look on his face that he does not want to be here—that I am annoying him already and I haven't said anything. A new battle instantly begins in the war my mind is already and constantly waging. Before I can get too involved, he says my name and I look back at him.

He looks expectant and sad and I don't know how to feel.

I blurt out, "What made you come by here the other night?"

He still looks expectant when he answers. "I wanted to see you."

I feel my eyes become sadder. "It's not that simple."

"Why isn't it?" His face is stone.

I sigh and look at the carpet underneath my feet. Although there are two silent years between us, when I am looking away from him, the time gap seems enormous—like it could swallow me and my memories of him whole to be forgotten in an endless sea. But when I look into his eyes, there seems to be no years between us. Between my eyes and his, there is a lot between them but time is the last thing.

"I'm sorry," I mutter before lifting my heavy head to him.

I see a gleam in his eyes and his eyebrows raise slightly at my words. He looks shocked and some sort of weird mix of happy and before he gets the wrong idea—that I am apologizing for seventeen year old Logan's dramatic departure from an eighteen year old Billie Joe's bedroom two years ago, I quickly add, "For calling you over so late." His face falls and I want to punch myself because I was sorry for so much more than that. "Or calling you over at all, really."

His face is back to somber stone. "It's fine." He pauses only briefly before speaking. "Did you need something?"

I shake my head slowly.

"Were you just lonely?" His words are so suddenly cold that I almost flinch.

I shrug when I should have shook my head no again, but it was too late.

He doesn't miss a beat before speaking again. "Must be nice to be able to call someone up and have them at your door in ten minutes." His tone is harsh and his eyes narrow. "Not sure someone would be willing to do that for me."

I feel accused and guilty and all I do is watch as he brushes past me to the door. This time he doesn't stop and turn around to look at me and I really wish he had. This time I wanted him to see me crying because I wanted him to see that I could muster up sober tears for him—not just drunk ones. But the door is closed and I am left standing alone.

So I crawl back into my bedroom, under the worn out covers, and face my body toward the window to stare at the lone street lamp outside. I think of Billie, but not the cold, stoic Billie. I think of the smiling, kissing my forehead, guitar playing in the dark Billie. The memory of his smile is like a living ghost and the image of his cold, sad eyes watching me haunt me. I think of all the wrongs I've done to him--why I couldn't just tell him that I'm a coward of a girl with a little bit of a problem with alcohol and a much bigger problem of missing him. But instead of saying these things to him, I am stuck alone in my bedroom hiding away from the embarrassment of sputtering off confused words to him and still getting vague answers. Conversations are so hard to come by between me and him. I know his lips so well—but in a different way.

When I see the clock hit four in the morning, I turn away from the window, shut my eyes, and try not to see him in my dreams.