“I’m miles from where you are,
I lay down on the cold ground
I, I pray that something picks me up
And sets me down in your warm arms.”
Things started to go blurry and the bartender’s words mixed together into nonsense. Her jacket was now slung over her lap, falling to the floor. A figure next to her picked it up and handed it to her, his hands soft and the words in her ear low and suggestive. She made out his eyes, shining blue as she thought of Dylan’s; they’d always been as intoxicating as the alcohol. She suddenly felt sick to her stomach and pushed the man away before stumbling to the bathroom.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked her, his train ticket in hand and bag slung over his shoulder.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she snapped, jabbing him hard in the chest. “You’re gonna leave without telling me? What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
She wretched into the toilet that already reeked to begin with, feeling the insides of her stomach empty and her throat burn. She thought all she wanted was the truth, but she was wrong. The truth wouldn’t always set you free.
“I don’t have to explain anything to you,” he’d said, moving past her towards the gates. She didn’t know what was happening, but with every word her heart beat faster. What if she couldn’t stop him from leaving?
“Just like that?” she called after him, starting to cry. “Do I mean nothing to you? I don’t even know what’s going on!”
She wiped her mouth at the sink, trying not to cry like she did that day. The urge was overwhelming, but she just wanted to be home in bed; Dylan besides her. But that wasn’t going to happen. She’d be crawling into bed alone and asking herself what she did wrong.
“Don’t play dumb, Emma,” he stopped short, turning back to her. “Don’t tell me this isn’t what you want.”
“What I want is you,” she grabbed his jacket and yanked him towards her, trying to root him in place. “Is this about what happened with your mom? Her kicking you out again?”
“You’re gonna blame it on her now?”
“What are you talking about?” she pleaded, still holding on. “This is really about our fight? That was nothing.”
The taxi driver pulled up to her house slowly and disposed of her at her front steps. She’d been out of her parents place for only two months now, like Dylan always told her to do. She managed to find her way up the stairs to her room and tried to find her sweats. She tripped, hitting her head on the dresser on the way down. She cursed, feeling the blood on her forehead.
She didn’t bother cleaning it up, but lay on the floor as the tears filled her eyes, hitting the rough carpet beneath. All she could picture was Dylan pushing her away, ripping her hands off, and telling her the words she’d never forget no matter how much whiskey drank or how many nights she sat at the bar.
“Don’t you get it? I don’t love you, Emma.”