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Fucking Tommy again. He brought a six-pack over, and we drank it while imitating a tourist who dropped his mango ice cream and then slipped on it. So simple, but god, that night was fun. And my mind continues to drift back to Tommy, his crooked smile, and how we moved together on the dance floor. A longing builds inside me, a yearning I try to ignore. Reaching across the table, I grab Ben's hand, trying to focus on him instead.
Ben is sweet, has a good job, and is attentive. I know I should feel lucky. But I don’t. Maybe I’m not giving him enough of a chance, but the longer I’m with him, the more I can’t ignore how bad of a match we are. Maybe a part of me thought that an ‘opposites attract’ approach would work well. It did for Sam and Greg. But there’s just no spark. The guy couldn’t find his way to the sand on the back of an inner tube at high tide. And I’m a beach bum. Knowing my wines or what fork to use at a five-course dinner doesn’t change that.
Okay, that’s selling myself short. Since I came to San Diego, I’ve been helping out at Sanderson Surf Shack in every aspect. Penny, Sam’s amazing sister, helped me learn the ropes of some accounting aspects, and I dabble with marketing as well. I even helped set up health insurance for the Shack when Sam found out she was pregnant and let them add my name to the business license to help with a loan. So hippie surf chick or not, I have value too. Not as much as an FBI agent with a mortgage, but enough to be proud of, that's for sure.
“Have you ever done it?” Ben asks. I’m pulled from my thoughts at the question. I have no idea what he’s talking about but give my best smile.
“Maybe the better question is, how long since I’ve done it,” I say with a wink. It’s a cheap trick, but it works. His face flushes at the innuendo, and he looks down before clearing his throat.
“But the, uh, road trip?”
I shrug. “Don’t have a car, so road trips are impossible." His shoulders sag a bit, and I think I’ve turned down a trip with him. That’s fine by me. Like I said, he’s nice enough, but hours in a car with him? No way.
After dinner, we walk hand in hand along the beach, enjoying the cold sand between my toes until he stops me with a serious look.
"Tilly, we've been tiptoeing around things for a while now, and I'd like us to be exclusive going forward," he says. Whoa, slow down with all the passion. I mean, he literally sounds like he’s proposing we switch toothpaste brands rather than start a relationship. Before I can respond, he adds, "Before you say no, I want you to know that I haven’t been with anyone else in months." His earnest expression tugs at my heartstrings, making it even harder to find the right words.
So I do the next worse thing, I lie. "I'll... think about it." If anything, this date has proven what I already knew; we don’t have a future together.
He walks me back to his car. As if he can read my mind, the drive is made in silence. Not even jazz playing on the speakers. When we finally reach my apartment, I know I can’t give him the wrong impression. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. "Ben, you're a great guy—"
"But you’re ending things," he finishes for me. He's disappointed, I can hear it in his voice, and I hate knowing I made it happen. His palm slaps the steering wheel. “Damn, I knew I was pushing you too hard. Greg warned me that you hated relationships.” Fucking Greg. Never, ever again will I let my friend set me up. And getting in the middle? Dumb move because now I need to junk punch him.
"I'm sorry, but I'm just not in a place right now for a real relationship," I admit then wince at how dumb it sounds. “I know it’s a cliché, but seriously, it’s not you. You’re a great guy.”
With a shake of his head, he smiles. “I’d rather you just say you hate how I smell or something.”
Giving him a friendly smile, I pat his knee. “You always smell fantastic. I’m just—”
“A commitment-phobe?”
Part of me wants to disagree, but instead, I kiss his cheek, promising to call if anything changes. He nods, clearly hurt, and I know I have to leave before pity changes my mind.
I don't watch him drive away, feeling conflicted but knowing it's the right decision. I need a beer and some more time on my drums. Maybe Ben wasn’t right for me, but being alone still sucks.
I’m still second-guessing myself when I reach my door. The outside light is on, making it easy to dig through my purse for my keys. But when I go to insert the bronze into the lock, the door swings open of its own accord like it’s eager to show off whatever is inside. ‘Welcome home,’ it seems to whisper with the creak the hinges sound out as I push inside.
“Sam?” I yell into the apartment. She’s the only one that has a key other than my landlord, and I know I locked the door. There’s no answer, so I reach into my purse again.
I rummage for a rectangular device I’ve never used before—a taser that probably wouldn’t stop a Pomeranian. But I do feel safer once it's in hand. I flick on the living room light, and the apartment reveals its new décor theme: post-apocalypse with a subtle hint of thrift store decay. It's been tossed and trashed in every sense of the words. Heart in my throat, I scan for any signs of movement. There's nothing so far.
With careful steps, I navigate the chaos, checking every room with shaky exhales. It's not until I've searched every cabinet and nook that I finally feel my shoulders droop with relief. Whoever did this, they’re long gone.
Returning to the living room, my purse lands on the slashed couch. Stuffing is strewn everywhere, like a scene from a documentary titled ‘The Great Cotton Massacre'. It wasn’t exactly a nice piece of furniture, just something I picked up at a local secondhand shop, but it’s practically worthless now.
When I realize that nothing is missing, I understand what’s happening. “Not again," I whisper, a hand to my forehead. The message is clear, this is a warning. One I’ve received dozens of times over the course of my twenty-eight years. Though I thought I left this sort of thing behind when I moved to Costa Rica. Apparently, I couldn’t be more wrong.
Without giving it any more thought, I start to clean up. It seems someone’s idea of a good time was redecorating my place with eau de trash can. Gloves on, I start the glamorous job of professional crime scene cleanup. The smell is awful. Old takeout, eggshells, and soiled paper towels make for a disgusting perfume.
Armed with duct tape, I approach the couch like a surgeon in the ER. The thought brings a hollow chuckle to my lips. As I do my best to fix what I can, my gut is churning. Sweat drips off my body onto the cushions, now deformed and streaked with gray patches. I stand up and wipe my brow. At least it's not a total loss.
After tidying what I can, I grab a beer from the fridge, glad at least my food was untouched. I retreat to my bedroom, ready to change into pajamas and pass the fuck out. But what waits for me inside only enrages me more. Every item in my dresser has been shredded. With my chest heaving, I hurl my beer across the room. Glass shatters against the wall like some kind of fucked up toast to the bastards that did this. “Fuck! Are you serious?” I yell at no one.
I’m panting as I stand there, seeing red for several minutes. Why? Why do they insist on doing this shit to me? Is it really so bad that I live my own life?
Of course, the questions have no answers. There’s no one here, and even if there was, they wouldn’t tell me what I want to hear.
There is only one person in my life that I have ever been able to rely on, and she's who I need. Whether I explain things or not, I grab my phone from inside my purse and dial her with a few taps. If only my stupid fingers weren't trembling, this would go much faster. Even so, I am able to connect the call after a few muttered curse words and deep breaths. It goes straight to voicemail, and I have to resist the urge to chuck my phone at the wall too.
