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It wasn’t anything big.
Just a few of Mary’s favorite beers (the craft kind—not the shitty beer he drank on his shoestring budget), some of that chronic shit you’d scored and have been saving for a special occasion, and a VHS box set of horror movie classics.
Mary comes in and out of your life at will, and that was something you accepted—knowing he was As Is or not at all. And honestly—no, really—you liked that. You had your own shit going on, and being Mary’s expected caregiver was NOT something you wanted to add to that list.
(If someone else wanted to try to tame him and pick up after him, well…kudos to them. Less work for you.)
Mary showed up on your pivotal days and he rubbed your feet and always invited you out to trivia. You'd held him when he was coming down from a bad trip and listened to his grievances and gave him a place to stay when he was persona non grata at his own. And in a way, that made you always feel like #1 in Mary’s world…and that was good enough for you.
A few months ago, Mary had been lying on your couch, picking the label off his beer bottle.
“I’m gonna be away for a bit,” he’d said.
“Oh?” you’d responded as you’d mashed the controls on your gaming controller.
“Yeah. I mean, I’ll be around…but I got some shit going on.”
You’d paused your game.
“Bad shit?”
He’d waved you off.
“Neg. Just tryna get myself out there. Signed up for open mics and shit.”
He’d shifted, his long legs receding from around you and folding under him.
“So, like…I got my job at the bowling alley…but nights and weekends are kinda shot.”
You’d tried not to let the disappointment show on your face. You supported Mary’s dreams, and that meant not making an issue that he was finally trying to do something about them.
This wasn’t against you. It was for him.
When you’d taken too long to respond, his face had scrunched.
“But if you want—”
“It’s fine, Mare,” you’d said as you’d made yourself smile. “This is important to you, so it’s important to me.”
You’d unpaused your game.
“Just don’t expect me to not beat this game without you.”
He’d grabbed the controller out of your hands with a snarl, causing you to cry out when you died.
“Fuck the game.” His hand had fisted your shirt. “Give me a night to remember.”
You had. Twice.
Mary had texted you occasionally over the next few weeks—a few memes, a few drunken key-smashes, a dick pic, and 2 grainy videos of his performances for critique—but such contact was sporadic, and you’d never seen him in real-time.
He’d blown in one night, five weeks in, with a box of pizza just as you'd been heading out to meet your crew. When you’d told him you’d made plans, he’d looked so crestfallen that you’d caved and canceled on them.
While he’d been there, he’d given you a date in 3 weeks.
“That Saturday I have nowhere to be,” he’d said as he’d chewed. “I can spend the whole day with you.”
You’d been careful not to seem too eager.
“Oh yeah? Should I plan shit?”
He’d crammed the whole crust into his mouth and had given you a doughy grin.
“Why ’’ya think I told you?”
You didn’t know what you’d expected, but when he’d had to bounce 90min later, you were still surprised. (That was hardly enough time to digest!)
“Sorry,” he’d winced. “I gotta be on a bus in 45min.”
He’d left, and you’d been too embarrassed to join your friends who were only just going to the second bar.
Having fun with your man ;) ? one of your friends had texted.
What do you think? You’d texted back before changing into your pjs and turning on Netflix.
So maybe you were low-key excited about your day with Mary.
Perhaps you’d spent those 3 weeks figuring out the perfect date—something that said, “I missed you,” without saying “But in a clingy way.”
Beer and horror were two things the both of you were totally into, and you knew he’d be exhausted, so it seemed perfect. You’d bought the boxed set off of eBay and splurged for expedited shipping; you’d borrowed your brother’s old dual TV/VCR from his college days; and you’d forgone your weekly Chinese takeout for the craft beer funds. (And if things got steamy, well…even better.)
A few days before The Date, you’d run into Mary on the bus. You were coming home from a shift, and he was going to his.
He’d brightened and waved you over—as if you weren’t already on your way—and you’d plopped down beside him with a tired grin. You’d told him of the latest entitled asshole, and he’d showed you another clip of him on guitar.
Before your stop had come up, you’d tentatively placed your hand over his.
“We still on for Saturday?”
He’d blinked at you a few moments before grinning.
“Yeah.”
“Should I plan a whole day for us, then?”
His arm had crept around your shoulders before pulling you into him to kiss your temple.
“Yeah, why not.”
That morning, you wake up happy.
Mary will be over soon.
You roll over and grab your phone.
When should I expect you? :-*
It takes him an hour to respond. You aren’t surprised—Mary isn’t known for being a morning person—so when your phone dings, you grab it up excitedly.
An excitement that dies when you read his text. And reread. And re-reread.
not 2day
goin upste 2 show
You blink.
What show? Didn’t we confirm?
yeah. got me thinkin
why no show?
so i chked
i missed one
gotta do it
Rage blooms hot, then cold behind your eyes and down your cheeks.
But you said we had the whole day. I made plans.
save em
ths is impt 2 me
We’ve had this planned for weeks.
i thot u suprted me
on a bus cnt tlk
You send a few more irate texts, but he doesn’t respond, and you toss your phone across the room with a shout of frustration. You scrub the hot tears from your eyes before they can fall.
And…on paper, Mary isn’t wrong. Nothing you had planned won’t keep: movies, beer, takeout.
But…
It gives you a stark look at what you mean to Mary. He gave you this date and confirmed it. He knew you were making plans.
How long was he going to wait to tell you he wasn’t even in the city anymore?
You fight the urge to kick the VHS tapes across the floor, but you open the fridge and grab a beer. If Queen Elizabeth could have beer for breakfast, then it was good enough for you.
Once you’ve downed all eight, you move on to the jug of vodka you keep for cleaning.
When you empty only liquid from your stomach into the toilet, you grab your frozen fries out of the freezer. You roll a handful of the cold ones in your mouth as you wait for the others to crisp in the oven, and once you’ve consumed the cooked ones, you go right back to the vodka.
Opening your eyes the next morning is a mistake, so you take a few deep breaths and go back to sleep.
When you wake again, your heart is fluttering, your stomach turns, and it feels like there’s an ice pick behind one eye. Shuffling slowly, you make your way out to your kitchen where you take some painkillers, drink some pickle juice, and eat two slices of plain bread.
The sense that you did something awful stays with you, but you’re in no condition to find your phone and see what you’ve done. Instead, you go back to bed. It takes more deep breathing to settle yourself, but once you do fall asleep, you’re out for hours.
You don’t feel amazing when you swim to consciousness again, but you feel at least like a human being.
Your phone is dead when you find it under the sink, and waiting the 5 or so minutes for it to charge feels like waiting to face the executioner.
It’s both better and worse than you expected.
You breathe a sigh of relief to see that there are no vague social media posts, and you didn’t drunk dial any of your friends, but…
The texts to and from Mary are ugly.
Apparently, you’d managed not to send him angry texts until he’d sent you another clip of his performing. But then the floodgates had opened.
You’d started with telling him you didn’t give a shit about the show, how he was an inconsiderate ass, and then you'd devolved into incomprehensible, typo-ridden texts that accused him of using you, that you were only something to do when he didn’t have anything better to do, that he was an entitled man-child and if he didn’t apologize, you were done.
Mary’s texts in response range from him being angry at your disregard, to heated retorts you were blowing this out of proportion (and he didn’t appreciate your “ad hominem” attacks), to a cool detachment that this wasn’t working over text and he’d finish this in person.
You put your head in your hands but are too dehydrated to cry.
Mary doesn’t text you again during his self-imposed time frame.
You don’t text him either, but that’s more out of self-preservation than pride. There’s no point exacerbating the situation…and you’re pretty sure there’s no coming back from this, so why speed up the inevitable?
The horror tapes taunt you every time you walk by them, and you wonder if you can return them (you can’t). You give the TV back to your brother, and when he asks you how it went, you plaster a smile on your face and say, “Great!” with forced enthusiasm you hope comes across as genuine.
The primo weed goes over to your friend’s house, and the two of you wax poetic all night about existential claptrap as you devour two cheese pizzas and a bag of bbq chips. You talk about Mary without talking about Mary, and you get a heartfelt, “Sorry, dude.”
You beat the video game anyway, but it’s mostly because you needed something to occupy your mind and less out of spite (though that’s there as well).
Despite waiting on tenterhooks to hear anything from Mary, you truly don’t really expect to. You know you’d been atrocious, even if it had been prompted by his careless disregard, and you know Mary isn’t really the kind of guy that troubles himself with relationships that are hard.
Not that you’re in a relationship.
So when there’s a knock on your door a week later and Mary’s behind it, you’re genuinely surprised.
You gape through the peephole in shock.
“Fuck. If you’re there, just let me in, ok?”
Fumbling with the chain, you unlock the door and crack it open.
“Mary?”
“You gonna let me in?” he rasps.
You shrug and step away from the door, and he shuffles inside. He looks around like you’ve changed anything (you haven’t), before turning around to face you.
You close the door and stare back.
He folds his arms. “Breaking up with someone over text is tacky.”
What you think is, So you’ve come to do it in person, but what you say is, “Can’t break up if you’re not together.”
He winces and runs his fingers through his hair.
“Yeah…apparently I’ve ‘taken advantage' of you.”
This…isn’t what you’re expecting.
“I…what?”
“Can we sit down?”
You nod, and Mary sits rigidly on the edge of your couch. You curl up in the chair on the opposite side.
He rubs his palms down his greasy jeans before he speaks.
“I mean…you pissed me off, ok?”
You nod.
“But, like—you weren’t wrong, ok? I kinda knew that deep down, but I’m a dumbass, you know?”
You don’t nod.
“And I kinda bitched about the whole thing…but the resounding response was that I was the asshole.”
He angles his body toward you.
“I guess I’ve kinda been treating you like my best friend that I fuck sometimes.”
Your entire face flushes—you’d always thought you’d maybe ranked a little higher than that—and you duck your head so he can’t see the tears that you blink back.
There’s a swish of fabric, and you startle hard when Mary’s hand is at your chin. He jerks back with a Sorry.
“Shit—that’s not what I…” he blows out a breath and puts his hands behind his head before looking back up at you.
“But you aren’t, and…fuck this is harder than I thought.”
So this is it.
Waiting for him to do the deed is clearly going to be excruciating, so you take charge of this whole shit-show.
“I understand,” you say flatly.
“You do?”
“It’s ok, Mare-Mary. It’s my own fault for reading too much into it. I just…I saw what I wanted to see, I guess. I know you don’t need…” you look down into your lap, “…my shit in your life.
He makes a noise low in his throat, and then he’s squatting in front of you, his hot hands planting on your knees.
“But I want your shit in my life.”
You squint your eyes at him.
“But what I said…”
He grasps your hands in his.
“Pissed me off, yeah…cuz I wasn’t fucking thinking, ok? You’re like one of the only people who gives a crap about what’s important to me. And all I could see was you suddenly…not.”
Anger wells up in you again, and you yank away your hands.
“Weeks, Mary…weeks of you all over the tri-state area, and you thought I didn’t care because of one night?! A night you promised to me?”
He sits back on his heels. “I know…fuck. Ok? At the time, it just felt…like the show couldn’t be rescheduled. Our night could.”
Because you’re what he does when he’s bored.
You curl in on yourself.
“Shit.” He leans forward again. “Fuck, I’m sorry, ok? I’m fucking on my knees here.”
You blink at him.
What?
“Please, please don’t break—say we’re done.”
“What?”
“Look, we can go into my shitty fucking psychological profile on why I fuck around later…but right now I need you to know that I knew it was you before I fucking knew it was you.”
You uncurl.
“That…’what’ was me?”
He knees forward and presses your hands to his face.
“The one I wanna spend my free time with. The one whose opinion means the most. The one who was the first person I wanted to share all my good shit with. You’re the one I missed, and—after that awful fucking night—everything felt pointless because I knew I couldn’t come over and jam about it.”
“Mare—what are you saying?”
“I’m saying I’m a fucking dumbass. I’m saying I thought I was pissed at you, but I was pissed at myself for fucking it up.” He sighs. “I’m saying no fucking one was on my side and they all told me to get my shit together.”
He looks up at you with wide eyes, and for the first time, you can see how they’re outlined in red, his subtle crow’s feet more pronounced.
“So, you’re not done with me? I’m not…too much trouble?”
He shakes his head in disbelief. “What? Shit, no. I’m asking you to not be done with me. I’ll give you all the nights you want. Fucking text me, and my ass’ll be here posthaste.” He shifts up, and his thumb ghosts over your lips. “Anything to get you to give me that secret smile again.”
“Secret smile?” you ask while trying to perform the action.
Mary actually blushes.
“Uh…yeah. You get this…” he makes a motion across his face, “…when you’re giving it back to me.” His fingers shove back through his hair as he casts his eyes down. “You don’t give it to anyone else.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I’ve made a study of it.”
You’re a swirl of emotions. Mary’s apologized—has admitted he was wrong and has asked for…more—but you’re still hurt. And embarrassed.
But he’s looking up at you with wet, hopeful eyes.
“Do you…” you start carefully, “…do you know why I got so mad?”
That statement was clearly not what he was expecting, and he blinks at you a few times before nodding and looking down at the floor.
“I made a…uh, commitment…to you. And I treated it like it didn’t mean anything.”
He gives you a look like, Did I get it right? and that’s close enough—even if he’s missing some of the nuance.
You nod. “And I know I…wasn’t…the best.”
His face contorts, and your heart sinks.
“You…” he shakes his head. “You said some awful things…some hurtful shit—and it really got in my head.”
Mary gives you a complicated look.
“Shit that you’d been pissed about for a while.” He traces your knee. “Shit you could’ve said to me…but shit I should have noticed. Fuck.” He presses his forehead into your knees, and you can’t stop yourself from sinking your fingers into his hair.
He takes it as encouragement and presses into you before looking up again.
“I just kinda wanna put that whole night behind us. It feels like a fucking ouroboros of fault. And like maybe I created it. But let’s agree to like…not do that again.”
You look down at him, and his eyes search your face.
“Ok…but what does all this mean, Mare? I can’t…I need to be something to you, ok? More than just your friend.”
Mary nods emphatically, and he takes your hand and curls his into it.
“No more fuck-ups, and no one else…can we start there?”
He’s saying all the right words, but you’re still trepidatious—you know Mary, and he doesn’t like constraints.
“I…just…how can I believe you?”
He shakes his head like he can’t believe you even have to ask. He rises and awkwardly reaches out to touch your face before drawing his hand back.
“Cuz you’re important to me. I care about you, and I don’t want to lose you. Ever.”
And yeah. Ok.