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In hindsight, he never should’ve picked up your call. Leon’s standing in the furthest corner of the living room, here at your friend’s party tonight, nursing a red Solo (so that’s why they named it that) cup full of something too watered down to dream of taking any edge off, figuring out why it’s common fucking sense to let the phone keep ringing when your ex calls.
But he just can’t help himself when it comes to you. Never could.
Leon doesn’t know anyone here. He didn’t think about that part either. The last thing he remembers is dropping everything to pick you up at the side of the road where your car gave out. There you were, sat on the curb looking like a Barbie fresh out the box. Dressed in a shimmering little number he couldn’t remember paying for unlike all the ones before. Tears gelling your eyes. Chin tucked over knees spattered with new, purpling bruises he’ll never know the story behind. Didn’t know who else to call.
(But he knows it must’ve been your bathroom cabinets. You’d become a hurricane in there when you got ready, always tripping over the stupid jut-out handles on the bottom. He used to kiss the little galaxies on your knees all better.
It took every fiber of his being to not bend down again when you finally looked up at his face.)
Call it morbid curiosity. Leon wanted to know where you were going tonight that had you in such a rush to get out the door. What else is his insomnia supposed to ruminate over later? So he paid the towing fees, opened his passenger door for the first time in forever, and kept his mouth zipped while you typed in your friend’s address on the GPS. Zipped besides the minimum, you know:
Are you okay?
Does it still hurt?
No use thinking about it still.
– all about your car, of course.
Leon needn’t have bothered trying to calm you down on the drive here. You’d patted your bruises back to health with spare makeup from your bag. Your heels didn’t wobble when he followed you to your friend’s doorstep to make sure you got there safe, not even when she insisted he stay – new friend, Leon realized. She didn’t recognize your ex. You simply hadn’t known her long enough to tell the story. Clearly, you haven’t been shutting yourself off from the world like him. He should be happy you’re doing better.
Different people have different coping strategies, Leon soothes himself with a swirl of his cup.
But two can play at that game. He doesn’t even miss you.
Except in the mornings and evenings, and on weekdays and weekends. He didn’t think twice in the car about pressing a kiss to the back of your hand whenever the traffic lights turned red – just at the first one. There’s no need for an actress in his dreams when he can go at a punching bag long enough to tempt dawn, creeping through his semi-permanently shuttered windows. And he’s never been a song person either. Your laugh replaying in his head keeps him occupied on the longest drives. It’s not like it stings to even think about ejecting the Jeff Buckley CD you left behind in the console. Did he hallucinate you looking at it on the way here?
No, Leon’s never wondered if you still think about the way you used to feel in his arms.
Or how long it took for you to tell your mom that he broke your heart.
When is your friend going to start glaring daggers at him?
That thought sets him straight. He can leave. He should leave. You’re a smart girl. You’d figure out a ride home and Leon could use a drink more than anyone here.
You’d told him a story once: of a tiger chasing a monk down a cliff. The monk, too panicked to change direction, had ran right off the precipice, managing to grab on to a solitary grapevine as the tiger licked his chops from above. All Leon had gathered was that the guy was a goner. A pancake whether he gets gulped or falls victim to gravity.
You said there was a lesson here, sweetheart. He’s just going to die.
Okay, okay! So there he is, the tiger’s about to eat him, the vine’s starting to give way. He’s completely doomed. Then he notices a bunch of grapes growing off the end of it.
The vine?
Yeah.
So they’re magic grapes? Do they save him somehow?
He uses one arm to hang onto the vine and the other to pluck a grape off the bunch. He pops it into his mouth. And it’s the sweetest grape he’s ever tasted.
The monk falls to his death. Obviously. It didn’t matter to Leon, not when he’d tickled you to tears under the covers, his tired laugh drowned out by yours that sounds like tinkling bells, begged you to tell a different story before he turns the light off. Leon’s always the one telling stories for a reason. All his have endings that make sense.
But then he sees you in the center of the room, shining brighter than any mirrorball, laughing that same laugh, one he hasn’t heard for so long that it shatters his ribs – and he stays.
How sweet the rim of his Solo cup tastes.