Another Rough Morning

The first thing Derek felt was his own heart, beating too loudly against the inside of his skull. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, willing himself back into sleep, but it was no good. Morning pressed against the blinds, the air was stale with last night's beer, and the headache sat inside him like a living thing.

For a long minute, he didn't move. He just breathed. Each breath scraped along the raw lining of his throat.

The memory of the text glared in his mind, sharp and impossible to look away from.

Eliza: It's happening!!! Joey’s party tomorrow night at his place!! I can't WAIT! Address is 214 Ridgeway Lane. You have to be there. He’s amazing, he's so hot. I've never been with a man like him before. I’d do anything for him. I don't even care how that sounds. Just thinking about him makes my whole body feel electric. I seriously think he might be the one.

Followed by the afterthought, the casual slice:

Eliza: Sorry - my bad! I sent that to the wrong number. Sorry to bother.

Wrong number. Sorry to bother.

Derek sat up slowly, head swimming. The cheap beer, the rage texts he'd typed and deleted, the promises he'd made to his reflection in the bathroom mirror—they all clung to him now, oily and shameful.

Last night, he'd imagined it clearly: storm into this Joey kid's party, find him, break his nose. A clean, satisfying act. A story to tell himself later, when the silence got too loud.

But now, in the hard light of morning, the idea curdled. He wasn't twenty anymore. He wasn’t the kind of man who solved heartbreak with his fists. At least, he didn't want to be.

He pushed himself off the couch, stepping over the crumpled jacket he'd thrown in a fit. His apartment smelled like regret: sour and stale.

Maybe he should go to the party. Maybe he should meet Joey. See for himself what had pulled Eliza away so completely, so easily.

Or maybe he shouldn't.

The anger was still there, sure. Humming low, like a power line just out of reach. But beneath it was something worse: helplessness. He hated that feeling even more.

The thing was, Joey wasn't the problem. Eliza was. Or maybe he was. Or maybe there was no problem at all, and life was just a series of people leaving, and you either grew up or you didn't.

He wanted closure. He deserved that, didn't he? A conversation, at least. A chance to say whatever needed saying before he could finally stop waking up like this.

He grabbed a glass of water and sat at the kitchen table, staring at nothing.

He would go to her. Not to plead. Not to rage. Just to speak, once, and listen—if she would even give him that. He could act like a man about it. He would.

And if the anger boiled over...well, he'd deal with it when it came.

For now, he had to believe he could be better than the man he was last night. Not for Eliza. Not for closure. But for himself.