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“Oh, I meant to tell you.”
“Oh?”
Theo twisted the stem of his wine glass absentmindedly between his fingers, watching the deep red liquid slosh back and forth against the glass before letting out a polite cough and glancing back up at Pippa.
Her cheeks were red—redder than the usual tinge of pink that would dapple across the high points of her face and obscure her soft freckles.
She was nervous. Why?
He refocused his attention back on her.
“I’m seeing someone.”
His nose curled involuntarily, in the split second before he remembered to be happy for her.
Another polite cough.
Face of stone.
Buried frustration.
“What’s his name?” he asked carefully.
Too much eye contact. Look away.
He looked away.
Pippa looked down at her lap, her hands twisting together and untwisting apart over and over again against the crisp white tablecloth.
“Madeline.”
A third polite cough.
“Oh?” he repeated.
He picked the wine glass back up.
The wine resumed its rhythmic sloshing.
“Where did you, uh. Meet?” he asked.
The wine kept sloshing. Three blood-red drops flew out from the rim of the glass onto the tablecloth, quickly spreading out into a small but dark stain. He didn’t notice.
“Coffee shop. We happened to order the same drink at the counter.” Pippa peered up at him through her eyelashes, her face contorted into one of obvious anxiety.
As he met her eyes, he was suddenly struck by the similarities between her and Boris.
It was difficult to place, harder to explain—but in the exact moment, all he could think of was Boris sitting in her seat, staring up at him with round, anxious eyes.
He blinked.
The illusion dissipated.
Boris was gone.
“I… don’t know why I wanted to tell you,” she said, a slight tinge of sadness blurring her words together. “I figured you wouldn’t want to know.”
He started suddenly, spilling even more wine on the tablecloth. Two more landed on the collar of his shirt.
They looked like blood.
Amsterdam.
Bloody dress shirt. Bloody hands. Burn in the back of his throat. Boris’ hands on his back.
Boris’ hands on him. Vegas?
He looked at Pippa. Boris looked back at him. He looked away.
He turned his gaze back down to his hands, Amsterdam still swimming through his thoughts. He was both surprised and not to see blood coating his hands and arms all the way up to his elbows, where his previously clean white shirt had been expertly rolled up to.
Neptune’s ocean. Impossible to escape.
‘This is a sorry sight.’ Macbeth.
Me? Or my hands?
He blinked again.
The blood was gone.
“Why wouldn’t I want to know?”
“I thought you would be upset. Aren’t you?”
“About what?”
The woman? Her dating life?
“Me… dating. I know we’ve talked about this. I just wanted to say that I’m sorry if you’re disappointed, or upset, or…”
“I’m not.” I am. “Don’t worry.” I’m worrying. “I’m happy for you.” I don’t think I can be.
Was jealousy the right word? He didn’t think it was. Something else twisted his gut. He didn’t care about Madeline. He didn’t want Pippa.
Drink your wine. Your hands are shaking.
His hands were clean, his glass was not. Sticky red fingerprints traced around the bowl and base of the flute. He pretended to ignore them.
“You’re okay with her, then?”
Fake smile. Smallest hint of teeth.
“Well, I haven’t met her yet, have I?” I don’t want to. “If you’re happy, I’m happy. We said friends, and I meant it.”
I’m past you. Why do I resent you? I don’t want you.
“So you’re okay with me being… um. A lesbian, I suppose?”
He paused for a fraction of a second, his thoughts splintering as he stared at her, puzzled.
Should I be okay with it?
“Yes. Of course I am.”
She sighed softly, a relieved smile toying with her lips.
“I’m sure you’ll find someone too, you know,” she said, reaching her hand out and taking his own in hers.
He flinched.
He didn’t want the blood to touch her. It would stain.
She didn’t need to be tainted by his blood any more than she already was.
“You don’t have to be alone.”
I do.
“I know.”
I won’t get my blood on anyone else.
“There’s people who love you. I know Hobie and I do.”
That’s not what’s stopping me.
“I know. You both mean quite a lot to me as well.”
“And… Boris?”
The blood in his veins ran cold, and he froze, jerking his head back up to stare accusingly at her.
“What about Boris?”
She shrugged, slightly bashful.
“I just wondered, you know. You’re both awfully close whenever he’s in town.”
“I don’t know what you mean. He’s my friend.”
Pippa peered down her nose at him, raising a single eyebrow so subtly that he wasn’t sure it even moved or if he imagined it.
“Theo, you don’t think that he’s fond of you?”
“No, he’s not.”
“He’s not?”
“He’s married, you know.”
“Kitsey was supposed to be, too.” The second the words left her lips, she clapped a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide and horrified. “Oh, my god, I am—I am so sorry, Theo.”
Their waiter passed by them, and Theo raised his hand, making a little check mark sign in the air as he pointedly looked away from Pippa.
“Can we get the check, please?” he said, his voice just a hair too loud.
The man nodded, walking away.
Pippa turned back to him, her face flushed a deep, embarrassed fuchsia.
“I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.”
“You did.”
“Well, I didn’t—”
“It’s alright.”
It really is. I don’t care about Kitsey anymore.
“No, it’s not.” She stared at him with an oddly ferocious look in her eyes. “I shouldn’t have said it. But, Theo—”
“He’s married. With kids.”
“...Have you ever seen them?”
No. I don’t think they’re real.
“Yes. Pictures.”
She kept looking at him, face twisted into an expression of regret and… sympathy.
He resented it.
“Theo, it’s okay, you know…”
“What’s okay?”
“To like him.”
“I don’t.”
Boris was staring at him again.
Dark curls, pale skin, off-kilter smile with his new all-American pearly whites.
He blinked.
Boris didn’t go away.
“I’m not gay,” Theo said tightly, still staring at Boris.
Boris? Pippa.
He had blood on him, too; it was staining the once-white shirt he was wearing, dripping down from his jaw.
But it was most noticeable on his hands.
Theo looked down at his own hands, unsurprised to find them coated with thick, sticky blood.
There was something poetic about it, wasn’t there?
Matching bloodstains. Matching pain. Matching—
He shook his head roughly.
Boris disappeared. His thoughts returned to normal.
Abruptly, he realized Pippa was talking to him.
“—and I just… oh, I don’t know,” she sighed sadly, brushing her hair off her shoulder and resting her head on her hands. “I guess I thought we were similar in that regard, too, you know? I mean, we have so much in common. Welty, your mother…”
“Mhm. Sure.” He wasn’t listening. In fact, he had no idea what he was agreeing with—but in all honesty, he didn’t care.
The urge to slam back the rest of his wine and more made his fingers itch.
His nose twitched ever so slightly.
Old habits die hard, he supposed. Though it wasn’t as though he had any intention of lessening his drinking.
But Pippa wouldn’t appreciate it.
“I’m sorry that I brought it up. I shouldn’t have said anything about it, it’s… it’s not my place.”
“Thank you.”
“It was overly hopeful.”
Why are you still talking?
“I guess.”
The waiter appeared out of nowhere at his shoulder, quietly setting down the check and returning Theo’s curt nod as he handed the man his card.
“Thank you for dinner,” she said quietly, staring down at her lap again. “It’s on me next time.”
“It’s no problem,” he responded.
“No, really. I’ll get it next month, I promise.”
“Alright.”
He glanced around. It had only been a few moments, but he was already frustrated that the waiter was nowhere to be seen.
Hurry the hell up.
“Tell Hobie I said hello, okay? We have dinner plans later this weekend, but I’ve missed him.”
“I will. He’s been looking forward to it.”
True.
“Oh, good.”
The waiter walked up, check in hand.
“Thank you, sir,” the man said, handing him the thin black booklet. “I hope you’ve had a nice night.”
Theo nodded absently, tugging his card out of the book and sliding it carefully into his thin leather wallet.
“Do you want me to pick up the tip?” Pippa asked. She sat up slightly and peered over the table at the bill. “I have cash on me.”
“No need. I’ve got it.” He quickly scribbled down a too-small tip and a flourished signature, before pushing back his chair loudly, standing up, and taking his coat off the back of the chair.
They walked silently to the door together, the loud chatter of other restaurant guests ringing loudly in Theo’s ears.
He clenched his knuckles, pushing down a not-so-buried shut the fuck up.
No reason to yell, the little voice in his head chided him.
Yes, he thought, there very much is.
Instead of yelling, though, he turned to Pippa, plastering a too-fake smile onto his face.
“It was nice to see you,” he said. No it wasn’t. “Will you be sticking around for long?”
“I’ve moved back here, remember?”
No.
“Of course.” Rather than push through the unnecessarily awkward conversation, he opted to reach out for a short hug.
As he went to pull away, though, she clung on.
Let go.
“I really am sorry, Theo,” she murmured into his shoulder, still gripping him tightly. “I shouldn’t have insinuated anything.”
“It’s really alright.” No it’s not.
“Still.” She pulled back, wiping quickly at her eyes. Her hands, ever so slightly bloody from where they brushed against his back, left thick crimson streaks on her cheeks.
The blood reminded him of Boris.
I need to stop thinking of him.
He blinked.
Her face was clean.
“I need to go,” he said abruptly, turning away. As he walked away, he tossed a glance back at her over his shoulder. “I’ll see you.”
“Alright,” she called back sadly. “I love you, Theo.”
He didn’t respond, instead choosing to keep walking, his gaze pointedly turned away from her.
He was almost certain that he left bloody footprints behind him.