The Things We Aren’t So Sure (Part II)
The next morning came to Joel earlier than he had hoped. He had set an alarm for ten but woke up just before eight. He was not a morning person. Most anyone who knew him was aware of this fact. His blinds were open wide allowing the sun to pour into his room, heating it up to an uncomfortable broil. Joel peeled the sheets off his body and laid there for a moment to allow his skin to breath. Goddamn blinds, he thought. He typically likened his room to a cave, dark and cool, devoid of most any and all light. This time, however, it was more like a pottery kiln. He was not happy.
Joel finally got up after a few minutes and pulled the blinds shut. He turned on a fan he kept in the corner hoping that it would blow some of the warm air out of his room. He rubbed the sides of his head. The whiskey from the night before brought on a slight headache that Joel was hoping he’d have slept off but little respite is afforded to a man waking before eight, and so Joel walked into his bathroom and removed the cap to a bottle of Tylenol and took a couple, sticking his face under the faucet to wash them down.
The rest of the apartment was much cooler and as Joel walked down the hallway he realized he wasn’t the only one home. Deb was in the kitchen cooking something, probably eggs. It smells like eggs, Joel decided. He walked up to the counter that separated their living room and kitchen.
“What the Hell are you doing up already?” Deb asked, genuinely shocked.
“Had to get up. My room was like a furnace.”
“Ah. Yeah, that’ll happen. Want some eggs?”
“That is what people do in the morning, huh?”
“Most. Not all hibernate the way you do.” Deb opened the refrigerator and pulled a couple eggs out.
“Hey, listen,” Joel started, “sorry if I was a dick last night.”
“Don’t sweat it. I know what’s up between you two,” she said, shrugging it off. Joel didn’t immediately answer. He’d always had a hard time admitting his own faults, especially to Deb.
“Was there any orange juice in there?” he asked.
“I think so,” Deb said. She poured a bowl of whisked eggs into the pan. “Toast?” she asked.
“I’ll get it, thanks,” he untwisted a loaf of bread and placed it in the toaster. Then he opened the refrigerator and poured a glass of orange juice. “When did we get pulp?”
“Bought it last week. Good, right?”
“You know I love this stuff.” Joel took his glass and went to sit at the table next to their counter. His toast popped up as soon as he sat down. Deb asked if he wanted her to get it but he said he’d get up in a second. She grabbed it anyway and sat down across from him. She slid the plate across the table and they started to eat.
“So, what do you think is going to happen,” Deb said, finally.
“How do you mean? With Callie?”
“Yeah, with Callie. Think it’ll go smooth?”
“Honestly, I’m just trying not to think about it, one, because it’s still too goddamn early and, two, because I just don’t want to care. I take that back. I just don’t want to get my hopes up.”
“I see.”
“I mean, it’s been, what, three years now, anyway?”
“Do you still have feelings for her?”
“Shit. I don’t even want to get into that right now.”
“Fair enough.” They sat there and finished breakfast. Deb wasn’t used to seeing Joel up and about so early. Her attempts at starting conversation with a different topic fell flat as Joel was unresponsive and disinterested, quickly exchanging his juice for coffee. She understood, albeit a little annoyed, but as the morning progressed Joel became more himself, waking up inside.
It was nine-forty when Deb said she had to start getting ready for work. She worked part-time as a barista at a local coffee shop. The rest of her time she spent making homemade jewelry and other accessories – hats, scarves, picture frames – things like that. It kept her busy and brought in a decent amount of cash. She was good at it, naturally talented, and she enjoyed it immensely.
“What time are you off?” Joel asked, finishing off the last of his coffee.
“Sometime around six, I think.”
“Long day.”
“That’s a fact.” Deb disappeared down the hall and into her room. Joel sat there for a moment and watched the sun climb up the wall, across the painting Deb did years prior, until it became tangled in the house plant. He wondered what time he should try to contact Callie, if at all, or if he should just wait to hear from her. Certainly there were some things he could do to pass the time. He didn’t want to seem desperate. He stood up and walked over to place the mug in the sink. Walking down the hall he, at the very least, knew he should take a shower.
