I wait for it.
The crushing guilt for betraying MJ.
Nothing comes, so I probe a little deeper into my feelings.
Exquisite self-loathing for objectifying Nora?
My gut tightens and yeah… I’m feeling a little like a tool. I just fucking masturbated while thinking about my therapist, who went out of her way to share something deep and personal, all to help me move forward.
I’m a fucking asshole, but I’m also a man who happens to appreciate how beautiful a woman is.
But that’s not really making me feel low.
In fact, there’s no real crushing guilt hitting me at all, and that’s fucking disconcerting to say the least.
There’s only one thing to do.
I finish my shower, get a quick shave in, and brush my teeth. Bishop is still asleep when I emerge, so I quietly get dressed.
Grabbing my wallet, room key, and phone, I head out to find some coffee and a quiet place to talk. Given that this is Seattle, the coffee will be easy.
A quiet place for me to call Nora, not so much.Turns out, there’s a decent coffee shop a few blocks down, but it’s overcrowded. I get mine to go, wondering where I can find some solace. It’s in the middle of rush hour in downtown Seattle, and the streets are packed with people walking to work.
I head back to the hotel. Rather than go inside, I merely lean against the building… right there on the sidewalk, and sip at my coffee. People pass by me without a second glance, in a rush and intent on getting to where they’re going.
It’s then that I realize, despite the flowing crowd of pedestrian commuters, I’m really kind of alone. No one is paying attention to me, and no one is hanging around. I can have a conversation right here on the street, and it’d be more private than if I were sitting in my room with Bishop.
I pull out my phone, not concerned with the early hour. Phoenix and Seattle are in the same time zone, and Nora is an early riser. It’s something I learned about her just from our counseling sessions when she was telling me a little bit about her workday on the ranch when she wasn’t working with clients. She’s pretty much a sunup-to-sundown kind of woman.
Tapping her contact, I listen to the phone ring once, twice, and then it picks up.
I’m shocked when Raul answers. “Buenos dias, Tacker.”
“Um… uh… hey,” I manage to say.
Silence ensues, as I’ve completely forgotten why I’m even calling Nora. Raul answering has completely thrown me off.
“You okay?” he asks hesitantly.
“Yeah,” I reply swiftly, getting a little of my senses back. “Just surprised me that you answered Nora’s phone.”
“She walked away for a second,” he says. “We just finished up breakfast, and she’s off brushing her teeth.”
An image of Nora, standing at the sink and holding her hair back from her face as she rinses out her mouth, hits me. It’s vivid and completely conjured from my imagination, not memory, yet there’s something fulfilling about learning that fact about Nora. That she brushes her teeth after breakfast.
“You played great last night,” Raul says. I blink, feeling like he just busted me for having intimate thoughts.
“What?” I ask, not really understanding what he just said.
“Nora and I watched the game last night,” he says, and I can’t help the smile that comes to my face. “You looked really good out there.”
“Thanks, Raul,” I reply, feeling like he just paid me the biggest compliment in the world. The fact they watched me together touches me for some reason.
“Okay, here she is,” he says. Suddenly, my palms start to sweat as I wait for her voice to come over the line.
Busy people walk by quickly, heads down and shoulders hunched. No one cares about my phone call, yet I turn slightly to the side, wanting to protect this conversation.
“Tacker?” Nora says, and her voice is a balm.
“Hey,” I say, my voice coming out raspy and unsure of itself. I give a slight cough. “I mean… good morning.”
“Morning,” she replies brightly. “I know Raul just told you, but we watched the game last night. You were wonderful.”
“It was a good team effort,” I say, displacing the praise and redistributing it to my team where it belongs.
But not going to lie… it feels good that she watched me.
“Are you okay?” she asks, a hint of worry in her tone. She gave me permission to call her as a counselor. In her mind, there would be no other reason for me to call unless I was in distress.
And I am… sort of.
“I’m… uh,” I say, not sure how to get this out. “Well… I’m having some guilt issues.”
The change in her tone is palpable as she enters counselor mode, sounding gently calm yet completely sure of her advice. “Remember, Tacker… when you’re feeling that way, I want you to try to focus on the responsible party. It was the plane manufacturer—”