Grit in Her Teeth

There's nothing in northern Indiana. It's just get-through-it-as-quickly-as-possible territory. But I had nothing to do so I thought a drive to Fort Wayne and back, some extra time with the girlfriend, it didn't seem like such a bad Sunday.

We drank Diet Mountain Dew because a professor of ours got us hooked. She put animal crackers in the wild brush of my hairy chest. We sought out songs we didn't know and made up words and the three plus hours went by like that.

As we got closer, twenty or so minutes from the house, I noticed she kept checking her phone. Gritting her teeth, frustrated with something, someone. "What's wrong?" I asked. "Huh, what? Oh. Nothing," she said.

We got there, there were three cars in the driveway. "You expecting a party?" She shook her head, smiled, eyes widening in innocence. I got her bags out of the trunk. "Let's just say goodbye here," she said. If I came in she would want me to stay and she knew I hated tearing myself away from her, that I was bad at it. "Can't I come in for a little bit? Use the bathroom?" She said OK, but then I had to go.

Her mom was there, her dad, a woman that went by "Aunt Eileen" even though they weren't related. And a guy, some guy, some... guy. Named Brian, lived nearby, came over to say hello and glad she was back. And it sure looked like she gave the eyes to him that she gave to her phone. There was grit in her teeth.

Parents didn't seem to think that anything was up. They invited me for dinner. I said no, we just ate, which we hadn't, I didn't know why I said that. And Brian kept looking at me, looked at me more than her looked at her, which I couldn't tell was good or bad. I didn't want him to be looking anywhere, didn't want him to be in these rooms. But here he was, and here he'd be still, after I'd gotten back in my car and put hundreds of miles between my girl and me.

She walked me to the door. She hugged me and kissed me and we held on a little longer like we always did. And when I let go she kept holding. Kept holding onto me, my shirt, my lips, kept trying to tell me something. Took me three hundred miles, two hours, and one cheeseburger to figure out that something was "I'm sorry."