XXXIII

At the same time, Frédérique lay curled on the floor next to the front door inside her apartment, letting the tears fall freely from her eyes.

After she saw Richie and Nikki’s intimate interaction at the bar she had ran back to her car and drove vehemently back to New York. It was true after all: he had moved on, she didn’t have anything to do in that place anymore. She couldn’t make sense of Jon’s attitude: what was he expecting her to do? Make a scene? Fight? Cry in front of everybody? Beg for Richie’s love? No, that wasn’t her, and Richie wasn’t hers to fight for or beg for anymore, and worse: it was her own doing, it was she who had let him go, she wasn’t entitled to fight for him. Richie was smiling and looked happy, and so did Nikki – it was the happiness of two people who had chosen to be together versus the happiness of one who had inflicted that situation upon herself. The pain caused by the sting in her ribs was almost unbearable, but she had to hold on – if she shed but one tear, she feared she would never stop crying again.

It was her fault after all, wasn’t it? It was she who had chosen to let him go, she couldn’t expect for him to wait for her: she couldn’t be that selfish and proud. But he had told her he loved him, was he lying? Could have all this been a joke? Of course it was, from day one, remember? Her nails sank in the plastic of the steering wheel of the car, her knuckles white from the pressure. Focus, damnit. The last time, Frédérique had promised she’d never again be a woman to “cry over a man”, that just wasn’t her.

On her way from Connecticut Frédérique had let all the memories of Richie flood her mind: of course it was too good to be true, of course it would end, of course it would show her how deep in love she could fall, and how much pain she could feel, of course. Had he called to tell her that he had moved on? Probably – she had chuckled sarcastically to herself at her own naïveté. She had tried to justify herself, recalling how beautiful and sweet and talented Richie was, how could she not have fallen for him? How could anyone not fall for him? But no, there was no excuse - she shouldn’t have let it go that far, and now had to live with the consequences: she had opened her heart, had faith, demolished the wall, what for? Nothing.

Frédérique had taken breaths from time to time when she felt the ache in her heart send a signal up through her throat - tightening it to a point she felt it was going to tear in half - then to her eyes, threatening to fill with tears and cloud her vision. She had parked the car inside her building and pressed her forehead against the wheel, her fingers still curled tightly around it, then taken a deep breath, gotten out of the car and run towards the elevator. She had desperately pressed the code to open her door and slammed it behind her back, then leaning against it, only to slide down to the floor until she was hugging her legs flexed in front of her and her head hanging between her knees.

Only then did Frédérique allow herself to cry - she wouldn’t get up until she had cried up to the last tear, never to shed another one again. She sobbed at first and then the spasms overtook her, and the thick tears soon covered her cheeks and landed both on her jeans and on the floor. Two hours later she felt so weak she just curled on the floor. The tears were still coming from her eyes, but she was too tired to sob anymore. After laying there for one more hour, she fell asleep.

…

Richie returned Nikki’s kiss as a thank you, then took a deep breath and pushed her away by her shoulders.

“No, Nikki”, he whispered softly and kindly. “You should go back to your room”. Of course she wouldn’t give up so easily, so at her second attack, his voice was earnest and louder, his grip tighter. “No”.

He waited for her to leave and hardly managed to cover himself with the sheets before entering the blackness that separated that night from the next morning.

However it was already almost 1 p.m. when Richie woke up. Fred. He sat down on the bed and rubbed his face with his palms. A massive headache was killing him, but he had to get himself to function properly in order to face Frédérique. He was going to her apartment, knock down her door if it was necessary, and pull her out of wherever she had hidden herself from him in, even if it was inside herself.

God how much he loved her - he knew by now that he could live without her, but he didn’t want to, his life with her was a better life, he wanted to worship her everyday of the rest of his life for being who she was and allowing him to experience her world, her universe. He wanted to help her heal the wounds of the past, as she had done for him. Whatever it was she was afraid of, he would make her see that it didn’t matter, that he’d protect her and comfort her. And that glorious body of hers, those lips, those eyes, that ass…he cringed when he thought of other man’s hands touching and enjoying them: they were his and would remain that way if there was something he could do about it.

He showered and dressed before heading towards the kitchen for water and coffee. He sipped from his cup calmly, meditating on his course of action, standing in front of the picture window. Nikki seemed to be still asleep and it was better that she remained that way, he’d deal with that situation later if it arose again. But then he thought that maybe she was drunk, too, and they’d both soon forget about it.

He took his truck keys and left.

…

When Frédérique woke up she had no idea what time it was. Her cell phone and her laptop – her only sources of time information – were one broken and the other off, but she could tell it was somewhere mid-morning by the way the rays of light entered the windows of the living room. She was sore, aching, her muscles contracted, specially the abdominal ones. Her eyes stung and itched and her eyelids were so swollen she could barely open them. She managed to get up and started her reset session again: she peeled all the clothes she was wearing and threw them in the washing machine, she showered and put on her sleeping tanktop and shorts. What now?. She slouched on the sofa with her sight lost somewhere in front of her. Then she felt like crying again. No. She put on a sports short, another tanktop, her running shoes, tied her hair in a ponytail and left.

She ran for almost two hours, with absolutely no direction at all, until she realized she was gravitating towards Gaby’s house. Since her phone didn’t work she just knocked on her door, hoping that her friend wasn’t “busy”, but Frédérique didn’t remember Gaby telling her about having a date the previous night. Gaby opened the door in all her cleaning-up attire: hair in a bun and held from her face with a headband, ragged T-shirt and old sweatpants with some old stains of painting. Her expression was at first surprise and quickly turned to concern when she saw her friend’s face.

“Oh my God, what happened?”, she asked with alarm as she motioned for Frédérique to get in.

Frédérique took some steps towards the sofa and slouched in one of the corners. Then she started crying again. Gaby sat by her side and smoothed Frédérique’s back in circles with her palm, keeping quiet in order to let Frédérique unload whenever she felt ready. After some minutes Frédérique was finally able to tell Gaby what had happened. All of it, everything she had kept for herself, everything Gaby didn’t know.

“I’m so sorry, sweetie”, Gaby said after Frédérique finished and had remained quiet for some moments. Worry was evident in her tone.

“It’s OK, Gaby, I’ve brought this upon myself”, Frédérique sobbed a couple more times, “I just couldn’t hold it in anymore”.

“I think you’re being too harsh on yourself”, Gaby told her, “and it’s his loss after all, he should have fought for you, he shouldn’t have given up so easily”. Frédérique shook her head silently, then nodded and spoke with resignation:

“No, he did the right thing. I told him it was over, I didn’t have the right to take it back”.

Gaby sighed, deeply in pain for her friend, but seeing there wasn’t much she could do but make her as comfortable as possible, offered to prepare some coffee and toasts, and Frédérique agreed.

…

Richie arrived at Frédérique’s door and stood in front of it. His hand instinctively moved to presse the buttons on the device, but he was able to stop it in time, he reminded himself to be cautious. Should he knock? Would she be there? He didn’t dare think she could be with someone else. He knocked. Nothing. He glanced at his watch: it was early afternoon, but there was the possibility that she was sleeping – he pictured her curled in her bed, warm, naked, with her hair all entangled around her face, and his blood sizzled again.

“Fred?”, he asked in a loud voice against the door. Nothing. He knocked again. Silence.

He sighed sharply and raked his hands across his hair. Maybe she was traveling or something, but he had a show the following day in Washington: this was his chance, he couldn’t wait anymore. He sat on the floor of the corridor with his back against the door, his legs flexed in front of his chest, and circled them with his arms, grabbing the left wrist with the right hand. He let his head fall back against the door. And waited.