Off-balance

It had been just over a month from when Dante pulverized his hand against the bathroom mirror — and Astrid had not seen him for nearly three — almost going on four! — whole weeks.

It was partially unintentional: her job had gone from barely scheduling her to being flush with open shifts. The second PM manager had suddenly up and quit, leaving several extra afternoon to late night shifts open for Astrid to be forced into until a replacement could be hired. With her days spent pulling double shifts at the grocery store, her nights were increasingly devoted to sleep. She'd often go straight home from work, eat something, and fall into bed for several long hours before getting up and repeating the cycle.As grim as her new work schedule was, she was beginning to get accustomed to it, though she was depressed at how pathetic her life seemed. Things with Dante never quite reached a head — the angry outburst at him in the car when she took him to the emergency room was bad, but there was still plenty of dead weight left on her shoulders that she needed to unload. Between her lack of real closure with Dante and the shittiness that was her job, she felt like life wasclosing in over her head, and she needed to get out. 

Besides, he didn't really make much of an effort to reach out to her. The thought occurred to her one night as she stared at the shelf she was stocking, blurry-eyed. They had exchanged short phone calls and text messages; they'd even met briefly for dinner a week or so back, and before that, he'd come by her house to look at old photographs. But that was really the extent of Dante's outreach to her,which suited her fine, at least at first. Now, though, she was really analyzing, and that was bad. Her brain was still vaguely sleep-soaked as she set to work stocking, and still hazy, she contemplated the status of her relationship. When she thought back on it, the more displeased she became. How could she have been so blind this whole time? As she began her descent back down to the floor, she lost her footing on the step stool and nearly tumbled head first, just barely managing to catch herself on the shelf. That was when she knew she'd had it.

Astrid's recent soul searching finally prompted her to make the first move. Turning everything over in her mind was driving her insane, and she knew the only way to cease the madness was to make a choice and take action. Lying in bed the next day, she held her cell phone in her hands, eyes closed. It was her day off, late in the afternoon; Dante undoubtedly was around, or so she hoped. Gathering her nerve, she opened her phone and found his number, anxiously listening to it ring as she stared up at the ceiling.

Dante tore open the envelope containing his first unemployment check, squeezing his eyes shut briefly to force them to focus on the dollar amount. Unbelievably, the check was more generous than what he had been making at the car shop. During the last few weeks, he had been certain that losing his job was the last proverbial stair to trip over before he hit the bottom, but now that he had spent nearly every day sleeping, every night shooting whiskey and jamming (and smoking) with Chris — who had become a pretty good friend to him, even with Chris' history of lame parties — and had a nice check to boot, things were looking up.

Except, he thought as his cell went off, the fact that he and Astrid were barely speaking. The beat up phone was somewhere in his apartment, and as he searched for it, he realized that their relationship was probably over. He didn't want to admit that the thought of it sent a wave of terrifying anguish crashing over him.

Seizing the phone in one sweaty hand, he glanced at the caller ID. Astrid. He took a deep breath. This was it. This was going to be the conversation. Panicked, he glanced around the messy living room and his eyes fell on his cigarettes. He lit one up as he flipped the phone open.

"Hey," was all he could manage, choking the word out in a puff of smoke.

She was too late, Astrid thought as she listened to the ringing drone on. He was probably at work — she did not know about his unemployment yet — or passed out. The thought left a bitter taste in her mouth,and when he actually picked up the phone on the final ring, she found herself momentarily at a loss for words.

"Aah... hey, Dante." Shit. Taking in a deep breath to regain her composure, she closed her eyes as she leaned her head back in the pillow. "I have today off — were you busy? I was kind of hoping we could get together." She bit into her bottom lip, chewing it sharply to distract herself. Uncertainty still overwhelmed her, but she knew that to make a change meant stepping outside her comfort zone. For once, Astrid was doing the right thing for herself — or so she hoped. It wasn't in her nature to be so proactive; she wasn't exactly passive, but until now, she'd merely been floating on the currents, letting herself go in any direction. Enough of that. She was an adult now; it was time to face her demons. Regrettably, Dante was one of them. 

She kept quiet after she poised her question — she wasn't going to say that she wanted to talk, because then it would set him up on his guard. Though, he undoubtedly knew that was what was going to transpire. He may have been a drunk, but he was still somewhat in touch with reality. Or so Astrid hoped.

He absorbed her words; they seemed to echo off the walls of his apartment. This was it. She wasn't going to break up with him over the phone, though, he thought. She was going to drag him out of the comfort of the four walls of his living room and do it to his face. No, he was not going to have that.

He flicked ashes onto the floor; the ashtray had broken one of the nights Chris had come over. They had gotten too reckless, shredding notes loudly and standing up on the furniture well past midnight. Luckily, none of his neighbors bothered to call the cops. Maybe they just didn't care anymore.

Dante had two choices: he could pretend he was too busy to get together, or he could get it done and over with. He could beat her to the punch. He kind of wanted to do both. A month or so ago, he would have voiced his indecision out loud. They might have even laughed about it. Then again, this whole thing wouldn't even be happening.

"Sorry," he said, realizing that he'd left her listening to him breathe for several measures. In his bewilderment, he lost his resolve, asking her before he could regain control of his mouth: "What did you have in mind?"

The problem was, Astrid didn't want to break up. In fact, she wanted to avoid the whole thing alltogether. She cared very much about Dante, and she had even been to the point where she was beginning to wonder if she even loved him. But then something between them had changed: he started drinking more and more, and she lost her nerve. Now he scared her at times, seemed like a ghost of the young man that she initially fell for. What happened to her Dante? The thought settled on herchest, weighing down oppressively. In spite of herself, tears welled up in her eyes. 

"Uhm," she said to fill the empty void between their words, a hand coming from beneath the sheets to swipe at her eyes. She mastered control over her voice, kept the quiver out of it though the urge to cry was becoming rather overwhelming. "I don't know, I was thinking we could go get... " She glanced at her alarm clock to check the time. ".. Lunch? It doesn't matter to me where."

She hated to admit it, but she was being somewhat sneaky: ideally, this conversation would take place in the comfort and safety of her home with him, alone. But since so much had changed in the past few months, she wasn't entirely sure she could trust being alone with him — who knew what his reaction would be? Would he be open to discussion, willing to listen, consider taking action to better things? Or was she going to have to cut him at the knees for her own self-preservation? Both seemed completely plausible to her, but in any event, she wanted to start out somewhere where they could be seen,where she might be safe. The thought of having to protect herself against him upset her terribly — but then, his recent demeanor warranted it.  "We could go to Denny's or something, if you wanted."

"Lunch," he said slowly. If she was going to break up with him, why did she want him fed? He returned to the kitchen and tapped his unemployment check against the counter. He couldn't outright lie and say he had no money, or that he was busy. Lying to her didn't come easy — even though he had easily deceived her throughout the last few years about his... Well, it wasn't a problem, and it was none of her or anyone else's business, anyway.

The thought of eating made him want to gag. He did not want to eat if he was about to get dumped. He couldn't even remember the last time he had broken up with someone. Maybe in high school, but nothing before Astrid was... serious. He considered the word and his feelings for her — at least, the feelings he had had several weeks ago. They still existed, of course, but he didn't feel close to her anymore. Something had driven a wedge between them. He didn't want to admit that the something might be him. He preferred to think of it as a "mutual distancing."

He sighed. If he couldn't lie, and he couldn't avoid her, he would just have to face the music. "I just got paid, so yeah, I guess. What time do you want to meet?"

Astrid heard the sigh: it confirmed precisely what she feared, and that was that he had sniffed her out. He knew that the conversation that was about to take place could very well lead to the demise of their relationship. But him agreeing to meet told her all that she needed to know, and that was he was ready, too. It didn't seem likely to her that he had wanted to change his life — probably he thought there was nothing wrong with it. That was equally depressing.

Still, a small part of her felt a sense of relief that he had agreed. She did not want to do this, but it was time to see if she had to kill off the very thing she desperately wanted to preserve. Otherwise, it was simply dying on the vine, and that did not sit well with her, either. "Okay," she said, her tone changing slightly. "Uhm, how about I meet you there in an hour or so? I still need to shower and get ready."

"Okay," he said, too, leaning against the counter. "See you then." He didn't give her a chance to answer; he clapped the phone shut, tossed it onto the counter, and buried his face in his hands. Had he really just agreed to meet her so that she could dump him? If asked before the possibility had ever occurred to him, Dante would have said that he would rather break up with someone face to face than over the phone or some stupid instant messaging system. Now, confronted with the possibility, he wished she'd just done it. There was no point in dragging it out, and dessert was not going to make things any better.

Not that he planned on eating.

He took a deep breath. "If it's going to be over, I might as well have a shot." He opened the freezer, grabbed the bottle of Grey Goose, and grabbed the mixer that was still on the table. Shaking his head, he dismissed the idea of a snake bite and drank from the bottle instead. He counted to fifteen, twenty, then thirty, pulled the bottle from his lips and put it back in the freezer. Stretching his neck, he went into the bedroom to grab fresh clothes for a shower.

Across town, she held the phone to her ear, hearing his shut and disconnecting the call. For several long moments, she did not move a muscle, keeping her eyes firmly shut. Dread took the place of anxiety and settled in the pit of her belly, but she forced herself up and out of bed and into the shower. 

An hour later, she was in her car, heading to the local Denny's that was between his apartment and her parent's house. Sitting at a red light, she noticed her palms were sweating; wiping them on her black slacks nervously, she licked her upper lip and tasted more sweat. She felt like her entire body was on fire, every nerve standing at full alert: she was ready to do battle, in some way, shape, or form. Poor Dante probably knew what was coming, but its outcome depended completely on him. Somehow, she had the distinct impression that she was going to be let down, and so she reminded herself to stay calm, stay cool. Don't be harsh, but don't get too close, either. It became her mantra as she pulled into the parking lot, getting out and doing a sweep to see if he had arrived. Satisfied that she had beaten him there, she headed inside and was seated in a booth. 

Smart waitress, thought Astrid: the woman had seated her in a far-off corner of the restaurant, and there was a medium sized crowd going, though only another table was occupied in their section. The seating was ideal: they'd have their space, but they were also surrounded, as well. Trying her best to relax, Astrid ordered a cup of coffee for the time being, settling her elbows on the table, and running her fingers through her newly-dyed red hair.

Dante saw Astrid's car as he parked his own. He got out and paced in front of his car as he finished a cigarette, trying to steel himself but unable to stop shaking. He didn't know if it was because he wanted another drink — the shaking had started about a month ago when he got really nervous or upset — or if it was because he knew what was coming, but he didn't like it. He desperately wanted to walk into the restaurant, sit down, and order a coffee or something without looking at all fazed. Instead, his newly washed hair was tousled hopelessly from running his hands through it so many times on the ride over, and his jeans were damp with sweat from the palms of his hands.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he said, taking a last drag and flicking it to the pavement. He took a shaky breath and then opened the door, shivering against the blast of air conditioning. He spotted her right away — when had she dyed her hair red?! — and didn't bother waiting for one of the waitresses to greet him.

He took deep breaths on his way to the booth, telling himself that if she showed any concrete sign of breaking up with him, he was going to beat her to the punch and walk out with at least some of his pride. He even managed a half smile as he sat down across from her.

"Hey," he said casually.

Astrid was twirling a loop of crimson hair through her fingers to examine the color: the pink had faded out rather icky on her blondehair, so she opted for a slightly darker shade. She had been stuck with pink for the past several years, alternating only to her natural blonde hair. This was different, and it looked good onher, matching her skin tone better and setting off her light green eyes. Shewas in the middle of congratulating herself on her color transition when the door opened, and in walked Dante. 

Breathe. She absolutely had to remember to breath, to keep calm and unaffected. Right. 

"Hey," she said, offering him up an equally small smile in return. She had done her best to perk her eyes up with a little eyeliner and nude shadow, but she still looked tired. The dark circles under her eyes were so bad, traces of them peeked out ever so slightly from underneath the cover-up she had slathered on. Work — and now life itself — was beginning to take its toll on her. "How are you?" She hated small talk and chit-chat; she wanted to skip the pleasantries, but something inside of her would not allow it.

Despite what she may have been about to do, she still cared deeply about him: cared about what he thought, and how he felt, even how his day went. But he had continuously shut her out. When she thought back to all the times she'd asked how he was, she could see in his eyes that he had lied, though at the time she'd overlooked it. How could she have been so foolish? 

The waitress returned with a cup of coffee, with a small bowl full of creamer, setting both down in front of Astrid. "For you, hon'?"S he aimed her pencil at Dante: a new waitress, not one of their regular ones.

He didn't know which question to answer first. His eyes flicked back and forth between Astrid and the waitress, and he finally settled his gaze on the waitress. "I'll take a coffee," he said, clearing his throat. When the waitress left, he leaned on the table, staring at his hands clasped in front of him.

How to answer? When people asked how you were, they meant that they hadn't seen you in a while and didn't want to be rude. It was a pointless question, and he almost wanted to let her know how pointless it was. He still cared about her, though, and even if things were going to end right here, he mostly didn't want them to end on a bad note.

The emotions played visibly across his face; as he thought about her question — such a simple question, really — his eyebrows furrowed slightly and his chocolate brown eyes darkened, his mouth twisting slightly.

The waitress returned with his cup of coffee. "I'll give you guys a few more minutes," she said, and quickly walked away.

Smart waitress, he thought. Is it that obvious that we're going to break up? He looked Astrid dead in the eye. "I'm pretty sure you didn't ask me to meet you here to play catch-up, but if that's what you want to do... How am I? I'm putting together a band because I'm unemployed, although I might have a full-time job at the tattoo shop if one of the guys there decides to move to California." He took a deep breath through his nose, and lifted his eyebrows. "You?"

As he deliberated his answer, Astrid leaned back into the booth's cushion, chewing on her thumbnail. Her gaze remained locked on him as he paused to place his drink order; for some reason, it helped her maintain her focus and composure, staring at him so boldly. Weird how it was so centering...  

She cleared her throat, obviously uncomfortable by his response. He was right, she really didn't want to play catch-up, since she could use her imagination to fill in the blanks. The fact he was unemployed did not shock her entirely, and same with the band. She nodded once to show his words registered. Once he poised the question to her, she sighed, leaning forward, both sets of fingers sinking into her hair. It was down just past her shoulders, curled in soft, gentle waves — the change from stick-straight pink hair to this felt good, almost empowering. Lifting her head up, she shook it, tired eyes closing for several long seconds. "A lot of work," she responded, voice low. "I told you about that, how one of our managers walked out. Work has been destroying me." It wasn't the only thing that would lead to her own undoing. 

Sitting up straight, she forced her shoulders back and leveled her in, breathing deeply. "You're right, though. I did not call you here to play catch-up." She rolled a small cup of creamer between the pads of her thumb and index finger to help distract her, take some of the pressure off. "I want to talk about us, what's going on, and what's going to happen." So there. It wasn't her breaking it off — not yet. Perhaps the promise of a conversation, a compromise would help influence him, instead of her issuing an ultimatum or putting her foot down and ending it right then and there.

Dante's skin went cold as she spoke, and he sighed, using the sigh to take in a huge breath of air to at least attempt to steady himself. He did not allow himself to believe that she wasn't breaking up with him; he could easily remember being fired from a stupid retail job after being lectured for an hour on how he could improve and even after offering to try harder.

He took his time adding sugar and cream to his coffee, using it as a distraction even though he really just wanted to drink it black. When he finished stirring and melting the sugar, he took a sip and then set the mug back down, cupping his hands around it and leaning on the table.

He glanced at the occupied booth nearby and turned back to Astrid, cocking his head. He kept his voice low. "You want to talk? Here? Really?" He smirked.

Sucking sharply on her teeth, she bit the inside of her cheek as she followed his gaze, watched the smirk spread across his lips. Why did he upset her so easily now? Had his presence really gotten under her skin that much? She still knew the care and concern she felt for him would always remain, but right now... now, the gravity, the darkness of the situation was beginning to bloom, tingeing the air. "Actually, yeah. I do want to talk here." She said it as firmly yet casually as she could manage, taking a sip of coffee after depositing a packet of sugar and some creamer into it; her hands wrapping around the mug to keep her skin warm. 

"My parents are having a small get together in a little bit,s o my house is out. And I didn't feel right just going over to your place." It was the truth, mostly: she knew she'd feel trapped at his apartment, unable to just get up and leave if things were getting dicey. She waved a hand in the air as she set her mug down. "The point is, we've been kind of dancing around the issue here for too long now. I don't know where you're at." She lowered her head, her gaze locked on him, peering through a curtain of lashes. "So where are you, Dante? Do you still care about me? Do you still want to be with me?" A well-groomed eyebrow rose curiously. It wasn't the route she wanted to take, giving him control; her bleeding heart could account for that. Typical Astrid: catering to others when what really mattered was what she wanted.

His eyebrows knotted for a second, and his shoulders slumped. She thought he didn't care. He practically screamed it in his head: SHE THINKS I DON'T CARE! Things had been bad when they had been on regular speaking terms, but until now he had thought they were just drifting, that the breakup would be something inevitable. Now, he realized, he could fix things. All he had to do was tell her that of course he still cared.

He stared at her, eyes softening and lips parted incredulously. "Babe." He shook his head. "Of course I care. I mean... I know we've both been busy, and things weren't exactly... great a few weeks ago, but... " He reached across the table, his hand palm up. "I don't know how you ever got the idea that I didn't care about you." He laughed. "Shit, you had me all scared here. Of course I care about you."

The second eyebrow followed the first as he exhaled a laugh, reached out to take her hands. Having released her coffee cup, Astrid's palms went back to being cool, slightly clammy. She read his face: he thought he was in the clear. Boy, he was really in for a shock. Her heart almost physically hurt when she looked down and pursed her lips, shaking her head slightly. "No, no, I phrased that wrong. I mean, of course you care. I still care, Dante; nothing will ever change that." The couple in the booth behind them had paid the check, and begun collecting their things, and she fell silent. 

Once they had left, she sighed once more and released his hand, folding her arms back on the table.  "I've been thinking," she confessed, her gaze trained on a small drop of coffee that had spilled onto the paper placemat, bleeding into the paper. Suddenly she wished she had a pen handy to trace its outline — an odd thought. "Things haven't been great for the past few weeks, sure, but... they haven't been all that great for awhile now, too." Her eyes turned back up to him: glassy green marbles that were vaguely mournful. She didn't want to come out and say it, that she felt it was his fault to an extent. Sure, she had been busy with work, but there was no debating it: the cataclysm between them was increasing by the second, and she could feel it — why couldn't he? 

When he didn't say anything, she licked her lips subconsciously, and continued. "I've been thinking about the future, Dante — I just... " She paused with a sigh. "I don't know. I don't like where everything is going — not just with you, but overall. And I want to do something about it." Her eyesclosed, to steady herself. "So Dante, like I said: do you still want to be with me? Or should we just... cut this off?" She posed the question again, trying to keep it as simple as possible.

Wrong. He had been horribly wrong. His mouth dropped open a little and he withdrew his hands. Not only had he been wrong about how he could fix things, but his escape plan — breaking up with her before she could dump him — wasn't going to work; she clearly wanted him to decide. Maybe she even wanted him to break up with her.

"Is that what you want?" He kept his voice flat, even. "I'm kind of wishing I'd just stayed home, because I could have had this discussion on the phone and not in the middle of Denny's. I wouldn't have bothered if I had known," he said, even though he had known. His voice rose slightly. "Is that what you really want?"

"Actually, Dante, no. It's really not what I want." Astrid sat back with a sigh, rolling her eyes up to the ceiling and throwing up her hands. "You know, I get that I'm not a perfect person — but I do my best to be a good girlfriend. I do my best to be caring and understanding — but you can't seem to realize that when it counts." She glared at him across the table, hurt evident in her eyes as she folded her arms across her ribcage, pulling her black cardigan closer to her chest. 

"I'm tired of feeling like I'm the only one actively doing anything in this relationship. I'm tired of feeling like I'm the only one who cares whether it lives or dies." She took in a sharp breath, frowning as she steeled herself. "I don't want us to break up — but more than that, I want things to change. I'm willing, but I don't know if you are." She fixed him with that intense stare, probing. He had to know precisely what she meant by it — she hoped to all hell that he was not that dense, or rather, in that much denial.

He rested his cheek on one propped fist, and shook his head again. "I don't understand what you want from me. The phone works both ways. Both of us have been busy." He struggled to keep his voice low, hating that he had to have this conversation in a restaurant, of all places. If they had been anywhere else, he could light a cigarette, maybe a joint, pour a shot, something to keep him calm while she barreled him. "I have no idea where you're getting me not caring about this relationship."

He took another sip of coffee, and set the mug down with trembling hands. "I just told you," he said, lowering his voice to just above a whisper. He felt ridiculous, whispering an argument in the corner of a Denny's. "I just told you that I do care about you. And like I said, neither of us have made much of an effort lately. How does that mean that I don't care? I could have just as easily have called you here, complaining that you don't care, but it's both of us. You know, maybe it isn't worth it, since everything is apparently on me."

He wanted to continue, but he could almost feel dozens of pairs of eyes looking at the back of his head. He slumped back against the booth, arms folded across his chest, and stared at Astrid.

To her left, Astrid saw the waitress making her approach from the corner of her eyes; however, their table must have literally radiated negative energy, because the woman stopped, and promptly retreated. Lovely. "I'm not trying to put everything onyou," she said after a moment, sighing for a third time. "Listen, I'll cut to the chase, because I've already voiced this before: your drinking? Is really starting to get out of hand, and it's been going on for quite some time. I've kept as quiet as I could about it, because the last time I said something, you exploded at me and called me a tyrant." The memory was burned in her mind, still seething in anger.

The first thing she was going to do when she got home was get back in the bath and soak for a long time, smoke a joint and try to unwind. She felt herself getting all worked up, except now, her stomach remained twisted in knots, and she felt sick — the same way she had been feeling for the past week or two. "Dante, I care about you so much, you probably don't even realize it, but I need to protect myself." She took a quick breath, closing her eyes. "If you can't get your drinking under control — or if you don't want to, either way... then maybe we shouldn't be together. I can't handle this any more, it's making me sick."

Dante's eyebrows furrowed again, and his head tilted slightly as he leaned forward. He had to take several quick, deep breaths and remind himself that they were surrounded by nosy people before he could respond. Nosy people who were staring and practically pricking their stupid ears so that they could hear better.

"I'm not going to have this conversation here," he hissed, barely keeping his voice even. "Can we at least go sit in your car?"

For several  long moments, Astrid was silent. Part of her was frustrated that he would not just say anything, own up to his mistakes. All she wanted was an answer, to get things over quickly, and he wasn't allowing that. On the other hand, he did have a point: they were slowly culminating an audience, even several tables over. Taking a deep breath, she finished off her coffee, setting the cup down. "Alright," she said finally, standing up. "Let's go to my car." 

She gathered her purse and reached inside, pulling out a fiver and leaving it on the table. Since coffee was so cheap, and the waitress had left them alone, Astrid did not expect her change; merely squaring her shoulders and heading out the door. She waited for him by her car before she unlocked the doors, slipping inside the driver's seat mutely.

He lit a cigarette before he fully stepped outside, taking the fifty or so paces to the car slowly, thinking about what she said and how he wanted to answer. He slid into the passenger seat and rolled the window down.

"Okay," he said, as if she had asked him to start talking. "I don't want this to be over any more than you do. I don't even want to be having this conversation. Yes, my drinking got out of control a few weeks ago. I'm sorry I scared you and that I called you a tyrant. I was drunk!" He ran a hand through his hair. "But I do not have a problem." He let out a deep breath and looked at her. "If you want me to promise not to be such an asshole when I'm drinking, fine. I promise. I won't be an asshole." The corner of his mouth tugged up just a little. "Okay?"

Once they settled in, she leaned back in her seat, sniffing the scent of cigarette smoke. Smoking... that was another thing she was donew ith. As things with Dante got worse, her smoking increased, and as a result, she woke up with annoying chest pains every subsequent morning. Sighing, she rolled her own window down a hair, and listened to him. 

As he continued, her eyes opened wide, completely astounded. When he spoke about it, he made it sound so goddamned trivial, like it was a one-time thing. Laughing softly, she shook her head. "Dante, you just don't get it. How stupid do you think I am? I mean, I know I didn't acknowledge it in the past — maybe I was in denial myself — but thinking back on it now, it's all so obvious. You've been drinking more and more heavily since we've been dating — since the past year or so. You think I don't know when you sneak drinks while we're hanging out? You think I can't smell it on you?" She turned to him, her eyes wide, brows knitted together. "It is a problem, Dante, and it's definitely affecting our relationship. You hurt me because you were drunk. Because you have no self-control. Sure, you'll promise not to be an asshole, but that doesn't mean your drinking will let up." 

She sighed, for what felt like the umpteenth time that day. "It's not that you're an asshole while drinking — it's the very fact that you're drinking, daily, consistently, and rather heavily." Shaking her head again, she remembered finding the huge 1.75l bottle of Jack in his closet one of the last few times she had been at his place. "I'm sorry, Dante, but that just kills it for me. You've changed — into a completely different person than who you were when we first met. Sometimes, I seriously don't know who you are anymore." Short of breath from her rambling, she shut up and closed her eyes, fingers balling into fists. When she spoke again, her voice was soft, throaty, thick with emotion. "I can't do this anymore."

As her last five words hit him, his resolve solidified. "Fine," he said. "So, it's 'Stop drinking, Dante, you drink too much,' or it's over. I don't tell you what to do. I'm an adult. I'm allowed to have a drink, even if I want one every day. Just like you're allowed to change your hair color," he said, glancing again at the softly curled red hair that framed her face. He wanted to tell her it looked good, that she could shave her head and she'd still look good, but he doubted she would care if he said anything.

He sucked the rest of the cigarette down and lit another. He clamped the cigarette between his lips and tried to remember when he had started drinking every day. On some level, he knew that wasn't good, but what else was he supposed to do? Even now, while he sat in her car having this awful conversation, he wondered if he should stop at a bar on the way home or if he could just wait until he got back to his apartment.

"So that's the choice? Stop drinking or be single? Because I'm not going to do whatever you tell me, no matter how much I want this to work."

"I don't do things that jeopardize our relationship," Astrid said, feeling somehow childish — she knew she was right. She knew she was not crazy, she knew that this was not all in her head. Shaking her head, she reached out and gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands, watching the blood drain from her knuckles as she listened to him brush her off. She was right. He was in complete and utter denial about his drinking, and he did not give a shit. He'd sacrifice our relationshipover his own pride, she thought, feeling sick to her stomach. 

"Is that so? Then... then I guess you didn't care much to begin with if this is so easy for you," she said finally, the tears stinging her eyes, her nostrils. She didn't really care if he saw her cry — he was already beyond the pale. "I'm not going to back down, and neither are you. So I suppose that leaves the inevitable."

Dante's eyes widened. "No, no, no, don't cry, please don't cry!" He tossed the cigarette out of the window and moved closer to her, touching her shoulder lightly as if he expected her to slap his hand away. "Please, please don't cry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he said over and over. He had absolutely no control over this, he realized.

"I wish you would stop saying I don't care. I do care. It makes me sick to think that this is it, I love you so much—" He froze, then bit down on his lower lip. He had not meant to say that — not now.

Astrid had just been getting ready to wrench herself from from his grasp when he dropped the L-bomb on her. Over four years of being together, and neither one of them had the balls to say it first. And now, when they were breaking up, he chooses to say it?! The poor young woman went through an overwhelming change in a matter of moments: first she was stunned into silence, then fear showed on her face, before turning to an angry flush. She believed him — but she could not believe how quickly he could turn things around.

"If you did," she said quietly, angrily as she pulled herself from under his hand, glaring at him sharply, "you would not do this. You would not tell me that you would give up drinking, and then tell me you love me in the same breath." She wiped the tears off her cheek with the back of her hand. Her mascara was streaked and ruined, but she did not care.

"I... I didn't mean to... I mean, I do, but... " He stared at her, stunned. He scratched at the stubble on his face and buried his face in his hands. Why couldn't he control his stupid mouth? Why was it that no matter what he said or did, it didn't seem to be right? Why had he said what he had said — what he definitely felt — now?

Even worse, she hadn't said anything. She only seemed to be more angry with him.

"I'm sorry," he said, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. "I'll just leave you alone." He reached for the door handle.
She was painfully aware of how she was treating him, how badly her reactions cut him down to the bone. Still, she couldn't afford to put herself in harm's way any longer. Despite how she felt about him, despite on how much she cared for him and wanted him to get better, she knew in her heart it wasn't going to happen — not without it becoming a long, drawn out battle. Dante had to go.

Closing her eyes as tears leaked past, she sniffed and eased her grip on the steering wheel slightly. "Just remember what I said, Dante — what you do doesn't just effect you. I'm here for you, I always will be, but — I need to save myself. I'm sorry." As she spoke, her voice grew smaller and smaller, before trailing off in an exhausted sigh.

He didn't know why, but her words surprised him. Shocked him, even. He wished he were sitting on his couch, watching repeats of Scrubs and scribbling down tabs. He wished he were at Chris', a joint in hand and something loud on the speakers. He wished he could get his hand to push open the door and his legs to swing out of the car and take him to his own car, but here he was.

He stared at her, one hand on the handle of the door and the other resting numbly on his thigh, where it had landed when she moved away from him. "Are you really... that afraid of me?" His voice sounded cracked and weak.

Astrid kept her eyes closed as she briefly considered his question, sniffling again and wiping her cheeks. "It's more that I'm afraid for you, Dante. I mean... I want to have a family some day. I like to think I can have that with you." This was a bomb, though not nearly as big as him telling her that he loved her. She went quiet after speaking, before she resumed. "But I can't even begin to consider it when I don't know if you'll be able to keep a job. To take care of me — or us. Either way." Sleeves rolled up to scrub at her eyes, she shook her head slowly.

"I just... I don't know how to get through to you anymore." The words came with more tears; she was crying quietly with no noise, tears rolling down her cheeks, her nose.

He kept staring at her. He did not think of of himself as someone who could be a father. The way his own father was — spending all of the money on his stupid brandy, staying out all night, and sleeping through the day — proved that fatherhood was not in Dante's blood. Pieces of his childhood and teenage years came flashing back, and he laughed bitterly. Halfway through the laugh he stopped, blood running cold, heart pounding in his chest.

"Astrid, I can't be a father. I'm just like mine!" The realization made him nauseous, and he turned away, shaking. Fat tears rolled down his cheeks. He couldn't remember the last time he had cried. He wiped them angrily away, but still they came.

Astrid had no intention of making Dante cry; she didn't want to cause him any pain in the first place. But self-preservation demanded sacrifices, and here he was, crying in her front seat. At first she was stunned into silence by his tears — the entire time they had dated, she had never seen him cry, though he'd seen her break down many times. He had already told her bits and pieces of his past with his family, primarily his father, so his sudden admission did not come as a surprise to her. 

Slowly, she turned back to face forward wordlessly, staring out the windshield and contemplating his words. Tears welled up in her eyes as she closed them, lowering her head. "I know," she said finally, miserable as the tears made their descent. Her voice wavered, her lips trembled violently, and she had to bite down on them sharply to get them to stop. "I know, Dante,"she said again, tipping her head up and staring at the roof. "I knew it when I realized the full extent of your problem, when I remembered how you told me your father was. When I put two and two together, I realized that we... could never..." She could not continue, fresh tears spilling onto her cheeks as she began to cry harder.

He swiped tears off of his face, accidentally scratching himself with nails that should have been cut a week ago. Everything felt so pointless. He swiped the palms of his hands on his jeans, leaving little streaks of water on the worn and faded denim. If she had already known things would never work, then what had the point been in continuing? He felt as though he had been tipped upside down.

Hands shaking, he lit himself a new cigarette, deliberately looking away from her. He couldn't, not after what she said. Self-preservation of the Dante kind demanded that he instantly begin moving forward, or else the pain would ruin him.

"So this will never work," he said, nodding to himself. In his mind's eye, he saw himself shaking her hand and thanking her for her time. He glanced out the window and the ground tipped up slightly, his stomach in a knot of nausea from not having eaten in the last twenty-four or so hours, and the physical pain that burned through his chest. "Okay," he said. "I've gotta go." He stared at the cigarette burning in his hand, and didn't move. He knew he needed to get away before he broke completely, and he knew that he needed to eat before he got sick, but he couldn't make himself move.

Astrid was silent for several long seconds, wiping the tears from her face with her sleeve. "You don't get it, Dante — it could work. It could, if you would just stop drinking." Her voice sounded frail, though she curled her hands up into fists,long nails cutting into the soft flesh of her palms. The pain reminded her to stay present, to stay aware.  

She took a deep breath to steady herself, shaking her head. "But you don't want to," she said even quieter than before, returning her own gaze forward. Somehow, Astrid was finding it extremely difficult to face Dante. He couldn't even admit that he had a problem, or that his drinking was out of control; at the very least, that it was beginning to seep into their relationship, infecting it with its cancerous stranglehold and killing it slowly. Now it was time to put it out of its misery, and it was absolutely destroying Astrid. This is what you wanted — needed, she reminded herself. Her head knew it was the truth, that in the end it was the best course of action — her heart, however, was taking its time to catch up. Though she was the one effectively ending their relationship, it still felt like someone reached into her chest and gave her poor battered heart a tight squeeze. Sitting there in her car with him, she was beginning to feel suffocated.

He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, keeping the cigarette pointed away from his face. Now would not be a good time to accidentally burn himself. He had already messed up the conversation, in so many ways. There probably wasn't anything he couldn't mess up.

"I didn't realize... " ... that I turned into my father, he wanted to finish, but didn't. He pinched the bridge of his nose. He took a deep breath that seemed to go on forever, then let it out. "I don't know if I can. Stop," he added. "Completely." The one time he had tried to quit smoking, it seemed like the days dragged on constantly. At night, he dreamed of cigarettes, and each completed meal begged for his usual dessert. He lasted nearly a week, the feeling similar to wanting to crawl out of his skin.

He couldn't imagine enduring that feeling again. He couldn't imagine being without Astrid, either, though the thought of having a family horrified him. He didn't know the first thing about being married or having kids. He and his siblings had been self-reliant, his older sister cooking for and dressing him when he was still too small to do it himself. When he thought about it, he really didn't know the first thing about anything; he couldn't even manage a relationship, nor could he avoid the one thing he hated most, and he definitely wasn't smart enough or good enough to get a real job and take care of a family.

Astrid had to take several long deep breaths to steady herself: somehow, his agony radiating from his body, infecting her. Poor Astrid was so sensitive to others' emotions, particularly Dante's — she hated it. She loathed it, because right now, she wanted to be in control of the situation, to know she had power over something. Moreover, she wanted to soothe Dante, tell him that it was going to be alright, that he'd be okay without her... but she was not entirely confident in that. He wasn't like this when they had first met — or had he, and she just did not notice? Listening to his voice as he confessed he probably would not stop, it felt like a death sentence. 

His father had been an alcoholic. Of course. It was what he knew. Even if Dante hadn't been a huge drinker at first, she should have realized that he had the propensity to slide down head first into that path. Part of her desperately wished she could fix him; a smaller, lesser part of her wished almost bitterly they had never met, not if it was going to be like this. Somehow, she forced herself to nod slowly, accompanied with a small sigh. "You... You know yourself better than I would," she conceded, feeling a fresh batch of tears well up. This was beginning to get ridiculous; she wished to all hell she could just stop with crying like a child. "If that's what you think, if that's what you believe... " she trailed off to take in a sharp, quivering breath that somehow sounded like a moan. So much for self-preservation: doing this was destroying her.

He moved his head from side to side. "No, no. No." His lower lip trembled, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the threat of returning tears. He couldn't believe he had actually cried. Crying was for babies and women — or so his father had said.

"I don't want this. I don't want to be like this." His voice waved. No. He would not cry. Dante blinked rapidly and finished his cigarette. "I just don't know what to believe. I didn't even know." He paused. On some level, he had to have known. Why else would he have kept it such a secret? Why else would he have gotten so angry at her when she first confronted him about it? He hung his head. "I don't even know what I'm saying. If you want me to leave you alone, I'll go. There's no point sitting here." The longer he sat in the car, the less he felt in control of anything. It seemed clear what she wanted. He didn't believe that she thought it could work, because he didn't believe he could make it work.

She breathed in sharply, feeling pain in her chest. Wonderful — one more worry to add to the mountain that was continuously growing by the minute. Swallowing hard, she shook her head. "Listen, Dante... I want for you to get better. I want you to be okay. I want... even if... I just... I want for you to be okay." It was too hard to tell him that even if they wouldn't have a family together, at the very least she wanted to stay with him for a long, long time. The idea that he could kill himself with his drinking put a wrench in that, and she hated it.

The silence hung between them in the air, thick. Was there anything left to say? Was there anything left she could do? She had no clue; and it seemed like he had nothing more to say. Her hand, trembling, reached into her purse to fish out her keys, listening to them dance against each other as she tried to steady herself, unsuccessfully. "I'm sorry to keep you," she said, eyes focused on the ignition. Her way of releasing him, letting him go.

Suddenly Dante realized that, while she had spent the last few years making plans for them, he had never thought about the future — his or theirs. He always knew how he felt, and had even dared to hope that she felt the same, but his thoughts had never gone beyond that. He had so much to think about, and so much to say, and yet he couldn't get his thoughts together enough to voice them. Mournfully, he glanced at the door handle and quickly her face.

He had to get his head together. He didn't want to leave things the way they were, and he didn't want things to be over, but he had to think. He didn't know if he could think about anything right now, or even later, but he felt too off-balance to continue sitting in this car with her.

"I need to think," he said, pulling on the door handle and pushing the door open. It felt wrong to ask her to wait, but he could barely form coherent sentences, never mind figure out how he was going to save their relationship and not lose his mind. His words replayed in his head, and he realized she might think that he had to think about them. He shook his head. "That's not right. I just... I need a couple of days. I need to just... " He scrubbed at his face with his hands again, a pained expression on his face.

Frustrated, he made a fist and brought it down hard onto his thigh. "It's not you," he said finally. "I want this to work. I just don't know how I'm going to do what you want." With one foot planted on the asphalt and the other still in the car, he said, "I don't know how to stop." He wanted to say more, but the words slammed up against one another in his throat. The nausea swept over him again. "Do you... understand?" Was he making sense? He didn't think so.

A couple of days. To think. What would the outcome of that be? She hadn't expect him to say that; in fact, in her imagination, he would have long since stormed off, angry at her accusations. But he had thrown her off-balance, shocked her by seemingly considering what she had to say. Was there hope after all? 

The sharp pains in her chest quelled — she needed to go to a doctor, and soon — and she was able to breathe a little easier. As he began to shift himself out of the car, she nodded, tucking back strands of crimson hair behind her ears. "Okay," she said finally, nodding slowly and repeatedly like a lunatic. "Okay. Okay, that's fine. Just... keep me in the loop, okay?" If he wasn't going to storm away, if he was going to actually think, plan, try to make a difference, then that changed things drastically.

Perhaps there was a light at the end of the tunnel that wasn't just another train. "If there's anything I can do to help, please let me know." Hesitantly, she reached out, her hand coming to rest on top of his fist. She gazed at him earnestly, a mixture of fear and hope evident in those glassy green eyes. "I don't want this either. But... more than this, I want to make things right, the way they should be." They had been together far too long to simply sacrifice all they had put into it, even if it had begun to go to shit. A part of her feared that nothing was going to change, or that he'd try for a little while, but slip back into old habits. It terrified her, and she wasn't sure she wanted to run the risk. But then again, this was Dante. He could still be saved, salvaged — things could be all right.

His own hands were cold. Her hand felt much warmer than his. He shivered in spite of himself.

"Okay," he said. He looked at her, debating whether he should kiss her goodbye or not. He shrugged and grasped her hand, then leaned forward and kissed the tip of her nose. He slid out of the car and grabbed his pack of cigarettes from the dashboard. Then, without looking back, he walked toward his own car.