I just returned home from my meeting with CJ and a home care nurse for Dad. The meeting went as I’d expected, which was pretty fucking horrendous. Dad was so mad, complaining that we’d ambushed him. He didn’t need a nursemaid; he was a grown-ass man, and more than capable of looking after himself. Of course, this was fifteen minutes after we’d all spent almost an hour searching for the television remote, which CJ finally located in the fridge between the milk, bottles of Bud Light and a pair of his socks. It’s not that I think he needs constant babysitting, but his memory is shot to shit lately. He can recall events from our childhood that even I have trouble remembering, but forgets to turn off the oven ten seconds after using it. I can wash over most things, but when it comes to him no longer being safe, it’s not a risk any of us can afford to take. It only takes one small slip up, like leaving the gas hob on or filling the toaster with water instead of the kettle, and that would it, he could kill himself. I couldn’t live knowing I didn’t do something when I had the chance.

In an ideal world Dad would be living with CJ or me, but this world is less than perfect, and neither of us has the time or the knowledge of how to look after him in this condition. CJ arranged for the nurse to come visit, and she seems nice. Her name’s Lynda, she’s middle-aged, has great references and has over twenty years of experience working with Alzheimer’s patients. CJ insisted on hiring the best person he could find, and I’m in no doubt that Lynda is it. She doesn’t come cheap though, and what Dad’s insurance doesn’t cover, CJ and I are splitting.

Lynda suggested that Dad was still in the mild stages of dementia. He’s beginning to experience more vast memory loss now; it’s becoming more frequent and he’s displaying signs of other cognitive difficulties. The bright side is that he’s not started wandering off and getting lost, although she said that would probably come next. She expressed that some of her patients started having trouble handling their finances and paying bills. I hadn’t even considered that. By the look on CJ’s face, neither had he. Lynda also warned us to expect behavior changes. In all honesty, it sounds like it’s a living nightmare for him. I hate that he has to go through this. We arranged for Lynda to take him on as a patient right away; now we need to convince Dad that it’s for his own good.

Today’s certainly taking its toll and kicking my ass.

When I walk into my living room, finally ready to relax, there’s a note on the coffee table from Robyn. I open it up, reading the neat, precise handwriting. It says she’s headed to her friend Lucy’s right after her shift, and then she has a dinner date and will be back late. I toss my keys and phone on the coffee table, scrunch the note into a tight ball and then retrieve a bottle of Jack from the cupboard. Just when I thought today was done chewing me up, Robyn leaves a note telling me she’s out on a date.

What the fuck?

I’m starting to wonder if I manifested the whole kiss in my head in some form of stressed-out hallucination. I put the smooth bottle to my lips, thinking about her kissing someone else tonight, and tip my head back, letting the alcohol burn the back of my throat and numb the sickening feeling building in my gut.

I want to go back to being pissed at Lisa; it seems so much easier now. I’ll happily take being stressed at everyone reminding me of my cheating bitch of a fiancée over this. My frustration is almost palpable. I guess it speaks volumes about how wrong it would have been to marry Lisa if I can feel so much more about a girl I’ve known only a fraction of the time and am not even in a relationship with. I take another long pull of the Jack, savoring the way it heats my stomach, and decide to hell with women. I sit back onto the sofa, Jack in hand, and decide to reacquaint myself with the numbing effects of whisky. Some people drink for fun, others to forget. Well, tonight I’m drinking to not feel. I’m striving for detachment, and praying it comes quickly.

I HAVE THE wine breathing, food set out on the table, and the lights set low when Robyn knocks at my door. I take a second to flick on the music as I smooth down my jeans and push the sleeves of my white shirt up.

“Hey there, beautiful,” I say, pulling the door open and standing aside so she can enter. Her face lights up and a wide smile takes over when she takes in the setting. I’ve laid the table properly and even stopped at the store on my way home from work to buy candles. All women love candles, and I don’t know who this Jo Malone person is but the girl in the store said his or her brand was the best, so I took her word for it and spent a small fortune. They do smell pretty awesome.

“This looks fancy. I feel underdressed now,” she says, biting down on the corner of her lip and slipping the black leather jacket she’s wearing from her shoulders, uncovering a floaty little black dress.

“Trust me, you look perfect,” I manage to tell her as I take her jacket and place it in the hall closet. It takes all my effort to drag my eyes from her. The only thing I want to eat tonight is her; she turns me into a walking hard on.

“When you said dinner, I thought we’d be ordering pizza and watching movies on Netflix. You look like you’ve gone to some serious effort…I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be too impressed; it’s still take out, just from somewhere a little nicer than Papa John’s. It’s Thai; I hope that’s okay with you?”

“Definitely, I’m starving.”

So am I, but not for the same thing she is.

“Take a seat.” I pull the chair out for her and let her sit before reaching for the wine and pouring her a glass. “I thought it about time that I invited you ‘round. Don’t get me wrong, I like going out places with you, but there’s a lot to be said for relaxing at home with a good bottle of red and great company.”

“I agree, and from what I can see, your apartment is beautiful. You’ll have to give me the full tour after dinner.”

The only place I want to tour is her body as it lies naked in my bed, but I don’t want to push my luck, so instead I smile and nod.

“You know, this place is exactly as I imagined,” she says, taking a sip of her wine and smirking at me. Damn it drives me crazy when she narrows those huge eyes at me like that.

“Really?” I ask

“Sure, you’re always impeccably turned out. Your sandy hair never looks out of place, your tie’s never crooked. I just knew that your home would be the same, all clean, minimalist lines. It’s masculine and modern and just so—I don’t know—you, I guess. Put together. I bet if I opened up your pantry all the cans would be neatly stacked with the labels facing out.”

“You think you have me pegged?” I ask.

“Pretty much, yeah. Tell me I’m wrong,” she challenges.

“You’re wrong.”

“Really?”

“No,” I laugh. “You’re spot on with your assessment. I like simplicity in my home life. I deal with enough complexity at work. I like things to be orderly and neat; it saves time and energy.”

“I think I’m probably your worst nightmare, then,” she says, taking another drink and forcing my eyes to her mouth. God, that mouth.

“I like the idea of being all tidy and organized, but it’s not me. I’m a messy person in general. I’m always juggling everything, I feel too confined if everything is regimented. I think that’s why I love dance so much. It’s freedom of expression.”

“You know what they say about opposites though…maybe you’re the yin to my yang?”

She almost spits her wine back into her glass and places it down on the dark wooden table.