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sendthembackMacaroni and bourbon. Rachel recounts her sins.
Words required: 26,672
Words achieved: 29,504
Words of today: 2,000
XXI.
"Would you make fun of me if I told you I have blue box macaroni in my pantry?" Keith asks.
Rachel smiles. "Not if you told me you also have non-curdled milk to go into it."
"I do, in fact."
"Then quit holding out on me, man." Rachel swings herself into a chair next to the kitchen table, and Keith is glad to see she's not immediately going after the booze.
He nods and heads toward the little pantry off to the side, stopping when he remembers the Indian food in the refrigerator. "Oh, we also have leftovers, from last night..."
"You can eat them during my horribly awkward dinner with Stephen," Rachel answers. "Feed me macaroni and cheese before my stomach wises up and decides its a bad idea."
Another nod and he's opening the pantry door.
"Okay," Keith says when he emerges with a box in his hand. He looks over at her. "I wasn't being completely truthful a second ago. It's actually Annie's Homegrown Gluten-Free Rice Pasta and Cheddar Mac and Cheese and I have no idea how old it is, as I don't actually remember when I bought it."
Rachel laughs. "Well, I'm just impressed enough by the fact that you were able to recite its entire name without looking at the box to give it a shot, regardless of its possible age."
"Great," Keith answers. "Except I actually spent about ten seconds of my rifling through the pantry memorizing the name, so..."
Rachel rolls her eyes, but smiles.
"It was right in front on the middle shelf, but I couldn't make it seem too easy..."
"Just make me some damn macaroni, Keith." Rachel shifts in her chair a little, still smiling, though the smile turns toward a concerned frown as Keith flips on the gas burner and starts digging through his cupboards, looking for the proper pot.
"Should you just leave the flame on like that?" she asks.
Keith looks up shrugs. "I don't know if I've ever even used the stove in this apartment before, actually." He ducks back into the cupboard. "No, I made spaghetti once... Unless that was at my last place..."
Rachel stares at the low blue flame, refusing to take her eyes off of it until Keith pops up again with a pot in his hand. He carries it to the sink, filling it about halfway to the top. Then, he drops it on the stove. Water has dripped down the sides, of course, and it sizzles as the heat touches it. Rachel keeps her mouth shut until he dumps the macaroni into the warming water.
"I think you're supposed to bring it to a boil first," she says, her frown stretching up into a smirk.
Keith snorts. "And you're telling me this now because...?"
"Because I want to make you look bad."
"Trust me," Keith sighs. "On a day like this, I really don't need your help."
"What's wrong with a day like this?" Rachel asks. She means it innocently, conversationally, but she realizes how stupid she was to say it the second she's finished speaking. "Sorry. Dumb question."
Keith shrugs. He turns the flame up on the pot and then moves over to the table, pulling out a chair, but not sitting down. "Do you want some water or a Coke or something?"
"Oh!" Rachel jumps up. "I was going to make drinks."
"You could wait until we had food first."
"I could." Rachel looks at him. "You want me to."
"Yes, I do."
Rachel sighs. "All right, why not? I'll take some water then, since you're offering."
She sits back down and Keith turns to the kitchen yet again, filling glasses with ice water and carrying them to the table. Rachel and he sit silently for a few seconds, then Keith finally speaks.
"I suppose you'll want to wait until we have food and drink to talk," he says.
Rachel takes a long, slow breath. "No, I might as well start, but you're going to have to ask me questions, because I still don't know how to talk about this on my own."
"I can do that," Keith says, though he doesn't ask her anything, not for another full minute. He just drinks his water, urging her to do the same with his eyes. Then, he clears his throat and moves his chair back one inch and then another.
"For God's sake, Keith..." Rachel groans.
"Okay, I'm sorry." He looks at her one last time, then says the first thing that comes to his head.
"Why did she kick you out?"
The question forces the air out of Rachel's lungs yet again. She refill them, then begins. "There are a lot of reasons, and I'm not just saying that as a cop out, I'm saying it as a preface." She grimaces. "This is going to take a while."
"We have plenty of time," Keith answers. "Where are you meeting Stephen, anyway?"
"I don't know." Rachel lets out a sudden, short burst of laughter. "I'm just failing at everything lately, aren't I?"
"You can text him in a little while, after we eat."
"Okay." Rachel takes another drink of water, then stares at the wall for a few seconds. "Okay. I guess I'll start with the stupid things that don't sound like my fault, first, and build up to the really shitty stuff."
She looks back at Keith and he nods. "Go ahead, I mean, when you want to."
"I don't want to, but... God, I need to stop saying 'okay' every five seconds." One more breath. She looks down at her hands. "I was working too much and I wasn't paying enough attention to her. I'd come home every night and either have some project I'd brought with me I had to get done or I just head straight to bed, hardly even saying anything to her. Our sex life sucked, or romantic life was worse. I... I forgot her fucking birthday. I forgot to bring in the mail and feed the dog. I forgot to say 'I love you' and 'I need you' and 'I'm sorry', and then I forgot how to say those things, so I just didn't say anything at all. I mean, we were silent. We'd just sit there ant not talk, and it wasn't even some sort of companionable thing, it just--it sucked."
Rachel stops, looking up at him again, then over toward the stove, craning her neck to see. The water's starting to boil.
"I need my drink now," she says.
Keith nods. "All right. I'll, well, I guess I'll just stir the macaroni that's already in the pot or something."
"Turn the water down a little, too," Rachel suggests as she gets up from her chair. He follows her away from the table.
"I thought you didn't know how to cook," he teases.
Rachel just shakes her head and continues to the liquor cabinet.
Rachel doesn't resume her confession until after the food and drinks are on the table.
Keith spills cheese powder everywhere and they clean it up together. She adds the milk and the butter herself, amazed by the fact that they somehow didn't forget to drain the noodles first, then finishes shaking together the bourbon and triple sec while Keith gets them bowls and forks and napkins. It's her idea that saves the table from burning, a last second pot holder slid under the pot as Keith places it down between their plates.
"So," Keith finally says, after he spoons them both a giant heap of macaroni. Rachel burns her tongue on her first bite and chases away the pain with a long drink from her glass. She doesn't look quite ready to speak again, so he continues. "You forgot a lot of things."
It doesn't seem like all that much, yet, just human inconvenience, the reality of relationships, things falling apart, but fixable things, maybe, stuff for counseling or a simple, awkward "chat", but he's not stupid enough to say that, because he knows something else is coming, even if he doesn't know exactly what.
Rachel tries her macaroni again, blowing on her fork before slipping it into her mouth. The flavor of the noodles is slightly off, but it isn't bad.
"Remember that Air America cruise I went on a while ago?" she asks.
Keith nods, scooping up a few pieces of macaroni, looking down and then back up at her.
"I... I slept with one of the bartenders on the boat. Susan went to bed early and I ending up drinking way too much, and then, the next morning, I woke up in the wrong cabin."
Keith raises his eyebrows, but doesn't say anything. He needs to process before he can figure out the right words.
Rachel sighs. "So, I'm an asshole, too, I guess." She almost smiles. Instead, she takes several long gulps of bourbon.
"You made a mistake," Keith finally says. "It was a shitty mistake, but people make them."
Rachel kind of nods. It's a weird little jerk, and it shuts Keith up. "When I told Susan about it, I promised her I wouldn't do it again."
"And..." Keith begins. He doesn't even need the look on her face as an answer. "Oh."
"Yeah."
"Are--"
"Seven times," Rachel says. She pushes her bowl away, staring at it for a few seconds before suddenly picking up her glass and pouring its contents on top of her barely eaten mac'n'cheese. Keith blinks at her.
"Once with some sickeningly young independent reporter in D.C., five times with Ana Marie Cox, and one more time with this girl--woman--I knew from California. The last one was a rebound, I think, after I finally broke it off with Ana. I--"
She picks up her fork and starts to stab at her noodles, sloshing around the mixture of cheese and alcohol. "And Susan knew, too. She always knew, without my even telling her. I think she probably knew when I was going to do it before I even did. Fuck, Keith. She wasn't an idiot. She was a genius. And I loved her, too."
Keith waits.
"I loved her to fucking death, you know?" She frowns down at the mess she's made. "I just--I stopped noticing her, I guess, or I stopped caring? I don't even know, because I did care, or part of me cared. She was always there and I... Somehow it wasn't good enough that I loved her. We just weren't working. And that's not an excuse, it's--shit... I guess I should have broken up with her before she broke up with me, years ago, when we were first starting to get tired of each other."
She looks over at Keith. He's no longer eating, just watching her, his face contorting between a sadness and confusion, neither really winning out.
"It doesn't make sense," she mumbles. "And that's why I didn't want to talk about it, I guess."
She reaches forward and grabs his drink. He expects her to up-end it over her bowl, but, instead, she takes a slow sip.
"I never lied when I said she was important to me or that I would be willing to move out to the middle of nowhere with her or that I wanted to be with her forever. She was and I would and I wanted to, desperately, but, then, I couldn't. I'm... I'm fucked, Keith."
He realizes that she's crying, and he's not sure if it just started or if it's been going on all the while.
"I fucked up and I'm fucked up." She shoves the bowl further away and rests her head on the table, starting to sob.
Keith stands up and circles around the table, crouching over her. He never put on a shirt, and her clothed shoulders feel strange against his bare skin. She turns her head toward him, pressing her wet cheek into his stomach.
Words required: 26,672
Words achieved: 29,504
Words of today: 2,000
XXI.
"Would you make fun of me if I told you I have blue box macaroni in my pantry?" Keith asks.
Rachel smiles. "Not if you told me you also have non-curdled milk to go into it."
"I do, in fact."
"Then quit holding out on me, man." Rachel swings herself into a chair next to the kitchen table, and Keith is glad to see she's not immediately going after the booze.
He nods and heads toward the little pantry off to the side, stopping when he remembers the Indian food in the refrigerator. "Oh, we also have leftovers, from last night..."
"You can eat them during my horribly awkward dinner with Stephen," Rachel answers. "Feed me macaroni and cheese before my stomach wises up and decides its a bad idea."
Another nod and he's opening the pantry door.
"Okay," Keith says when he emerges with a box in his hand. He looks over at her. "I wasn't being completely truthful a second ago. It's actually Annie's Homegrown Gluten-Free Rice Pasta and Cheddar Mac and Cheese and I have no idea how old it is, as I don't actually remember when I bought it."
Rachel laughs. "Well, I'm just impressed enough by the fact that you were able to recite its entire name without looking at the box to give it a shot, regardless of its possible age."
"Great," Keith answers. "Except I actually spent about ten seconds of my rifling through the pantry memorizing the name, so..."
Rachel rolls her eyes, but smiles.
"It was right in front on the middle shelf, but I couldn't make it seem too easy..."
"Just make me some damn macaroni, Keith." Rachel shifts in her chair a little, still smiling, though the smile turns toward a concerned frown as Keith flips on the gas burner and starts digging through his cupboards, looking for the proper pot.
"Should you just leave the flame on like that?" she asks.
Keith looks up shrugs. "I don't know if I've ever even used the stove in this apartment before, actually." He ducks back into the cupboard. "No, I made spaghetti once... Unless that was at my last place..."
Rachel stares at the low blue flame, refusing to take her eyes off of it until Keith pops up again with a pot in his hand. He carries it to the sink, filling it about halfway to the top. Then, he drops it on the stove. Water has dripped down the sides, of course, and it sizzles as the heat touches it. Rachel keeps her mouth shut until he dumps the macaroni into the warming water.
"I think you're supposed to bring it to a boil first," she says, her frown stretching up into a smirk.
Keith snorts. "And you're telling me this now because...?"
"Because I want to make you look bad."
"Trust me," Keith sighs. "On a day like this, I really don't need your help."
"What's wrong with a day like this?" Rachel asks. She means it innocently, conversationally, but she realizes how stupid she was to say it the second she's finished speaking. "Sorry. Dumb question."
Keith shrugs. He turns the flame up on the pot and then moves over to the table, pulling out a chair, but not sitting down. "Do you want some water or a Coke or something?"
"Oh!" Rachel jumps up. "I was going to make drinks."
"You could wait until we had food first."
"I could." Rachel looks at him. "You want me to."
"Yes, I do."
Rachel sighs. "All right, why not? I'll take some water then, since you're offering."
She sits back down and Keith turns to the kitchen yet again, filling glasses with ice water and carrying them to the table. Rachel and he sit silently for a few seconds, then Keith finally speaks.
"I suppose you'll want to wait until we have food and drink to talk," he says.
Rachel takes a long, slow breath. "No, I might as well start, but you're going to have to ask me questions, because I still don't know how to talk about this on my own."
"I can do that," Keith says, though he doesn't ask her anything, not for another full minute. He just drinks his water, urging her to do the same with his eyes. Then, he clears his throat and moves his chair back one inch and then another.
"For God's sake, Keith..." Rachel groans.
"Okay, I'm sorry." He looks at her one last time, then says the first thing that comes to his head.
"Why did she kick you out?"
The question forces the air out of Rachel's lungs yet again. She refill them, then begins. "There are a lot of reasons, and I'm not just saying that as a cop out, I'm saying it as a preface." She grimaces. "This is going to take a while."
"We have plenty of time," Keith answers. "Where are you meeting Stephen, anyway?"
"I don't know." Rachel lets out a sudden, short burst of laughter. "I'm just failing at everything lately, aren't I?"
"You can text him in a little while, after we eat."
"Okay." Rachel takes another drink of water, then stares at the wall for a few seconds. "Okay. I guess I'll start with the stupid things that don't sound like my fault, first, and build up to the really shitty stuff."
She looks back at Keith and he nods. "Go ahead, I mean, when you want to."
"I don't want to, but... God, I need to stop saying 'okay' every five seconds." One more breath. She looks down at her hands. "I was working too much and I wasn't paying enough attention to her. I'd come home every night and either have some project I'd brought with me I had to get done or I just head straight to bed, hardly even saying anything to her. Our sex life sucked, or romantic life was worse. I... I forgot her fucking birthday. I forgot to bring in the mail and feed the dog. I forgot to say 'I love you' and 'I need you' and 'I'm sorry', and then I forgot how to say those things, so I just didn't say anything at all. I mean, we were silent. We'd just sit there ant not talk, and it wasn't even some sort of companionable thing, it just--it sucked."
Rachel stops, looking up at him again, then over toward the stove, craning her neck to see. The water's starting to boil.
"I need my drink now," she says.
Keith nods. "All right. I'll, well, I guess I'll just stir the macaroni that's already in the pot or something."
"Turn the water down a little, too," Rachel suggests as she gets up from her chair. He follows her away from the table.
"I thought you didn't know how to cook," he teases.
Rachel just shakes her head and continues to the liquor cabinet.
Rachel doesn't resume her confession until after the food and drinks are on the table.
Keith spills cheese powder everywhere and they clean it up together. She adds the milk and the butter herself, amazed by the fact that they somehow didn't forget to drain the noodles first, then finishes shaking together the bourbon and triple sec while Keith gets them bowls and forks and napkins. It's her idea that saves the table from burning, a last second pot holder slid under the pot as Keith places it down between their plates.
"So," Keith finally says, after he spoons them both a giant heap of macaroni. Rachel burns her tongue on her first bite and chases away the pain with a long drink from her glass. She doesn't look quite ready to speak again, so he continues. "You forgot a lot of things."
It doesn't seem like all that much, yet, just human inconvenience, the reality of relationships, things falling apart, but fixable things, maybe, stuff for counseling or a simple, awkward "chat", but he's not stupid enough to say that, because he knows something else is coming, even if he doesn't know exactly what.
Rachel tries her macaroni again, blowing on her fork before slipping it into her mouth. The flavor of the noodles is slightly off, but it isn't bad.
"Remember that Air America cruise I went on a while ago?" she asks.
Keith nods, scooping up a few pieces of macaroni, looking down and then back up at her.
"I... I slept with one of the bartenders on the boat. Susan went to bed early and I ending up drinking way too much, and then, the next morning, I woke up in the wrong cabin."
Keith raises his eyebrows, but doesn't say anything. He needs to process before he can figure out the right words.
Rachel sighs. "So, I'm an asshole, too, I guess." She almost smiles. Instead, she takes several long gulps of bourbon.
"You made a mistake," Keith finally says. "It was a shitty mistake, but people make them."
Rachel kind of nods. It's a weird little jerk, and it shuts Keith up. "When I told Susan about it, I promised her I wouldn't do it again."
"And..." Keith begins. He doesn't even need the look on her face as an answer. "Oh."
"Yeah."
"Are--"
"Seven times," Rachel says. She pushes her bowl away, staring at it for a few seconds before suddenly picking up her glass and pouring its contents on top of her barely eaten mac'n'cheese. Keith blinks at her.
"Once with some sickeningly young independent reporter in D.C., five times with Ana Marie Cox, and one more time with this girl--woman--I knew from California. The last one was a rebound, I think, after I finally broke it off with Ana. I--"
She picks up her fork and starts to stab at her noodles, sloshing around the mixture of cheese and alcohol. "And Susan knew, too. She always knew, without my even telling her. I think she probably knew when I was going to do it before I even did. Fuck, Keith. She wasn't an idiot. She was a genius. And I loved her, too."
Keith waits.
"I loved her to fucking death, you know?" She frowns down at the mess she's made. "I just--I stopped noticing her, I guess, or I stopped caring? I don't even know, because I did care, or part of me cared. She was always there and I... Somehow it wasn't good enough that I loved her. We just weren't working. And that's not an excuse, it's--shit... I guess I should have broken up with her before she broke up with me, years ago, when we were first starting to get tired of each other."
She looks over at Keith. He's no longer eating, just watching her, his face contorting between a sadness and confusion, neither really winning out.
"It doesn't make sense," she mumbles. "And that's why I didn't want to talk about it, I guess."
She reaches forward and grabs his drink. He expects her to up-end it over her bowl, but, instead, she takes a slow sip.
"I never lied when I said she was important to me or that I would be willing to move out to the middle of nowhere with her or that I wanted to be with her forever. She was and I would and I wanted to, desperately, but, then, I couldn't. I'm... I'm fucked, Keith."
He realizes that she's crying, and he's not sure if it just started or if it's been going on all the while.
"I fucked up and I'm fucked up." She shoves the bowl further away and rests her head on the table, starting to sob.
Keith stands up and circles around the table, crouching over her. He never put on a shirt, and her clothed shoulders feel strange against his bare skin. She turns her head toward him, pressing her wet cheek into his stomach.
