Drew slams the door to the suite and stomps over to the bar, pouring a large glass of scotch for himself. He shrugs out of his jacket and slings back half of the dark amber liquid. Turning to stare at me intimidatingly, he downs the rest of the scotch and hurls the glass against the wall, shattering it into thousands of tiny crystals, his eyes never leaving mine.
I recoil from him, tears flooding my eyes. He’s been angry before, but never at me. And that’s what this feels like, that he’s furious and it’s all my fault. Drew closes his eyes and clenches his jaw. I recognize his attempt to rein in his temper. He turns around and picks up the hotel phone.
“Yes, room 2218. A bottle of 40 year old Glenfiddich Single Malt. Yes. And a bottle of ibuprofen please. ASAP, right.” He hangs up the phone and wordlessly disappears into the bedroom.
I remove my painful stiletto sandals and walk into the kitchen, pulling out a bottle of water from the refrigerator and twisting off the top. If Drew wants to be an angry asshole, I need to be sober to keep him from doing something stupid. Well, more stupid than he’s already done, like attack a man on the street and shatter a glass in a five star hotel.
Hearing a quiet knock on the door, I step over to answer it, assuming the room service Drew ordered has arrived. Before I can twist the knob, Drew appears behind me and grabs my wrist, whipping me around to face him.
“Are you crazy?” he asks with an astonished and irate look on his face, his nose just inches from mine.
“What are you doing?” I wrench out of his grip, my cheeks wet with tears.
“You cahnt open the Goddamn door by yourself, Sydney! Ya don’t know who the fuck is out theah!” he bellows. Angry Drew is still alive and well, and now he’s yelling at me.
Outraged and humiliated, I take my bottle of water and march into the bedroom, slamming the door behind me and locking it. Immature? You bet. But I’m not too happy at being on the receiving end of his wrath when I didn’t do anything wrong.
I hear a loud noise while I’m in the bedroom, and ignore it. I have no desire to see what he’s doing out there right now.
I shimmy out of the troublesome red dress and kick it under the bed. Sliding my tiny white tank top over my head and yanking on a pair of white cotton boy shorts, I go into the en suite and scrub every last bit of makeup off of my face, determined to wash all traces of this evening down the drain. I brush my teeth too hard and pull my long, auburn hair into a giant messy bun on the top of my head.
Looking in the mirror, I see a scared, young, twenty-four year old girl. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes swollen and red and I’m too thin. For once, I want regular twenty-four year-old problems, not all of this stressful bullshit that I have to deal with. I hang my head and sigh, knowing I have to face Drew at some point.
I open the bedroom door and find him sitting on the couch, his elbows on his knees with his head hanging between them. One hand holds his glass of scotch, filled to the top once again. The room service cart is next to the couch on Drew’s other side, his left hand sunk into the ice bucket. He looks sad, resigned, like he’s given up. My heart sinks; he hasn’t given up on us has he?
“Drew?” I ask timidly from across the room.
He slowly lifts his head and sees me. Drew sets the scotch on the tray and drags his hand down his tired face. Opening his arm wide, he beckons me to sit on his lap. I scurry over and huddle into him, pulling up into a ball. Drew envelops me in a tight embrace, pressing me to his chest as I sob into his shirt.
“What’s happening to us,” I whisper into Drew’s chest.
“Too much scrutiny, too much anxiety, too much fear for your safety,” he answers quietly, kissing the top of my head.
“What happened to you?” I glance at the ice bucket and lean back so I can look into his eyes.
I see his beautiful face harden up; his loving green eyes turn to steel. “I punched the wall.” He nods toward the wall behind the couch and I see a fist sized hole there. Shit!
“I can’t keep you safe. I worry about it all of the time. That skimpy dress didn’t help, Sydney. All of those men looking at you, I never know which one of them is the next psycho that will hurt you. Fuck!” He reaches over and takes another swig of the expensive scotch. The bottle is a third of the way gone already.
“What I wear doesn’t make someone attack me, Drew. They’re either crazy or they’re not.” I shimmy off of his lap and sit next to him on the couch. I hope he’s not blaming me for someone trying to touch me. His reaction to it was downright disturbing and way out of line.
“No, but it certainly encourages a lot more negative attention, doesn’t it? It would be nice if you actually helped me keep you safe!” His voice rises in an accusatory tone.