Tilting at Windmills by Joseph Pittman Read Free Book Online

come up with the words that would best explain my actions. “Look, John, I’m taking this as an opportunity, and a golden one at that. For me and Maddie, it was either get married or end it, and I thought marriage wouldn’t be so bad, really. We were certainly talking about it—you know that. Who knows, though, maybe she was having second thoughts. Whatever the reasoning, her decision to sleep with Justin was a conscious one, something she wanted to do. So let her get the promotion and let her get on with her life. And in the meantime, let me get on with mine.”
    “Which entails what, exactly?” he asked, his words starting to slur. Still, he ordered up another drink and so did I, just seltzer with a fresh wedge of lime.
    I shrugged off his question. “Who says I need to know now what I’m going to do? Pack up my apartment, hop in my car, and head out onto the open road. Destination unknown. Maybe somewhere along the way something will catch my eye, make me stop and see what it’s all about. But really, that’s not what’s going to happen, John. What I want, what I’m searching for, well, it has to come from within. This time away is supposed to allow me to explore all that’s churning inside me. Think about it: For the first time since college, John, I’m free of responsibility and can do whatever I want.” Then I laughed at my nonchalance. “Of course, my bank account’s going to suffer for a while, but I figure six months ought to give me enough time to start answering some of the questions I’ve got. After that, we’ll see.”
    He sucked down more of the scotch, then looked at me with bleary eyes. “You know what I think?”
    “No, but if tradition counts for anything, you’re going to tell me.”
    He pointed an accusatory finger at me. “You’re running away.”
    I laughed, a defensive move. “No, I’m not.”
    “Yes, you are.”
    “No, John, I’m . . . Christ, before we get into a pissing match, let’s drop it. Okay?”
    “You’re so eager to drop it because you know I’m right. Do it once, do it again,” he said with the knowledge of years.
    “John, you don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.
    “At least face some reality, Bri. Come on—when you fall in love, you fall hard. When love doesn’t work out, well, you fall even harder. If things had worked out with Lucy years ago, you’d probably have two cars, two kids, and a big fat mortgage now—the American dream. But it didn’t work, and what did you do? You ran here, to New York, and sought help from yours truly. Now, listen to me again, and believe me, I can be this honest with you because, well, ’cause the booze helps. But listen up: You can’t run away again.”
    “John, dredging up history is pointless. Lucy and I . . . we were just grown-up kids who didn’t know anything about being adults. And it’s completely different. I wasn’t running away then; I was—”
    “Aha!” he screamed out. We caught the attention of the other people in the cramped little bar, curious looks indicating that they thought someone had had too much to drink. I tried to encourage John to leave, but he protested by draining his scotch and asking for another. I waved the bartender away.
    “Thanks,” I said, tossing down thirty bucks on the bar, and, with my friend in tow, I exited the bar.
    It was late, past ten. We’d been there for four hours, and John was pretty drunk. Good thing I’d chosen the Gaf, so close to John’s place. With lots of help from me, we wove our way down the street, crossed Second Avenue against traffic, and soon found the entrance to his apartment building.
    “You need help going up the stairs?” I asked.
    “No, you run along,” he said. “It’s your pattern.”
    Deflecting his stinging comment, I helped him with his keys and got him inside the building. I turned around and headed down Second and toward home. It was a cold night, crisp and clear, and I enjoyed the brisk walk, liked the way the