Pippin stared at the bottle of amaretto, wishing Pearl kept something a
little…well, more macho, more manly on hand. Jack Daniels always sounded so
romantic. Jim Beam, moreso. One could hardly throw back a shot of foofy Italian
liquer before calling one’s…ex-boyfriend.
Pippin shuddered at little, at the idea of Merry being his ex-anything, and
threw back the shot, grudgingly admitting to his sense of drama that it at least
tasted a hell of a lot better than cheap whiskey.
He picked up the phone, taking a deep breath as he dialed their apartment, his
hands sweaty. The phone rang, and kept ringing, and then the machine picked up.
“Hi, you’ve reached Merry, I’m not in just now, leave a message and I’ll
get back to you.”
Pippin drew his breath in sharply, not meaning to. Merry’d changed the
recording. Only two weeks since Pippin had walked out, and now there was no
evidence that he’d ever lived there.
That’s what happens when you go stalking out in a rage, he reminded himself,
tears starting to fall. You lose the right to be a part of his life.
The loud beep shook him out of his reverie, and Pippin finally spoke, voice
shaking only a little.
“Merry? It’s…it’s me, Pippin. Um. Look, I just…can I see you? Just
meet for coffee or something. Or you can come here. Or I can go there. Um. Call
me back. I’m a Pearl’s, or, y’know, my cell phone. Or something. Bye.”
He hung up, and allowed himself the weakness of curling up tight in the chair,
and crying himself into an exhausted sleep.