Burgundy Regret

"Towards doing unto others."

Frank had this notion moments before he recognized the burgundy equestrian cap.

Before he saw Rhea's face.

It sat perched on the corner of the cubicle. It glowed like a lone ember in the call center's ash-gray hum, whispering her name across the cubicle's edge.

A dull ache gnawed behind his ribs. Old as the cracked asphalt on Aurora Avenue. Guilt that clung like damp Levis. Beneath it, a flicker of something else, something he hadn't expected—a longing that his gut tried to quash.

He labored a casual "Hey."

The word landed somewhere between a greeting and a rote acknowledgment of her existence. Closer to the latter than the former.

Rhea's head snapped up at the familiar sound. Her dark eyes widened, then narrowed into her familiar, guarded expression he knew so well.

"Frank," she replied, her voice as flat as western Nebraska.

The air in the cubicle felt thick, tasting metallic on his tongue. He sat down and busied himself at his station. The click of the headset a welcome distraction. He focused on the call before him - a dozen questions about the menu, including "what's on the Canadian bacon and pineapple?" before the caller settled on pepperoni and mushrooms. The words had no taste.

Flashbacks to key events remained at the front of his mind. Her shadow clung to the cubicle's edge, a flicker of burgundy burning through the hum of fluorescent ghosts.

Rhea.

The name echoed in the chambers of his heart like Lou Gehrig's speech before his last game.

He remembered her laughter, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she was amused, the intensity of her gaze, the vulnerability she'd allowed him to glimpse in the dimly lit corners of Neko's.

Then he remembered the cologne.

That damn cologne.

She had bought him a bottle of a rare French cologne from a high-end shop on Queen Anne. She paid for it using money that would have otherwise gone to rent.

"I can get a pay-day loan for the difference," she said, brushing off his concerns.

He had been attracted to her spontaneity, but troubled by her recklessness. She was Lucy on steroids and psych meds.

Most of the time, she was fun, silly, sexy, and present. Other times she'd drift off to another realm, like the time she danced with him in the dark as planes roared overhead to land at SeaTac just a couple of miles down the road.

June, for whom he had thrown over Rhea in a spectacular kultzy fashion, was predictable.

She would complain without end about her misery and chalk up her unwillingness to do anything about it to depression. Frank could see no symptoms beyond persistent grumbling. Her sighs piled up like pizza boxes in a dorm room, each one claiming a sorrow that never left the room. She would rather step in front of a bus than out of her comfort zone.

But she was predictable, and safe.

No Jokers in this deck

His gut started punching itself. He hated this. He hated the way his meticulously constructed walls crumbled at the mere sight of Rhea. He hated the weakness he felt, the nagging whisper of that damn demon on his shoulder whispering, "what if?"

He finished his shift in a haze. Each order was a mechanical repetition, his mind a locker room dry-erase board filled with conflicting x's and o's.

He wanted to talk to Rhea. Explain, aapologize. Somehow rewrite the ending of their story.

But he also knew the danger in that.

He knew the danger in saying anything to her.

He knew the seductive pull of the past could ensnare him in a web of regret.

He clocked out and saw her gathering her belongings, the swiftness of her movements a stark contrast to his own hesitant steps. He lingered near the exit, his heart pounding against his ribs.

"Rhea," he began.

"Yes, Frank?" she replied after a moment.

"I... I wanted to say…"

He had to stop and swallow a sudden mouthful of saliva that ruined the moment.

“…about everything…" he finished.

"What about it?" she replied, poker-faced.

The carefully rehearsed words dissolved into a jumble of fragmented thoughts.

"I was wrong. I wasn't honest. I should have..."

He had been an indecisive coward, leading her on with false promises and unspoken expectations. He had savored her attention, the way she made him feel seen, desired, important. And then, when June had returned, he had discarded Rhea like a broken toy.

Just as Lucy had done to him.

This realization was a more brutal gut punch than the others because it was the first realization of his hypocrisy.

Her lips twisted into a wry smile.

"You should have what, Frank? What should you have done?"

Her voice cut sharper than expected. He recoiled.

"I should have been clear," he admitted. "I should have told you about June. I shouldn't have let things go on the way they did."

A pain slashed through her heart while her expression remained indifferent.

"Don't worry about it, Frank. It's over. It happened. Shit happens. No use rehashing."

"But—"

"But nothing. Just... no."

She turned to leave, but then she stopped.

She sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly.

"Look, Frank, 'I'm sorry' is a cheap band-aid. You hurt me. You made me feel like I was nothing. That's not something you just pack up in your old kit bag."

Her words were a body slam. Hurting someone the way he had been hurt countless times in his almost 39 years, was the last thing he ever wanted to do. He caused her pain all the same. Lucy's lies and emotional abuse - denying feelings with which she had once showered him in late-night tumbles - had been a pain on a level he'd never fathomed, but her indifference to it was disemboweling. He had vowed never hurt someone like that, and if he did, to do his best to be accountable.

"Do unto others…" he told himself.

But here, his wants and fears churned like diesel fumes during a freeway backup, clouding his eyes to the wreckage he'd left bleeding in his wake.

"I know. And I'm so sorry, Rhea."

Her eyes searched his.

"I can't say if I believe you."

She took a moment.

"But… thank you for saying it," she concluded.

She left, leaving him alone in the call center, echoes of regret swirling around him like a tornado

Over the following days, he went through the motions - work, sleep, smiles for June, flinches at her persistent complaints, and frustration at her patent refusal to do anything about it. The memory of Rhea's face haunted him, a constant reminder of his failings.

He replayed their conversations, searching for clues and signs he had missed and ignored. He remembered how she looked at him, touched him, and confided in him. He had mistaken it all for something it wasn't - a fleeting infatuation fueled by loneliness and a desperate need for connection.

He chuckled, remembering the unsolicited lectures his brother would give him about relationships.

"Frank, you're just in love with the idea of love," he said after Lucy stomped on his soul.

"That is so fucking patronizing. And stupid," he thought to himself, shaking his head.

Frank had entertained that notion when trying to figure out why Rhea was so attached to him.

Even though he had apologized to her, he considered calling her. Perhaps he could say his words better this time. The fear of rejection, of opening old wounds, held him back. He imagined her voice, cold and unforgiving, and the thought was paralyzing.

One evening, after a grueling shift – highlighted by having to speak to a customer who brought his pizza back to the store he got it from demanding a refund because the 13-inch medium measured 12.75 inches in diameter – he found himself drawn to a small bar in Belltown he hadn't visited in years. The air was thick with the scent of stale beer and hidden flaws. The patrons were a motley crew of lost souls Billy Joel might have entertained in "Piano Man."

He ordered a beer and nursed it, the silence broken only by the clinking of glasses and the mournful strains of "He stopped loving her today."

He stared into the amber liquid alone.

Alone.

He had June, but he had settled for her.

Again.

First, after Lucy left. Then, after he left Rhea.

And Rhea was a ghost, a phantom limb that ached with a nameless longing.

He finished his beer and ordered another, the familiar numbness creeping through his veins. He closed his eyes, the image of Rhea's face burning behind his eyelids.

He couldn't go on like this. He had to find a way to move forward, to become a better man.

The decision flashed to him like a message on a Jumbotron.

He would apologize to Rhea. Again -but not for his sake but for hers. She deserved closure, an acknowledgment of the pain he had caused.

And this time, he would do it right!

He extended his left arm to grab a happy hour menu and flipped it over. He reached into his pocket and took out a pen. He finished his beer, the resolve hardening in his chest.

He would call her. He would leave a message, short and concise, honest, and heartfelt. He wouldn't expect forgiveness, but he would offer remorse. It was the least he could do.

And he would write out the words crying to get out of him in this decisive moment.

He wrote:

Rhea, it's Frank. I... I'm calling to apologize. I was an asshole. I know you probably hate me, and you have every right to. But I wanted you to know that I was wrong. I'm sorry.

He held up his handiwork and nodded. This was just the right touch.

Short, sweet, quick, and dirty. What he wished he had said at the call center.

What he wished Lucy would do for him.

He pulled out his cell phone and flipped it open.

His fingers trembled as he scrolled through his contacts.

Rhea's number stared back at him like a face on a Wanted poster. A relic of a time he no longer recognized.

He pressed the call button, the ringing tone echoing in the sudden silence of the bar.

The answering machine clicked on, her voice a distant whisper from the past.

"Hi this is Rhea. I'm out and about, so if you want me to give you a shout, leave a message."

He chuckled at her giggle at the end.

Then there was the beep.

He hesitated. The carefully constructed words dissolved into a jumble of panic.

But he had the words written down in front of him.

Cue cards, for god's sake!

He cleared his throat. His voice was still rough with emotion as he read the words he wrote:

"Rhea, it's Frank. I... I'm calling to apologize. I was an asshole. I know you probably hate me, and you have every right to. But I wanted you to know that I was wrong. I'm sorry."

"Ain't Talking 'Bout Love" began halfway through his recitation. He cringed.

But he finished, and he hung up.

The silence that followed was deafening in spite of Van Halen's best efforts.

He had done it.

He had spoken his truth.

The next few days crawled. Each one another stone in his gut. The phone, a black magnet in his palm, waiting. Every goddamn buzz, every phantom ring, sent a jolt up his arm, hope like a raw nerve. But it was just the wind, or the fluorescent lights buzzing, or nothing at all. Rhea didn't call.

The silence hung heavy like LA smog.

He attempted distracting himself, throwing himself into work, spending hours transcribing tapes he'd record of his own spontaneous thoughts he'd have throughout the day in an effort to capture the moments of truth that he might be able to use in a writing project.

Anything to keep his mind from dwelling on the silence.

But the silence was a presence, a constant reminder of the unresolved past.

He began doubting his decision.

Maybe it had been a mistake.

Maybe he had only stirred up old pain, reopened wounds that were best left alone.

Maybe Rhea had moved on, and his clumsy attempts at atonement was nothing more than a selfish intrusion.

Then, one Thursday evening, as he was heading out to the bank, his cell rang. He glanced at the display.

Unknown number.

His breath caught in his throat. Could it be her?

He answered, his voice barely a whisper.

"Hello?"

"Frank?"

The voice on the other end was unsure.

"Rhea?" he asked.

"Yeah, it's me," she said.

A wave of relief washed over him. It was so intense it almost buckled his knees.

"I... I didn't expect you to call."

"I wasn't sure I would," she admitted. "But... I listened to your message. And I wanted to say..."

She paused, the silence stretching between them.

"I appreciate it, Frank. It meant something to me."

"Thank you, Rhea. That means a lot."

They talked. Not for long, but long enough. They talked about stuff - everything but the past. It was a tentative, fragile connection. And for the first time in a long time, Frank felt a glimmer of hope.

Then she said, "you know, I love Van Halen."

Then she laughed.

Then he laughed.

Then he panicked for a moment.

He had called to apologize from a bar. How would that look?

Then he stopped. He calmed down.

The road ahead wouldn't be easy. He knew that. He still had to navigate his relationship with June, her grating negativity, his own insecurities, the lingering fear of repeating past mistakes.

But he also knew that he wasn't alone. He had taken a step, a small but significant step, towards becoming a better man.

Towards doing unto others.