So why haven't you written about it?

I've been hiding from the obvious story I should be telling: What happened after the St. Patrick's Day Incident? These other stories about dead obese women and crazy sheriffs are probably just meaningless, empty diversions, placeholders for what people really want to read. A number of obstacles have stood between me and the telling of the real story, one of which being that I haven't spoken with Kat since she returned home from her visit here.

Last night, however, I received an email from her.

"So why haven't you written about it?" she wrote. That single line is a prompt, a permission and likely a plea. So I'll relate to Kat, and the rest of the world, how I see what happened.

Picking up where I left off:

Kat and I sat up for quite a while that night talking and waiting for Joe to return. Her mood had improved, and our conversation got so far off the issue hanging in the room that at times it seemed like we had forgotten it. By midnight we were laughing and reminiscing in a way we hadn't been able the entire time she had been here, since the two of us had had virtually no time alone together just to talk.

Kat glanced at the clock. It was past midnight. "Don't you have to be at work in the morning?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said. "I should probably get to bed soon."

"Don't wait up on my account," she said.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I'm just gonna sit up a while and wait."

"Where the hell could he have gone?" I wondered aloud.

"Who knows. He's weird."

"You think he's okay?" I asked. I didn't really want to go look for him, but it made me a little uncomfortable that he had been gone for hours with no word.

"He's fine. He does this," she said.

With that, I retired to my room. Despite everything that happened, I was pretty exhausted, so I drifted off to sleep fairly quickly.

About 2:30 I awoke when my bedroom door opened. Kat was standing in the doorway.

"What's wrong?" I said.

Her voice told me she had been crying again. "I don't want to sleep alone," she said. "Can I stay in here with you?"

"Joe didn't come back?" I asked.

"No," she said, her voice lilting upward as she tried not to cry. "Please," she whispered.

"What if Joe comes back?" I asked

"I don't care." In fact, she didn't have to worry about that at all. By that time, that idiot was in a hotel several hours away. When Joe left my house, he walked to the shopping center down the street, got a cab out to the airport and rented a car to drive back by himself. He fucking left her there, the bastard.

"Please," she said.

"Okay," I said, "But I'm in my underwear. Let me get up and put on--"

"I don't care," she said, as she was already slipping under my comforter. She pressed herself against me, burying her head in my shoulder. She was wearing her sweats. I was at a distinct disadvantage, but something about the situation felt too fragile to risk breaking away from her.

I held her like that for a while, listening to her breathing become more calm. Her hair smelled great. I could feel her heart pounding against my ribs. Certain parts of my body responded in a predictable manner, but I was resolved not to take advantage of this situation.

Unfortunately she was not so resolved.

I'd like to say that I remained the perfect gentleman. Absent that ability, I would like to say that it was beautiful and tender. I could probably say it anyway to make a better story, but Kat would know I'm lying. I can at least say that I didn't make the first move, but that doesn't make me feel any better about it.

It was terrible. I was terrible. It seemed like both of us were all knees and elbows. Our bodies just didn't seem to fit together. Our timing was all off. It was over almost before it started. Unfortunately neither one of us wanted to leave it at that, so we tried again two more disastrous times before giving up in an awkward tension that left us laying on opposite sides of my tiny bed, our backs to each other, each trying not to steal too much of the comforter from the other while keeping a thin demilitarized zone between us. We came as physically close to each other as two people can get, and yet the entire time we've been friends I never felt more distant from Kat than I did that night.

That Saturday morning I left her sleeping and slinked off to work in a guilty stupor. All day I kept thinking what a betrayal I had perpetrated on Lynn. We weren't "officially" dating, but I still knew this was wrong. To make things worse, Lizzie, Lynn's friend, picked up on my mood almost immediately and asked me several times during the day why I was so quiet. I couldn't exactly tell her.

I decided pretty quickly that this was not something Lynn needed to know about (which presented the other major obstacle to relating it here). The reader is probably thinking, "Duh, no shit, moron." Unfortunately, however, while "what she don't know won't hurt her," I have a hard time dealing with my own guilt in situations like that. When I've done something wrong, I have a sense that I should be punished for it. I resolved to make it up to her, even if she never knew the truth, by being the best man I could be for her from that time forward.

The other pressing issue, how to face Kat later that night, was solved for me. She, her car and all her stuff were gone when I got home. I hadn't talked to her since then, but in characteristic Kat fashion she emailed me last night almost as if nothing had happened. She explained what happened to Joe, thanked me for letting her stay and said she had a good time. The only reference she made to our mistake was that one line at the end of her message:

"So, why haven't you written about it?"

I hadn't written about it because I was afraid I had lost my friend. I truly hope that's not the case.

Unfortunately I did lose my girlfriend. I'll save that part of it for another day.