I put my hand on her lips. “Let me do this one thing for you.”
“Hank, it’s not that simple.”
“Let me be the man in the relationship I should have been when you first told me.”
“You don’t understand.”
“My mind is made up.” I pull the sheets up, tucking her in. “I’ll show myself out. Get some rest, and try to eat something, anything.”
Laura sits up. She throws her covers off. “For God’s sake, would you stop and listen to me?”
“But I thought this is what you wanted.”
She stands up, folds her hands in front of her chin, measuring her words. “Last week…you told me…not to do it.”
“I was being selfish. You took me by surprise, and I didn’t know what to say.”
“So you said exactly the opposite of what I wanted to hear?”
“Well, yeah I guess. I’m sorry. I should—”
“You should have said something, something before now.”
“What difference does it make? The point is I came around.”
“No, that’s not the point.”
“Laura, please.” I grab her by the arms. “I’m confused here. Just tell me what you need me to do. I have the money.”
“It’s taken care of.”
“I want to help. It’s my responsibility.”
“It’s done.”
“‘It’s’ done. What’s done?”
“The abortion,” Laura says. “I went to the clinic two days ago.”
Chapter nineteen
Laura’s calendar in her room is covered in black Xs. They’re counting down to today, August twentieth, which she’s circled in bright red permanent marker.
I walked out on her when she told me about the abortion. I managed to hold out for all of twenty-four hours. Like a moth to a flame, like Kenickie jumping right back on that Ferris wheel with Rizzo as if nothing happened, I drove back to her house the very next day and told her we’d get past this.
To be sure, “this” isn’t worth much. Our relationship is falling apart. Experiencing the unintended consequences of sex firsthand with a healthy second course of deceit makes for a great chastity belt, and Laura is doing her best to pull that belt in a few more notches. This last month she’s been withholding even token affections—the touch of her hand, a kiss, even something as small as a compliment or a wink. She returns maybe every other phone call, if I’m lucky. Wrestling team conditioning has started up and is taking up a lot of my time, but I still try to make time for dates or even to just hang out. And yet, each and every one of these encounters ends with a door in my face, a turned back, a brush-off.
She had an abortion. I fucking get it!
As I look back on these last few weeks, I rationalize that Laura has only herself to blame for my late-night phone calls to Beth.
On the bright side, Bucknell called three days ago. And Laura got in.
She leans up against her bursting-at-the-seams Calais. “This time apart will be good for us, Hank.”
“I agree.”
Our goodbye kiss is short, choreographed. Laura drives away. I don’t even cry.
We haven’t officially broken up. But I can’t shake the feeling that somewhere in the trunk of Laura’s silver Oldsmobile Calais with the Fitzpatrick license plate frame, in a box labeled toiletries, tucked in between her disposable contacts and disposable tampons, is our disposable love for one other.
Chapter twenty
Prep beat the Ridge tonight in football 35–0, so Hatch and I have decided to get shitfaced. Truth is, we’d be getting shitfaced even if the Ridge had won 35–0—I’m a wrestler and Hatch is a golfer, so it’s not like we really care—but a belligerent drinking binge is always preferable to a melancholy one.
We get to the party at Claire’s house just past ten o’clock. The beer and the shots are flowing. I don’t see Claire or Beth. Hatch heads straight to the bar.
“Undefeated against Prep for three years,” I say. “We had never lost to those fuckers before tonight.”
Hatch pats me on the back. “I know, Fitzy. It fucking sucks, man.”
Our drink of choice tonight is “triple shots.” Hatch lines them up on the bar: a shot of beer, a shot of whiskey, and a shot of cough syrup, the last of which I’ve hit more than a few times since the Great Black Butt Incident.
Hatch pours a second round of triple shots, which we down in short order. The music is loud, but not loud enough to mask an unmistakable background sound.
Knock, knock, knock.
I turn my head. “You hear that?”
Hatch cocks one ear higher than the other. “Hear what?”
Knock, knock, knock.
“That!” I point to the ceiling and turn my ear to the offending noise. “Somebody’s knocking pretty fucking hard on both the front and back doors.”
Claire comes running into the room. “Cops!”
A laid-back affair turned frantic. Teenagers scurry around like carpenter ants just after you stepped on their hill.
The Empire Ridge Police Department moves us into the family room. Hatch sits in front of the fireplace by himself, sobbing and inconsolable. Off the top of his head, he invents a touching story that incorporates “breaking his dad’s heart” and “Butler University pulling his football scholarship.” Neither of these things are true, given that Hatch’s dad has never cared for him, he’s going to Indiana University with me, and I doubt Butler is clamoring for the services of a golfer with a fourteen handicap and the arm strength of Karen Carpenter.
The cop motions to Hatch. “Mr. Hatcher, please blow into this.” The cop holds in his hand a breathalyzer, a black remote control-like device tipped with a disposable plastic mouthpiece.
The cop’s eyes narrow. He grinds his teeth, looking at Hatch. “Again, please.”
Hatch blows again.
The cop stands back, eyes still narrowed. “I got a negative here.”
According to the Empire Ridge Police Department’s breathalyzer, after no less than six shots in the last ten minutes, Elias Hatcher has not consumed a drop of alcohol.
“Negative?” My best friend screams and
