sweet,” I say. “No. I control the keys.”
There’s chaos at the top of the stairs, and we’re separated before we can say goodbye. Justin isn’t in the kitchen, so I figure he’s already at the car.
Sure enough, he’s pacing there, waiting for me.
“Where were you?” he accuses as I unlock the door.
“The basement,” I tell him when we’re in the car. “You knew that.”
He curses a little, but I know he’s cursing at the cops, not me. I pull out, relieved that we didn’t park in the driveway, where things are all backed up.
“We’re going to make it,” I assure him.
“You’re beautiful,” he slurs.
“You’re drunk,” I say.
“You’re beautiful anyway,” he tells me. Then he puts back the seat and closes his eyes.
I wait a few minutes. Then I discover a song I like on the radio and sing along.
As Justin snores, I find myself hoping Nathan made it out okay.
I know Justin’s not working on Sunday, so I’m hoping we’ll hang out at least a little. But he doesn’t wake up until one, and from what I can tell from the texts he sends, he’s not in good shape. I offer to come over and make him whatever hangover cure he wants. He texts me back two hours later to say that all he can do today is sleep. He can even sleep through his parents yelling about all his sleeping.
Get shitfaced, then face the shit – I know the routine. It’s not like I’ve never been there. I just don’t go there as often as he does.
I asked him about it before. Not confrontational. Just curious.
“I drink to feel better,” he told me. “And if I feel worse the next day, it’s still worth it, because I still got to feel better for a little bit, which is more than I would’ve done sober.”
There are times I can make him feel like that, too. There are times when I know he’s drunk on me. Not just when we’re making out – there are other times I can make him forget about everything else. Which is a power nobody else has with him. I know this.
Because my day is empty of him, it’s empty. My mother asks if I want to go to the grocery store with her, but I know if I do, I’ll only want to buy things I shouldn’t eat. My dad is on the computer, doing work, avoiding us to provide for us. I think of emailing Nathan from last night, but that thought passes. I doubt I’ll ever see him again. Whatever we shared is gone, because it was destined to be gone from the minute it started.
Distraction. I turn on the TV. Housewives and nature shows. An episode of Friends I’ve seen a hundred times. Nothing I want to watch followed by nothing I want to watch followed by nothing I want to watch. I imagine doing this forever. An infinity of nothing I want to watch.
It’s a day like that.
I call Justin. I can’t help myself. I want to talk to him so bad. I know I won’t convince him to stop being hung over. I won’t convince him to get out of bed and do something with me – or even stay in bed and do something with me. I would be happy to lie there next to him.
“I’ve decided that whiskey is not my friend,” he says.
“Still bad?” I ask.
“Better. But still bad. The day has completely crapped out.”
“It’s all right. I’ve been catching up on my TV watching.”
“Fuck, I wish I were there with you. Being sick is so fucking boring. ”
“I wish you were here, too. I could come over if you want.”
“Nah. I just have to ride this one out. It wouldn’t be fair to ask you to be around me when I’m so sick of being around me.”
“I’m willing.”
“I know. And I appreciate it. But it’s not going to happen today.”
The fact that he sounds disappointed makes my own disappointment a little easier to live with. Even if it still leaves me alone for the rest of the day.
Alone. The only thing that prevents me from feeling completely alone is knowing that I have someone, that if I really need him, he will be there.
“I’m going to go now,” he says to me. I don’t point out he’s not actually going to go anywhere. Neither of us is going to go anywhere.
“See you tomorrow,” I say, because I know we’re not going to talk again tonight.
“Yeah. See ya.”
My mother comes home and I help her put away the groceries. We make dinner. We don’t talk about anything. She talks, for sure. She talks and talks and talks. But we don’t talk at all.
When I get back to my room, I check my email on my phone. I am surprised to find a message from Nathan.
Hi Rhiannon,
I just wanted to say that it was lovely meeting you and dancing with you last night. I’m sorry the police came and separated us. Even though you’re not my type, gender-wise, you’re certainly my type, person-wise. Please keep in touch.
N
I smile. It’s so . . . nice. I wonder if he’s single, even though I can’t really imagine Preston going for him. Preston likes guys who are trendier. Or at least don’t wear ties to parties.
I also wonder about being his type, person-wise. What does that mean, really? Where does that get us?
Shut up, I tell myself. A nice guy tries to be friendly with me and I immediately think, Why bother? There is something seriously wrong with me. The reason to bother is because he’s a nice guy.
I hit reply, but I don’t know what to write. I feel I need to make an excuse for not writing to him first; I’m sure the piece of paper with his email address on it is still in my pocket. I also want to sound like someone who gets this kind of email all the time.
It’s weird, because the Rhiannon who comes out in what I write doesn’t sound like I normally sound.
She sounds like she’s really enjoying herself.
Nathan!
I’m so glad you emailed, because I lost the slip of paper that I wrote your email on. It was wonderful talking and dancing with you, too. How dare the police break us up! You’re my type, person-wise, too. Even if you don’t believe in relationships that last longer than a year. (I’m not saying you’re wrong, btw. Jury’s still out.)
I never thought I’d say this, but I hope Steve has another party soon. If only so you can bear witness to its evil.
Love,
