Reviving Haven

by CORY CYR

  Goddammit—I don’t seem to learn my lessons, now do I? I forgot about the drink in Latch’s office.

  Disgusted with myself, I stretch and yawn, falling back against my pillow and closing my eyes. As much as sleep calls to me, my mind keeps replaying the events of the day. I can still smell him; his scent lingers in my hair. I can taste him in my mouth. I remember the texture of his skin, how warm it was, and how his hand felt on the small of my back. I sigh. A tear slips out of the corner of my eye. I don’t even really know him. Why am I doing this to myself?

  I throw back the sheet and hop out of bed. The effects of the pills are exacerbated, probably due to the scotch I had, and I feel wobbly. I reach into my purse, grabbing my cell phone and turning it on. There are seven messages and one voice mail. I listen as Latch’s voice fills my ear.

  Haven, talk to me. I know I was a complete bastard, and you probably hate my guts right now, but give me a chance to explain my behavior. Just five minutes. I need you to hear me out. I need you to forgive me, Haven. Please, answer your phone or call me.

  I erase the voice mail along with the messages and turn the phone back off. I toss it into my purse. My body aches along with my heart. Why doesn’t he just leave me alone, and let me suffer in my own humiliation? I’m sleepy now and another yawn surfaces. I get back into bed and curl into a fetal position. Then I let sleep take me.

  *****

  “What the hell, Haven? I didn’t even know you were home,” Weezie says, standing at my open bedroom door.

  I blink a few times, sitting up, not quite awake. I look at the clock, and the glaring display shows 9:30 p.m. Jesus, I’ve slept seven hours.

  “Are you sick?” Weezie asks as she walks into my room with obvious concern in her voice and on her face. I’m dazed from sleeping too long and taking two anxiety pills.

  “Yeah, sort of . . . just don’t feel right. I need to go back to sleep, okay?” I fall back onto my pillow, closing my eyes and hoping Weezie will just leave without asking too many questions.

  Instead, she chooses to come over to the bed, sitting down on the edge. She reaches over, turning on the lamp on my nightstand. The light is blinding, forcing me to squeeze my eyes tighter.

  “Okay, Haven, what the fuck is up? You have been dodging my questions about what the hell is going on with you for almost two weeks now. I’m tired of the bullshit. You’re scaring me.” Weezie sounds annoyed.

  “I told you—I just haven’t been feeling all that great, it might be a bug, and there’s lots going on at the book store. I’m just tired. I’ll be fine.” I really hate deceiving her, but I think it’s the only way I can cope with all of the turmoil in my life right now.

  Weezie shifts her weight on the bed and leans down to me.

  “Haven, I know you’re lying. I just don’t know why. Jesus, we have been best friends forever, so, for the life of me, I cannot understand why you won’t tell me what’s wrong. You know you can tell me anything, right? Should I call Dr. Melford? Is that it? Are you depressed . . . is this a pending meltdown? I have her number; I can call her right now, if you need me too.” Her voice cracks with worry.

  I really am a crappy friend. She is obviously upset and concerned. I sit back up and put my hand on her arm, trying to comfort her.

  “I’ll be fine. No worries, I promise. You don't need to call Dr. Melford. I’m not having a meltdown, I promise.” I should get an Academy Award for this performance. I’m going to burn in hell for all the horrendous lies I’ve been telling my best friend. I suck as a friend.

  “At some point, you’re going to have to let me in. Haven, I can’t go through this again. You know I love you, but I don’t think I can handle all the bullshit we went through six years ago. I’ve barely recovered.”

  I pat Weezie on the leg, trying to comfort her. I know I put her through hell and she was the only one that stood by me. Even though I moved in with my parents the first year I broke up with Jared, it was Weezie who convinced me to come out here and live with her. Weezie stood by me through it all. She didn’t even know the half of it. I held onto my pain for almost three years after Jared and I broke up. Then eventually, I just snapped. I lost every bit of control I had kept inside, not wanting Weezie to see how weak I was. I had never wanted her to know how much Jared had humiliated me, everything he had done to me during our six years together, but Weezie had witnessed it all—my acute depression and my final major breakdown.

  Maybe I should go back to Dr. Melford. She would have a field day with my behavior over the last two weeks. I feel like I’m possessed. No, it’s more like obsessed. Latch has gotten under my skin; he’s an itch I just can’t scratch. I finally convince Weezie I’m just overly tired and she goes back to her room.

  I take another pill and fall back to sleep.

  I wake up the next day at noon. It’s been five years since I slept that long. I feel groggy and still exhausted. I head into the kitchen to get some coffee, hoping it will lift some of my fog. Weezie is sitting outside reading the paper and smoking. I grab some coffee and walk outside, sitting across from her. I try to ignore the smoking. After everything I’m currently keeping from her, I figure I owe her a reprieve.

  “Morning. Nice hair,” she comments, peering over the top of the newspaper.

  I run my hand through my hair, realizing that it’s sticking out everywhere. That’s one thing that’s normal with me—I always have bad bed hair. I smile weakly, taking a sip of my coffee. Weezie quickly stubs out her cigarette in the ashtray.

  “Sorry about last night, work’s been a bitch,” I tell her, trying to sound convincing. I grab a section of the newspaper and pretend to start reading it.

  “You love the bookstore. If you’re having problems with something, tell me. You’ve never let the store get to you before. Maybe think about going back on your meds regularly. Maybe add another employee if you’re feeling overwhelmed,” she replies quietly.

  “I’d rather not be taking those pills around the clock. They make it too hard for me to function and they make me feel bizarre. I don’t want to end up taking them every single day again like before. Besides, Melford said I can take them as needed, so that’s what I’ve been doing.” I put the newspaper down and take another sip of my coffee.

  “Well frankly, Haven, your behavior recently is kind of odd. Is it because you’re taking the meds again? If it is, then fine. Otherwise, you’re freaking me out. I’m not going to come home one day and find the mirrors all broken, clothes thrown all over the house and my absolute favorite, all of our frozen food on the kitchen counter again, am I?” She fakes a smile.

  “That was one time, years ago. And in my defense, it’s called defrosting.” I squint.

  Weezie starts laughing.

  “Dumb bitch, they call it self-defrost and all freezers have it, including ours.”

  We both look at each other, trying to hold straight faces, but we end up laughing. Honestly, that day was not amusing for either of us. It’s a wonder we can laugh about it now. That day had been brutal for both of us. Weezie had to fifty-one-fifty my ass. I was put on a three-day mental hold in a lockdown facility. That’s how I met Dr. Melford. She had been the one that had encouraged me to keep a journal so I would have an outlet for my anger and depression. One of these days, when I feel strong enough and brave enough, I will let Weezie read my journal.

  I watch her light another cigarette.

  “You smoke too much,” I scold, pushing back my chair and waving my hands in front of my face.

  “Yeah, well, if my roommate wasn’t such a crazy twat, I could probably quit.”

  “If it wasn’t me, you’d find another excuse. Over the last twenty years, I’ve heard a million reasons why you can’t quit and justifications why you won’t quit,” I grumble.

  Two hours later, we’re still drinking coffee and sharing the newspaper. I feel better. Even though I know my calm and relaxation is courtesy of my little white pills, I also feel better knowing Weezie is still in my corn
er.

  I spend the rest of the weekend lying around, reading and watching television. When Sunday night rolls around, I have a light dinner and head to my room to go to bed early. Tomorrow is Monday. I have to go to work, which means most likely I’ll be trying to avoid Latch McKay. Maybe the visit to his office was enough to persuade him to go away. I wish I could take a vacation and spend a few weeks with my parents in Colorado, but as the owner of the bookstore, I can’t just up and leave on a whim.

  I yawn. Sleep is calling to me and I finally succumb.

  *****

  I wake up the next morning feeling slightly groggy. Too many little white pills. I manage to pull myself together after two cups of coffee, and then I dress smartly in a pair of cranberry-colored pants with a silver blouse and cranberry heels.

  I actually get to work before Denise does. I figure, since I didn’t get any work done on Friday due to all my drama, I’ll use today to catch up on it. I go through the new inventory and check pending requests along with actual book orders. I have quite a few books stacked up in my “to be read” pile. Since Mondays are generally slow, I might be able to catch up on my work and get some much-needed reading accomplished.

  Denise shows up promptly at ten. I work clear through lunchtime before realizing that my phone has been turned off all weekend. I reach into my purse and flip it open. I expect to see several messages and missed calls. There are no missed calls, no voicemails and no text messages from Latch. This is a good thing. This is for the best. This is the reaction I was hoping for when I went to his office. I was going to have to make a decision about him, but now I no longer have to. Latch has made it for me, for us.

  At five, I pack it in, get into my car, and drive home.

  Weezie is home early; her car is in the garage as I drive up. I pop another pill to suppress the anxiety I’m feeling. I walk in to find Weezie waiting for me. Her facial expression is taut and drawn. Her arms are crossed and she looks pissed. My throat tightens and I feel nervous. Good thing I took my pill. She pulls a box out from behind her, which clearly reads DOLCE AND GABBANA. Uh oh. My stomach starts doing somersaults and I can feel my cheeks turning red. DAMN!

  “Well?” Weezie questions in an extremely quiet, deep tone, which means she is clearly pissed.

  I try to appear clueless as she hands me the box. I move over to the sofa, sitting down and taking the box with me. I remove the lid, which comes off easily. Apparently, someone has already opened it. I try to act casually, but inside, I’m a total wreck. Nestled in the box is the exact same pair of nine hundred dollar shoes I had destroyed with my vomit the first night I met Latch. I put the lid back on, shrugging, still trying to act the innocent.

  “Okay, so you’re actually going to act like you know nothing about the shoes, really? You’re going to sit there and pretend? What the FUCK!” Weezie yells. Her eyes are like daggers when she looks at me. Ouch.

  “Obviously they were delivered by mis—” I try to say.

  Weezie puts up her hand and wags it in front of my face.

  “Don’t even fucking go there with me, Haven. I read the goddamn note!” She is livid.

  Note? You put a damn note in the box. Since when do you write notes? You send text messages . . . not notes . . . Holy shit!!!

  I try so hard to appear nonchalant like I’m innocent of the entire thing. Weezie walks straight to me, sits on the coffee table and faces me directly with her eyes set on mine. She looks me up and down, and I’m beginning to feel like I’m on trial here.

  “Would you like me to read you the note—oh, of course you would,” she says through clenched teeth.

  Weezie clears her throat; she’s acting like she’s about to read a presidential announcement.

  “Haven, I wish you would let me explain. I am so sorry for being such a prick. I acted like a complete sod. I never meant to hurt you. I think you took me by surprise. Who knew that delicious mouth of yours could do all that?”

  Weezie clears her throat again, this time arching one eyebrow as she continues.

  “Please, just talk to me. Let me take you to dinner and fix this. Haven, I know you want me as much as I want you. Forgive me. Latch.”

  Well hell, you know that 10.0 earthquake they’ve been promising California for the last thirty years? Could it maybe happen right now? Please. I’m mentally begging.

  I’m uncomfortable and turning every shade of red possible, trying to avert my eyes in any other direction than hers. I can feel her wrath, and her disappointment and hurt saturate the room. I don’t blame Weezie for the way she feels. Frankly, if the tables were turned, I’d feel terribly betrayed too.

  “I don’t know what you want me to say. I’m sorry,” I say, barely looking in her direction.

  Weezie leans forward and hands me the note.

  “Who the hell is Latch, and why is he buying you designer shoes?”

  “Latch McKay,” I reply in a hushed whisper.

  Weezie is stunned into momentary silence. It takes her two minutes to respond. She stands up and her eyes get wide.

  “Latch McKay . . . you mean the hot as hell sex god who invented Blood Vestige?” She sounds overly excited.

  I untwist my bun using my fingers and comb through my hair, untangling it, letting my hair fall down my back. I let my hands fall to my sides and begin rubbing the top of my thighs as I try to figure out exactly how to explain all this.

  “I don’t know anything about the Blood Vestige thingy. But yeah, he’s attractive.” I’m not sure what to say. How do I explain the things I’ve been doing?

  “Are you kidding me, Haven? Latch McKay is like one of the hottest men on the fucking planet—well, him and Keenan Stone. But Jesus, Latch McKay? Wow, when you decide to get back into action after all these years, you don’t fuck around. You went right for the hot as hell guy who’s young and rich. By the way, you’re older than he is, did you know that? And did I mention that he’s hot as hell? Since when do you go for younger guys? Not that I blame you. He’s the whole package: rich, hot, straight, and he buys you designer shoes. Marry him immediately!” She sounds winded, probably from talking too fast.

  “It’s not what you think.” I don’t know how to explain poolside oral, phone sex and the office puff chore in between panties and flowers . . . oh my.

  Weezie looks at me with an evil smile.

  “Will we need wine for this story?” she asks.

  “Oh yes, lots of it, and maybe even a joint,” I reply.

  “Really, it’s that kind of a tale, huh? I thought we only smoke pot when we are really stressed or can’t sleep.” Weezie stands up.

  “Trust me, after what I’m going to tell you, you’ll probably be psychotic,” I utter nervously.

  Weezie gets a bottle of wine from the kitchen and two glasses. I follow her outside and we sit at the table. She pours two generous glasses of wine.

  “I’m thinking I may need a smoke for this story too?” Weezie asks, lighting up one of her cigarettes before I have a chance to respond.

  “Most likely a carton,” I say under my breath as I take a sip of wine. “Just so I’m clear, I wanted to tell you all this weeks ago, but I was mortified. All this crap that’s been going on isn’t like me. Latch has some kind of fricking mojo over me.” I take another sip as I stare out into the canyon.

  Weezie laughs and takes another sip of her wine along with a drag off her cigarette.

  “God, Haven, the man is a walking advertisement for fucking. You’re only human. If you did actually fuck him, I’d be the first one to congratulate you. I’m willing to bet that didn’t happen though; I know you, girl. So . . . how close did you get? I hear his eyes are so beautiful they should be outlawed.”

  Weezie has no idea how true that is. All I have to do is imagine his face, those eyes, and my panties become wet and my brain turns to mush.

  “I got close,” I tell her, hedging the question.

  She looks slightly shell-shocked. I know she’ll want every single intimate deta
il and I will have to provide them as penance for not confiding in her weeks ago.

  “Did . . . you . . . fuck . . . him?” Weezie pants out in monosyllabic grunts.

  “No, of course not.” No intercourse, just sucking and swallowing.

  “How about I make this easy for you? Start at the beginning.” She pours more wine into our glasses and lights another cigarette.

  “It started at that party.” I avert my eyes.

  She interrupts my story before it even starts. “Wait, what, the party we went to two weeks ago? You’ve been seeing Latch McKay since then?”

  “Seeing him is rather a loose interpretation. I thought you wanted me to explain from the beginning,” I ask impatiently.

  “Okay, fine . . . proceed.” She flicks her hand back and forth.

  “Anyway, at that party, when you left to go talk to some of your friends, I saw tha—that woman-child, the one Jared dumped me for. I know it’s stupid after all these years, but I got upset so I started drinking tequila shots. Anyway, I saw Latch at the party. Well, honestly, I had no idea who he was and I just thought he was pretty. I guess we had kind of a moment, most likely it was just me buzzing from the booze. I decided to go sit by the pool and cool off.” I take another gulp of wine, my liquid courage.

  Weezie cuts me off again. “I’m so sorry I left you alone. I dragged you there and then just left you,” she says as she pats my arm.

  “Weezie, you cannot babysit me; it’s not your responsibility. Anyway, while I was sitting at the pool, this man shows up. We start talking, kind of, and one thing leads to another. God, do I have to tell you all the gritty details, crap!” I squirm in my chair and take another sip of wine.

  Weezie appears spellbound by my story. She’s mute by this point. I think I’ve shocked her into the psychosis I promised earlier.