The Party

by Robyn Harding

  THAT DAY

  Jeff paced in a circle, his heart hammering in his chest, blood rushing audibly through his veins. He breathed deeply through his nose, feeding oxygen to his traumatized muscles, his overworked heart. In this moment, he was immune to the postcard view of the Golden Gate Bridge, the dark blue of the Pacific, even the endless stream of Crissy Field joggers struggling past. He was conscious of nothing but the pain in his legs, the pressure in his lungs, the mechanics of being alive.

  Beside him, Graham crouched, dropping his bearlike head toward his knees. “Jesus Christ … Holy fuck.”

  “That was good.” Jeff’s breathing was returning to normal. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the end of his running shirt.

  Graham stood, with effort. “Let’s get a beer, mate. We deserve it.”

  “I can’t.” Jeff’s response was automatic, programmed by a year of denying himself the simple pleasure of a beer with friends. “It’s my daughter’s sixteenth.”

  “One beer …” Graham was from Australia, a culture where you didn’t turn down a cold one, no matter whose birthday it was. His wife, Jennie, was American, but she accepted Graham’s inherent “blokiness,” in fact, seemed to find it adorable. Jennie didn’t get pissed off over a training session followed by a couple of drinks. Jennie was cool, relaxed, fun-loving; she was nothing like Kim.

  “Can’t do it. My little girl’s waiting for her birthday gift.” He was glad to have a legitimate excuse; otherwise he would have had to make one up.

  “Suit yourself, mate. See you tomorrow.”

  Jeff navigated his Tesla Model S through thick, Saturday-afternoon traffic, a low-grade resentment gnawing at him. It wasn’t that he was desperate to have a beer with Graham—he had to limit beer on his triathlon diet, and he spent enough time with Graham at work and on their jogs. But his refusal of his friend’s invitation highlighted the fact that Kim had him on a very short leash. On certain occasions, like now, he felt an almost overwhelming urge to strangle her with it.

  He knew he shouldn’t blame Kim. He’d accepted the terms she’d laid down: the terms to staying married, to keeping his family together. It was only when a friend or colleague suggested something as innocuous as an after-work cocktail or a post-run beer that he felt like a scolded child. And he felt like Kim was his controlling mother instead of his wife.

  Easing into a break in Van Ness traffic, he gunned the motor. It was a small burst of aggression, momentarily satisfying, but the bitterness soon returned. He had fucked up—he got that—but it was nearly a year ago. Was he doomed to be punished forever? Grounded for life like a recalcitrant child? He really did want to go home for Hannah’s birthday, wanted to be there when she opened the bracelet Kim had picked out for her. He just didn’t want to have to go home.

  It had all started in Vegas (of course, Vegas). It was a conference for software vendors and major clients. Besides keynote speakers, roundtables, and breakout sessions, there were golf tournaments, dinners, drinks, and schmoozing. Jeff had played eighteen holes with a female development exec from Montreal, who may or may not have been flirting with him (he was out of practice; she had a French accent); an overweight colleague from the Chicago office; and the CIO of a large southern university. Naturally, numerous beers were imbibed, but he’d paced himself. When they sat down to dinner, he was still in control.

  But somewhere between dinner and 3:00 A.M., tequila joined the party. And when Nathan McIntyre, a twenty-six-year-old wunderkind from their Austin office, suggested they take the party back to his room, things began to spiral. Nathan had a business card for some high-end hookers and he was keen for some Vegas-style debauchery. Jeff had no problem declining the invitation. The thought of partying with a bunch of prostitutes held no allure for him; he was a happily married guy, a dad. And he’d never understood the appeal of paying for it. It seemed desperate and tawdry. Besides his moral convictions, he was way too hammered to get it up, even if he’d wanted to—which he didn’t. In fact, he was barely coherent, his vision blurred, his brain fogged. And he was scheduled to speak on global growth strategies at nine thirty the next morning. He needed sleep. With their taunts of “pussy” and “lame ass” in his ears, he stumbled back to his room.

  Jeff didn’t remember passing out fully clothed on his bed, but he did remember waking up. His head pounded, his mouth tasted burnt and poisonous, and his stomach threatened revolt. It took several seconds for him to realize that the banging was not just in his skull but at his door. He looked at his watch. Fuck! It was a quarter to nine. His presentation was in less than an hour and he still needed to shower, gather his notes, and probably throw up.

  “Jesus Christ. You look like shit.” It was Nathan from Austin, surprisingly fresh despite carrying on long after Jeff had opted out.

  “I’ve got to shower, Nathan.” Jeff was abrupt. He didn’t have time to socialize. “I’m on at nine thirty.”

  “I know. I brought you a little pick-me-up. Thought you could use it.” He handed Jeff a small vial of clear liquid. Jeff stared at it.

  “LSD,” Nathan explained, “diluted in overproof vodka and distilled water.”

  Jeff handed it back. “No, thanks.” Jeff had never been into psychedelics, and he wasn’t about to start now, at forty-seven years old, right before an important presentation. What the fuck was wrong with this kid?

  Nathan sensed his incredulity. “You’ve never heard of microdosing?”

  “No.”

  “It’s big in the industry. Take a few drops of this and you’ll be transformed: energetic, focused, insightful … and no trace of that hangover.”

  Jeff had done drugs before, of course he had, but that was in another lifetime. He’d been in his twenties, studying at NYU, partying for thirty straight hours most weekends. He’d smoked pot, tried coke and mushrooms. But he was a different person now, with kids, a career, a marriage … all the responsibilities that made drugs unacceptable. Except he was in Vegas … and wasn’t this city just a throbbing, neon neverland where real life melted away and a man could indulge his inner child—or, in this case, his inner twenty-two-year-old? He didn’t have to worry about Kim’s judgments or setting an example for the kids. He just had to worry about getting through his sixteen-minute presentation.

  “I won’t trip?” Jeff asked.

  “No chance. At a psycholytic dose, it’s like taking Ritalin or Adderall. You’ll still be you. Just super-you.” He smiled and held out the vial. Jeff took it in his clammy palm and headed for the bathroom.

  HE’D KILLED IT! The presentation had been a triumph! Maybe the drugs had skewed his perception of audience response somewhat, but there was no denying that it had been well received. Jeff had been confident, insightful, and in command of the room—with no evidence of a hangover. The vial of LSD nestled in his pants pocket. “Keep it,” Nathan said. “You can dose every two or three days … Make the most of it. Develop new strategies at work. Learn a language. Write a song …”

  The vial lasted nearly a month. Jeff rationed it carefully; there would be no more when this was gone. He didn’t have drug-buying connections, didn’t run in those circles. And he could hardly contact Nathan and ask him to send him some more LSD in the mail. Jeff would just enjoy what he had while he had it—increased clarity, deeper insights, exceptional creativity. One afternoon, he and Graham took a few drops before a run. It was phenomenal! The stamina, the speed, the ability to focus on the physical act of running without the distractions of weakness or pain. It would have been a bit of harmless fun with no ill repercussions … if Kim hadn’t found the vial.

  He looked at the dashboard clock: 4:45. Hannah’s friends would descend in a matter of minutes, turning his home into a seething hive of chattering and giggling, a tree full of articulate squirrels. He wouldn’t get through this without a beer. Flicking on his indicator, he pulled up in front of a dodgy liquor store—its window crammed with posters and neon signs advertising beer and wine. Plugging a quarter into the mete
r, Jeff strode down the uneven sidewalk, his mind firmly entrenched in that day last year.

  He had tried to lie: it was a vitamin cocktail! But when Kim threatened to sample it, he had to tell her the truth. She was stunned. “What if you’d had a psychotic break? What if the kids had found this?” Her voice was quiet, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She was sitting on the bed; he was standing in front of her. His work pants were still in her lap, the tiny vial now on the bedside table beside them.

  “I can explain.” But his account did little to sway her. Kim didn’t care that everyone in tech was trying it and that, at such diluted intensity, there was virtually no chance of a bad reaction. She didn’t care that it had been a “gift,” or that once it was gone, he never planned to do it again. She wasn’t content to blame this all on Nathan, who had tried to lure Jeff into partying with hookers—yes, hookers—to which he had promptly said no. Kim hadn’t been impressed or grateful. On the contrary, she’d fixed him with a look of such withering contempt that he wished he hadn’t even mentioned it. All Kim could see was that he’d brought illegal, psychedelic drugs into their home—where their children lived, where she lived. It didn’t matter to her that there were only a few drops left (on second thought, this may have made things worse). In her mind, Jeff had broken the law, broken her trust, broken her heart… .

  They talked most of the night, both of them breaking down in tears on several occasions. Kim wasn’t sure she could live with the betrayal. She was blindsided, her entire world suddenly tilted on its axis. She wanted him to leave, but he refused. He attacked her for being a hypocrite. She’d done drugs when she worked at the ad agency—probably more drugs than he ever had. But Kim was resolute that she’d changed, grown up. She put her family first now, above all else. She thought he had, too. He shifted gears and tried to comfort her, tried to tell her that, really, it could have been much worse. It could have been a meth lab in the garage! There could have been dealers involved! And guns! It was a psycholytic dose, barely enough to have an effect! But his “minimizing it,” as she called it, just upset her more.

  Kim’s overreaction was clearly a pretext, the drugs a metaphor for all the other problems in their marriage. She had griped for years about their lack of connection, the “distance” between them, his constant state of distractedness. She resented his obsession with his work, though not the work itself, as if that even made sense. Jeff’s wife had a vision for their life: beautiful house; nice cars; polite, well-educated children; and a partnership that the neighbors envied, no matter what was going on beneath the surface. Kim should have married a politician.

  But Jeff had to put the kids first. He knew from experience that growing up with divorced parents was no picnic, so he had agreed to Kim’s conditions. The trust was gone; he’d killed it. She didn’t want to treat him like one of the children, but apparently, she would have to. His extracurricular activities would have to be curtailed: straight home after work, no more drinks with the guys or weekend golf tournaments that invariably led to the bar. Business trips presented a problem that they would have to work around. He would check in before going out for dinner in the evening and once he returned at night. She would then call the hotel and ask to be transferred to his room to ensure he was where he said he was. Of course, there was no way she could know if he went out and got “all tripped out” later, but he told her she could call him at any hour of the day or night if she wanted. A year later, the system was still in place. She’d finally stopped rifling through his pockets every night… . Or he was pretty sure she’d stopped.

  At least he had his triathlon training. Kim grudgingly accepted the time he spent at the pool, on his bike, or on the pavement. It gave him a goal, something to strive toward. It was also a means of escape from the palpable resentment pervading his home. That, and work kept him sane. And the kids. They were worth it.

  He was reaching for the greasy handle of the liquor store door when he became aware of a presence to his right. He turned, a little panicked given the dodgy neighborhood. It was a boy, about Hannah’s age, with dark eyes and artfully shaved hair. “Hey … ,” he said, a cheeky grin spreading across his face. Jeff heard distant giggling and glanced over to see two boys with a similar look, lurking at the side of the building. There was a girl with them, too. She was wearing short shorts, her legs a bit too pale and a bit too chubby to successfully pull off the look. But he knew boys that age weren’t expecting supermodels. The kid near him blushed and continued. “You look like a cool guy. Would you buy my friends and me some beer?”

  Jeff paused for the briefest of moments. Did he look like a cool guy, sweaty and disheveled in his expensive running gear? Driving his cool electric car? Was he a cool guy? He used to be pretty cool, back in the day, but things had changed. He had changed—thanks, mostly, to Kim. “Sorry, kid.” He said, pulling the door open and cementing his uncool status. He caught a whiff of the kid’s words on the air as the door closed behind him. They weren’t complimentary.

  As he moved toward the beer fridge, he felt a twinge of something … like regret. He wanted to be the kind of guy who bought those kids beer. He wanted them to wander off with their six-pack and talk about how great he was, instead of calling him an uptight asshole or whatever the kid had muttered in his wake. Twenty, even ten years ago, he might have been that guy. But he wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t about to bootleg for a bunch of underage strangers. He knew what could happen.

  When he was a teenager, there had been plenty of drinking and partying and general carousing … and he’d survived it, even thrived because of it. Mischief and troublemaking built character. When he got together with his friends from school they laughed themselves sick remembering the antics they got up to. Even Kim had a wild side, once upon a time. When they were first dating, they’d spent plenty of nights at crazy parties or in bars. Once, they’d gone to Mexico and Kim had downed tequila shots and danced on the bar in her bra. And then Kim became a mother and it was like flicking a switch. Overnight, Kim became responsible, earnest, doting … boring.

  He grabbed a six-pack of low-carb, light beer and headed for the counter. He thought about his own kids as he moved. What would they have to look back on when they hit forty? Soccer practice and piano recitals? Debate club and French lessons? Hannah and Aidan were growing up sheltered, overparented, dull… . His wife was turning them into plastic, perfect Disney Channel kids. What kind of adults would they turn into? God, he shuddered to think.

  He placed his piss-weak beer on the counter, a funk of dissatisfaction clinging to him. The clerk, a bland guy in glasses, waved the wand over the UPC code. “That everything?”

  Jeff was about to reply yes, when he spotted the display at his right elbow: pink champagne … well, sparkling wine. It had a girly label and festive pink foil wrapped around the easy-pop top. It screamed “bachelorette party” or “sweet sixteen”—without actually screaming it and therefore being pulled from the shelves. It was right there, like some sort of sign from above. He grabbed the bottle and plunked it on the counter. “And this,” he said.

  hannah

  THAT NIGHT

  Marta and Caitlin were the first to arrive. They bustled in with their cargo of various bags: sleeping, overnight, gift… .

  “You look beautiful,” Caitlin complimented.

  Hannah smiled. “Thanks.” She had straightened her dark-blond hair and meticulously applied her makeup. She wanted to look mature and sexy, but not so mature and sexy that her mom noticed and made her go wash her face.

  “You look like a model,” Marta contributed, “so tall and skinny.”

  Hannah was happy to see her two friends, but their arrival wasn’t exactly thrilling. Marta and Caitlin had been coming to her birthday parties since she was eleven. Ronni had attended a few, too, back when they were kids. But Lauren Ross had never been to Hannah’s birthday, never even been to her house. Hannah swallowed the fear that the popular girl wouldn’t show, but she couldn’t deny that her birthd
ay would be ruined without Lauren’s attendance.

  She led the duo to the kitchen. Caitlin and Marta were comfortable at Hannah’s place and her mom liked them. They lived up to Kim’s exacting standards: well mannered, academically successful, engaged in school activities. But like Hannah, they were growing up. Marta’s parents had taken her back to their native Brazil for Christmas and Marta had met a boy. Marta was pretty, in a stout, swarthy sort of way, but she wasn’t the kind of girl the boys at Hillcrest liked. Brazilian boys, apparently, had different taste, because Marta and her new beau had been sexting ever since her return. (Marta had shown Caitlin and Hannah the dick pic he’d sent her. Gross. When Hannah did go all the way with Noah, she wasn’t even going to look at that thing.) Caitlin was still pretty square—it didn’t help that she looked about nine, with her curly auburn hair and freckles—but she’d recently admitted to dipping into her mom’s medicine cabinet. Hannah prayed they’d be able to up their game for Lauren and Ronni tonight.

  The girls loitered while Hannah’s parents prepared snack plates for them to take downstairs. Her mom peppered her friends with questions: “How’s school?” “Marta, are you still in drama club?” “How’s the volleyball team, Caitlin?” And her dad cracked jokes that weren’t really funny, but the girls laughed anyway—just to be polite, or maybe because they appreciated the effort. When the doorbell rang again, Hannah knew it had to be Lauren and Ronni. She scurried to answer it, a mixture of relief and excitement making her sweaty.

  “Oh my god! You’re here!” Crap … She sounded like she was in second grade. She had to dial down the enthusiasm. But Lauren and Ronni squealed with delight and hugged her.

  Lauren leaned into Hannah. “Tonight is going to be amazing.”

  “Totally,” Ronni echoed.

  Hannah felt the butterflies in her stomach activate. She was thankful for the container of vodka tucked under the sofa yet still terrified her parents would discover it. She navigated the girls to the kitchen.