Then He Happened

by Claudia Burgoa

  Even when I beg them to listen.

  So, I finally do something I never done in my life.

  I run.

  Jason’s voice calls after me for a while.

  “Eileen, wait, what’s happening?” He yells, his voice distorted by the sound of the pouring rain. “Sweetheart, stop.”

  Eventually it fades. I think he got the message. I’m better off not dealing—

  “Hey, wait,” Jason says as he catches my hand.

  Dammit, I think as I turn around and find him too close to me.

  His hair wet, drops pouring down his face but the intensity on his whiskey colored eyes make my heart skip several beats. But I shove away the fluttering butterflies that swirl around every time he is near.

  What’s the point of being attracted to someone who is about to fade?

  “How are you so fucking fast!”

  “I’m taller!” He shouts, more panicked than upset. “Now will you tell me what’s wrong?”

  I shrug. What’s the point in talking about me?

  “I upset you.” He isn’t asking but stating.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say.

  “Of course it does! Look at me, Eileen,” he says.

  I stare up at his big beautiful brown eyes and the pained expression he has on his face.

  It guts me.

  He’s upset.

  “What? Why does it even matter?”

  “Because you’re hurting,” he says, licking his lips. “Can we please talk about it?”

  What’s the use in talking about it?

  No one ever listens. Nor fucking cares what I think, or feel, or what happens to me. Except for Camilla. She’s the only one who would care what’s going on with me, and I can’t even reach her.

  No one else gives a fuck about me.

  Even if they did, I honestly doubt they know how to think about anyone but themselves.

  It’s been years and years of trying to get my family to listen, trying to get them to forgive, and for what?

  For making sure Charlie finished high school. For not pushing my help on her when she wanted to find her own way? Even then it doesn’t matter because there’s always another reason to be angry at me, or disappointed.

  They can’t live with me, but fuck me if I’m not on call to wait on them hand and foot.

  My entire life is swarming in mangled, unrequited relationships.

  So why does Jason want to be any different?

  “Why do you care?” I ask, maybe even whimper.

  He takes a step forward. We’re inches apart. He puts his hands on my shoulders, squeezing lightly. He opens his mouth, the immediately snaps it shut. He does that a few more times.

  Jason’s eyes are so sad but so sincere.

  It’s like he’s trying to say something, but the words aren’t coming.

  For some reason, it reminds of a few days ago. We were in my favorite antique shop and I was trying to tell him not to give up on his dreams. He asked me the same thing.

  Why do you even care?

  My breath catches. I know what I wanted to say.

  He’s the only thing that’s made me happy in a really long time. Of course, I care if he’s even an ounce as happy as he’s made me.

  Suddenly, my body just reacts, hugging him tightly. He hugs me back, just as tight.

  He feels so safe. Like... like a home I wish I knew.

  Rain masks my tears as Jason’s arms shield me from the bullshit of the world. Part of me thinks I can’t trust him, or anyone for that matter.

  There’s no point in making myself vulnerable to someone else.

  He hums an old love song under his breath. I don’t know if he does it for his sake or mine. Regardless, it makes me think maybe he isn’t someone or just another person.

  Maybe he’s the only person who’s ever cared enough to matter.

  “My birthday,” I mumble, letting the words out, the resentment.

  The anger that’s been brewing in my gut for the past two weeks.

  “I’m planning her fucking wedding for my birthday,” I explain further. Each word tastes like bile. “My graduation day. Because Charlie doesn’t give a fuck about anyone else! She doesn’t care. None of them do.”

  If she hadn’t been pregnant, I would’ve been traveling alone to Aruba. Happy Birthday, pathetic loser.

  Jason hugs me tighter.

  We stand there, hugging in the rain, for another minute or so. It feels like we’re the only people in existence.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have an umbrella in that giant purse of yours?” he asks, not letting me go.

  I shake my head.

  “You’re kidding?”

  “It barely rains in this forsaken desert,” I say with a chuckle.

  He laughs. It makes my nerves bubble up into laughter. He’s good at making the unbearable wonderful.

  “Wanna find somewhere drier?” he asks. “I know a place up the road, and I think you literally owe me a raincheck on drinks.”

  I smirk, squeezing one last time before I let him go.

  “Lead the way,” I say.

  29

  Eileen

  The rain’s pounding so hard on us that my back feels like it’s getting a complimentary massage, courtesy of the same thing that’s ruining my hair. I can barely see the hand Jason’s pulling me with into this bar of his.

  I don’t get a good look at anything until we’re sitting in a dry booth at the corner of this place. I use some paper towels Jason gives me to dry my hair. Thankfully my purse is waterproof or I’m sure all of our last minute notes on the wedding would be ruined.

  Not that Charlie would notice. As long as things look perfect enough for her, she doesn’t care what people had to go through to make them happen.

  “Drink,” he says, putting a shot of whiskey in front of me.

  I knock it back without thinking. “Give me another,” I say.

  He slides one toward me as he gets up, “I’ll grab some more. Can’t have you getting trashed by yourself.”

  Jason brings a tray with two shot glasses and a bottle of single malt. I swallow hard. This is out of my league. I’m a beer, cooler and casual tequila drinker. Not that I haven’t tried hard liquor, but I don’t drink it often.

  Not by the bottle.

  The next shot goes down smoother than the first. Fuck, he paid for the good shit. I’m too tired to feel guilty or ask how much he wants me to give towards the tab. I just want to forget everything. My sister, my parents, my career, and that stupid wedding in two days.

  I take a deep breath, letting my eyes adjust to this bar. The tables are scratched and the green vinyl booth seats look like they need reupholstering. Wait a second—

  In the corner of my eyes I notice an all too familiar neon sign.

  “We’re in Finley’s,” I say.

  “Uh, yeah?” Jason says as he sits down across from me. “You ever been here before?”

  “This was my dad’s pub,” I say, gesturing wildly at some of the decorations. “I come here every week. See? Josh the bartender is waving at me.”

  I wave back as Josh shouts, “Didn’t know you were friends with Spearman!”

  “It’s a recent development,” I shout back.

  Jason takes a double shot as he pushes a glass of water my way.

  “You’re fucking with me,” he says. “I’ve been coming here every week since I found this place six months ago, and I’ve never seen you here.”

  “I come here on Tuesdays for half-priced pints,” I say.

  He groans, “Lame. I only have time to come on Sundays for trivia.”

  I nod. “Makes sense. I got banned from trivia.”

  He crooks an eyebrow. “Because…”

  “...My best friend and I won three months in a row,” I say sheepishly.

  He laughs. It sounds half shocked, half hysterically enthused. “How are you a real person? You’re so fucking incredible it should be illegal.”

  “I’m not,�
� I say, blushing.

  “Sure, be humble,” he says and winks. “Your secret is safe with me, genius.”

  The glint in his eyes is so hard to read. I chalk it up to a drinking haze. I keep chugging some water, so I don’t die later. Wouldn’t that be ironic? My mother yelling over my tombstone that I ruined Charlie’s big day.

  Bitch.

  I cover my face and look around.

  There it is. The first stages of being drunk. My filters begin to disappear. I should stop while I’m ahead.

  What if I reach the wildly drastic stage of drunkenness?

  “They pay me nothing. I earned more while I worked here as a bartender during my master’s degree,” I explain to him. “As if having a college degree, two master’s degrees and a doctorate is nothing but bullshit.”

  I drink more water after the fourth, or maybe fifth shot.

  “It’d be fine if I were paid enough to be comfortable,” I say sighing.

  “So work in a private practice,” Jason argues.

  “No,” I say. “I can’t do that to the kids who really need it.”

  “You ever think that maybe if you made enough to survive through a private practice, you could work with low income families within their means?”

  I slump back in my chair. “Huh.”

  “Gotcha there, didn’t I? Break the system, don’t let it break you,” he says with a triumphant smirk.

  And then Jason goes on a rant about the Bee Gees—

  “I’m just saying, they killed disco,” he says.

  I laugh. “Because disco needed help dying?”

  We get distracted... a lot. Or maybe I can’t keep track of the conversation. Am I drunk?

  I clear my throat, trying to act casual as I reintroduce this sore topic. “So, if I can go after my dreams—why won’t you?”

  Jason takes a swig of beer. “Wanna do Irish car bombs?”

  I narrow my gaze. No, it’s not me. He’s diverting the conversation and avoiding what I tell him.

  “I will if you stop trying to derail this conversation,” I say.

  He gets up. He smirks as he leads me to the bar, saying “We’ll see.”

  Irish car bombs are weird. Not because you’re supposed to drink them before they curdle, but because I’ve never been able to tell when they do.

  Maybe a part of me doesn’t understand when good things are ruined, or I have no sense of self-preservation. Something like that.

  “You’re really bad at those,” he says when he finishes first.

  I shrug. “I could easily take a tequila shot better than you.”

  “Honestly, I’d rather not die that way,” he confesses.

  I hum, closing my eyes. “How would you die? If you could choose?”

  “Easy. I’d go out in front of a live audience. Sing my swan song and then croak off like an instantaneous heart attack or something,” he says.

  “Poetic, but morbid,” I say. “It suits you.”

  “You?” he asks.

  I shrug. “Probably something mundane like choking.”

  “Ouch. What? Nothing cool?”

  I roll my eyes. “We don’t all have to be as interesting as you.”

  “You’re the most interesting person on the planet,” he says. “I think you deserve to go out in style.”

  I blush.

  Somewhere around six drinks, we start arguing about what matters in life. Happiness.

  How it depends on the quality of life and your thoughts. He disagrees about the concept.

  “I don’t get what the big deal is,” Jason says. “It isn’t objective. Everyone from Oprah to James Corden exist to entertain you, make you laugh, and maybe give you a tip or two. But not everyone agrees with all of them. It’s the same with being happy.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense.” I claim. “I agree. It’s subjective but also, like love, it exists—even when you can’t see or touch it.”

  “Love doesn’t give you happiness,” he says with a gruff voice.

  “The fact is that you act like you don’t deserve to be happy,” I argue.

  He glances at me, taking a swig of the beer he’s been nursing for a while and says, “Hey kettle, ever seen a mirror before?”

  “Don’t start with me—” I say, my jaw tightening.

  “We’re in a bar, literally drinking our troubles away because your sister is so selfish, she had to steal your birthday,” he argues, like a lawyer showing the jury the most powerful evidence to close his case. “The least you could do is stop wallowing in self-pity and do something about it.”

  My laugh comes out cold and flat. “Hey pot, why don’t you get off your fucking high horse and accept you’re lonely and kinda hate yourself for giving up on yourself for money.”

  “Fuck you,” Jason says, between sips of beer. “I did what I had to do to keep go—”

  “You are a romantic!” I shout over the blaring music. “You're just so fucking scared of getting your heart broken again you're just wasting your life away doing nothing!”

  He spits out some of his beer. “I'm scared? You're so fucking scared of upsetting or disappointing your family you don't do anything for yourself!”

  “At least I don’t shut my family out—”

  “Because they crush you! Every fucking day!” He claims.

  I think I’m about to slap him when I notice the Queen song that’s playing. Which, by drunk logic, takes precedence.

  “Fuck,” I say, sighing contently. “I love this song.”

  He laughs, the tension melting out of his shoulders. “It’s the fucking best.”

  “Right?” I say, unaffected by how my words are starting to slur more. “It’s like the perfect song—”

  “To get lost in when all you need is a win,” he says. “The underdog, searching for just the right moment to swoop in and make your dreams a reality.”

  It’s insane how much he gets me. It’s too good to be true.

  “I love how you get me too,” he says.

  Shit, I said that out loud.

  I get up, stumbling over to his side of the booth, scooting him over.

  In no time, I start singing at the top of my lungs.

  His smile is like the brightest star in the sky. Then, he starts harmonizing with me.

  I can’t tell if it’s the drunkenness or our combined competitiveness, but we hold the note in Somebody to Love for an absurdly long amount of time.

  Everything just melts away. It’s me and him—those big beautiful eyes, that wonderful voice, this kind soul who found me in a sea of angry mediocrity, even with his wounds and mild cynicism.

  He keeps singing.

  “How are you so perfect?” I ask.

  And single, I think. A man like him should be cherished and loved by someone who can see his value.

  “Excuse me?” he says. “You’re the most amazing person on the face of the earth. I can’t believe you haven’t been there every day of my entire life.”

  “It feels like I have,” I mutter. “Like we’ve been doing this—thing—forever. You’re just so smart and funny—”

  “—No, fuck no, that’s you,” he insists. “And you can sing! How do you not know how fucking amazing you are?”

  “Takes one to know one,” I say. “Oh shit, this is my favorite part.”

  He sings, and as he follows Freddy’s voice, I believe he wants to leave the passion cell, as much as I know that someday, I will finally be free. So, I join him.

  The music crescendos slowly. His lips are moving. I can’t pay attention to much else.

  “For what it’s worth,” he says suddenly. “I’m sorry I was an ass about your family. You’re the kindest person I’ve ever met.”

  “I’m sorry I said you were too chickenshit to be happy. You’re the most courageous person I’ve ever met,” I say earnestly, licking my lips. “And you're probably stupidly fantastic at kissing.”

  He leans over, his lips press firmly against mine. He catches my top lip betwee
n his teeth, teasing it.

  At first, it’s just a brush from his warm lips that zings my skin and sears my mouth. I open for him. Our tongues get tangled together as my arms find their way around his neck. His hands slide up to frame my face, and he tilts my head, deepening the kiss.

  I dig my nails in as this kiss becomes everything.

  It’s fireworks. Somersaults. It’s a summer sunset and the first snowfall. It’s the last time I went swimming as a kid. It’s climbing the highest peak.

  It’s coming home after a lifetime away. It’s a thousand lifetimes leading up to this one, simple resolution.

  It’s one soul calling out to another through an infinite abyss.

  It’s something like love.

  The song ends. Our lips barely part. He stares at me with dilated pupils.

  “See?” I say, still catching my breath. “Like that.”

  30

  Eileen

  I should be home right now, I think to myself.

  The rest of me is still singing Somebody to Love at the top of her lungs without giving a shit that I have to wake up early tomorrow morning. Instead, I grab a rideshare with Jason. We planned on doing two stops. But as we continued frantically kissing on our way to his place, I just couldn’t leave.

  And here I am, at his too big for one geek of an apartment. I smirk and look at him from head to toe.

  “This was a night to remember,” I say, thinking about the searing kiss, but not wanting to discuss it.

  Why spoil this night with something as mundane as you kissed me like no one has ever before, so instead I tease him. “I can’t believe you jumped on a table when Time After Time came on. I can’t believe that table didn’t break when you started dancing.”

  “Can’t you, though?” He glares at me, but with that goofy grin on his delicious mouth. I don’t believe he’s upset. “Cindy Lauper is an icon.”

  “That’s my song,” I protest. “Josh said you sang it better than I do.”

  “So what’s my prize then?”

  I shrug. “Nothing.”

  “Do you seriously not get how fucking amazing you are?” He asks out of nowhere. “You never answered the question.”