by Charlee Fam
I stepped outside, half expecting to find Adam arguing with the bouncer about his fake ID.
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O’Reilly’s was right beneath the Seaport train-station platform—easy access for South Shore bar-goers. From where I stood, I could faintly make out the voice from the loudspeaker overhead.
The eleven forty-five to Babylon is operating on time.
A furious ball of frustration began to spool in my gut as I concealed a bottle of Bud in my bag and halfheartedly nodded to some junior girls fumbling in their patent pumps. There was nothing to do but wait, and I risked missing Adam altogether if I went back inside. So I checked my phone again. Nothing.
The eleven fifty-three to Penn Station is operating on time.
In seven minutes, Adam would turn eighteen, and I couldn’t stand the fact that he wasn’t celebrating with me.
“I want that one,” Rachel said, when I shouldered my way back toward the dance floor. She was still leaning against the bar, swaying on her feet. She pointed, subtly, though not quite subtle enough, at some guy. “His name is Rod,” she slurred, and then busted into an hysterical fit of giggles. Rod stood next to Eric. We’d never seen the guy before, and decided he was one of Eric’s lacrosse buddies from upstate. When Rod caught Rachel sloppily pointing in his direction, he approached. Ally, Sasha, and Ellie signaled to me from the bathroom line.
“What happened to Eric?” I asked.
“Like I said, I’m saving him for a special occasion,” she crooned. “Besides, maybe this will make him jealous.” Rod had a shaved head, hard eyes, and a weak chin.
“I want to go,” I said. “I’m bored. And Adam clearly isn’t coming.” I reached into my bag and felt a damp wad of cash that had been soaked by the beer I snuck outside.
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“Relax,” Rachel said. “Why don’t you have fun for once? As far as I’m concerned, you’re a single woman.”
The band started up on the stage and began to play a slow emo version of Pat Benatar’s “Invincible.”
Rachel waved me away and put her own arms around Rod’s thick neck. I watched their fluid movements on the dance floor. Rachel’s hips swung to the tired beat of the song.
This bloody road remains a mystery.
This sudden darkness fills the air.
“Hi.” The voice startled me. I whirled around, the bottom of my dress brushing up against my midthigh.
“Eric,” he said, pointing at himself. I knew who he was. He’d schooled me in hard-ons, the middle finger, and virgins, but it was okay, because he had a dead mother. He had graduated two years earlier, and from what Rachel said, he now went to some preppy college upstate on a lacrosse scholarship. He lived near Adam. I passed his house each time I walked there, but we hadn’t actually spoken since that time he gave me the middle finger in second grade.
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His navy ribbed sweater seemed outdated, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing his thick forearms. The tiny hairs on his arm stood up, and it reminded me of this time when I was ten. I had been sitting on my living room couch, sulking, waiting for Karen to take me to soccer practice or softball practice, or whatever season it was. We were already late. The tiny hairs stood up on my legs, and that’s when I decided it was time to start shaving. That night, with my father’s razor, I sliced a chunk out of my knee, a scar that would—over the years—fade into a tiny white film, barely noticeable.
“Hey?”
“Excuse me?” I said, realizing again where I was, the hazy air of the bar swirling around me like exhaust from a car. He said something barely audible over the band.
“That’s your name, isn’t it?” Eric said.
“No,” I said. “It’s not.” I took a swig of my beer and craned my neck, looking for another familiar face. Rachel winked at me from the wooden dance floor, and the song played.
“Do you want a drink?” he asked. “I’m getting a drink.” I shook my head and stared at the door. Still no Adam. Eric shrugged and walked toward the bar. His body moved with a cold indifference.
I waited for Rachel to make eye contact again and signaled for her. She whispered something into Rod’s ear and shouldered her way toward me.
“You okay?” She put her free hand on my shoulder.
“I guess,” I said, and took a swig out of the bottle. “Just bummed it turned out like this. I think I might just go home.”
“Don’t go home,” she whined. “Give me like an hour, and we’ll go home together. Okay? Besides, your bag is at my house, remember?” She smiled, her sickly-sweet Rachel smile, draped her arm around my neck, and pulled me into her. “Please,” she said. Her hot breath tickled my cheek. I wanted to say no. I should have said no, but part of me still thought Adam might saunter in through the wooden doors.
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“Go ahead,” I said, and pushed her back toward Rod. She smiled and threw her arms around me, smacking her lips into my face. I wiped my cheek with the back of my hand.
I SAT, PERCHED at the high-top table near the door, peeling the label off the bottle of Bud. I’d lost sight of Rachel more than an hour earlier, and my phone was about to die. Ally, Sasha, and Ellie were dancing. I’d given up on Adam, and was about to call it a night, when I felt the weight of the table shift.
“Shots?” Eric stayed standing and leaned into the table. He placed two glasses of tequila down in front of me. “You can have them both.” He wasn’t smiling, but he seemed amused, in a dry, deadpan way, and it reminded me of Adam. He smelled different from Adam though, more artificial, his sweater doused in a cheap drugstore cologne.
“Thank you, sir,” I said, eyeing him as I threw one back and the brass-flavored booze burned my throat. He wasn’t so bad up close, and for a moment I thought I saw what Rachel saw—sharp blue eyes and just the right amount of composure.
“You look bored,” he said, his voice straining over the music. His chest was broad up close, too—something that Adam had always lacked, no matter how many push-ups he attempted. Part of me wanted to reach out and touch him, just to know what actual masculinity felt like for once.
“I am bored,” I said. I leaned in and took the second shot.
“Me, too.” He grinned, and he signaled to the bartender for another shot. “Well, I was.”
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“I think our friends ditched us,” I said. He leaned into the table, still standing, and held his phone up to my face. I squinted and read the text: Rachel’s phone is dead. We’re back at the house. Bring her friend.
“From Rod,” he said.
“So typical,” I mumbled, and threw down the rest of my drink.
“Then why do you put up with it?” He took another shot, and I shrugged. I didn’t know why, and I wasn’t about to delve into it with the guy who flipped me off in second grade.
“She likes you, you know.” I don’t know why I said it. I knew Rachel would have killed me, but the words sort of just fell from my mouth. I shifted in my chair, feeling the tequila start to buzz through me.
“Oh yeah?” he said. “Well, what about you?” His gaze stayed stoic but playful, and again he reminded me of Adam. I shook off the thought, and stared at his sharp blue eyes.
“What about me?”
“Do you like me?” And then his cold face broke, and he sort of smirked, and shrugged, and pulled himself up onto the stool.
“I have a boyfriend,” I said.
OUTSIDE, I KICKED at the curb with my heel. Eric pulled his truck up to where I stood.
The one fifty-three to Babylon is operating on time.
I stood on the sidewalk in a circle with Ally, Sasha, and Ellie. We passed a joint around the circle, the air hazy and cool.
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Eric lurked on the sidewalk. He’d seemed bothered by my presence once I dropped the boyfriend bomb, like he’d promised to play wingman while Rod did his thing. If only Rachel knew, maybe she would have encouraged me to go for Rod instead.
“Are you sure you don’t want to
come back with us?” Ally asked again, eyeing Eric, who was now holding his passenger-side door open and tapping his foot impatiently on the sidewalk. I handed her the joint. She put it out and stuffed it back into her bra. I felt the weed hit me all at once.
“You know Rachel—the master of Irish exits.” I shook my head and stumbled toward Eric’s car. “I promised I’d go back with her. My stuff is at her house anyway,” I said. “Are you sure you’re not too drunk to drive?” I asked Eric, not really caring. He’d promised to swing by his place, pick up Rachel, and take us back to her house. I just wanted to get into Rachel’s bed, and text Adam a defeated Happy Birthday note.
Maybe he’d feel bad. Maybe he was testing me. Maybe if I just spilled my guts, told him how I really felt, how I was sad and disappointed and hurt. Hurt. Quite possibly the most pathetic word of all.
Eric nodded, and I waved Ally away. I smoothed the front of my black dress and hoisted myself up into Eric’s car. I felt unsteady, but shook off my first wave of the spins and focused on the dashboard in front of me. It was cold, and I was starting to regret not bringing a jacket. That was Rachel’s idea, too.
I chewed on the corner of my lip until I broke the skin. The truck rumbled and sputtered against the dark back road. The metallic taste of blood distracted me, and I didn’t notice when he pulled into his driveway.
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Eric cut the engine, and it was silent. He looked over at me, his mouth stretched into a thin line. It was so silent that the air felt thick, like it was pressing down on my chest.
“You can just drive me home if you want. I can pick Rachel up in the morning if that’s easier.” I didn’t know what else to say. I felt like more of a burden at this point, and Eric wasn’t the kind of guy who played wingman.
“No. Whatever,” he said. “We’ll figure it out.” I was starting to feel like some kid who’d gotten dumped on his stoop.
He didn’t turn on the lights when we walked into the foyer. It was dark, but I could hear voices from the kitchen, and I imagined a group of guys all seated around the table with a deck of cards.
“Wait here,” he said.
“Where’s Rachel?” I said, reluctant to step into the house. It was drafty and smelled like old cedar and cigarettes. I didn’t recognize any of the voices from the kitchen, but it sounded like some sort of after-party in the works, and I wasn’t in the mood to be social. “We’re not staying. I just want to find her and leave. Okay?”
“Okay,” he said, flashing me that patronizing smile again. “Just sit tight.” He pushed me down onto an armchair, and I suddenly realized how drunk I was.
He was gone for a while. Minutes—maybe ten. But the voices from the kitchen were low, husky, and casual. I couldn’t tell how many people were in there, but it was definitely not Rachel.
“I think she’s cute,” I heard someone say.
“Yeah, I guess so. Cute, but kind of chubby.”
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I put both hands over my stomach, which wasn’t in such bad shape, I thought, and sat up straight as if to march in there and defend myself. But the room started to spin, and my tongue felt too thick to even speak. I fell back against the armchair and closed my eyes.
It may have been more minutes—seven, eight. It’s hard to tell because when he shook my shoulder, I jolted awake.
“You can’t stay here,” Eric said. His hand was still on my shoulder.
“Okay,” I said. I was groggy, and not fully awake, my body weighed down by sleep. “I can leave.”
He laughed, a dry, husky laugh. “No. I mean you can’t stay on this chair. Come on. Rachel’ll be right on that couch. I’ll find you somewhere else to sleep. Cool?”
“I guess,” I said, and followed him up the stairs. He opened the door to a drafty room. There was a couch—somebody already curled up on it, his back to us—and an empty full-sized bed.
“How about you just sleep here, and I’ll find somewhere else to crash.” He smiled, nothing like that arrogant prick he’d been at the bar. I almost felt bad for being such a bitch. My body hit the bed and I felt sleep take over again. Relief.
“This is fine,” I said. I rolled onto my side and faced the wall. He disappeared into the hallway. I must have drifted off into that drunken realm between sleep and wakefulness, when I heard the door creak open and a strand of yellow light streamed in through the doorway.
“There was nowhere else to go,” he said, his voice low. I felt his body come down next to me, his bare chest pressed against my back.
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THERE IS NOTHING worse than the weight of a man on your chest: the stubble of his face scratching your cheek, the rough pads of his fingers prodding, his unyielding tongue drawing spitty lines all over your neck.
I felt my own body shake in the cold drafty room. Maybe it was the weed, but I was sure I was about to split. I was sure my torso would crack and my insides would spill out onto the hardwood floor.
“Be quiet,” he said, and nodded in the direction of a shadowy figure sprawled out on the couch.
“Stop,” I said, too softly. My hips raised beneath him as I tried to wriggle out from under him, but he took it as an invitation.
“Relax,” he said, and his hand pressed down gently over my mouth. Relax. Relax. What a vile word. He reached under my dress and moved my underwear to the side, his fingers grazing against me. I wore lace. I borrowed the pair from Rachel. It was supposed to be for Adam.
The reflection from the streetlamp against the cheap panel wall attached to my eyes and spun with a dull grace. Relax. But all I could think about was the beach.
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We were young, Rachel and me—maybe eight, Eli was around six. The three of us spent the afternoon digging a hole. It was one of those holes that you find at the beach as a kid and reuse, because it’s such a waste to fill it in. But we hadn’t wanted anyone to enjoy our hard labor, so we buried Eli up to his neck. When we were finished, and he couldn’t wriggle free, he started to cry, panic really. The lifeguards had to come and dig him out with a special shovel. Later, Karen lectured us on how we could have killed him, how his chest could have collapsed.
Now, as I lay on this bed with this man on my chest, I knew how it felt to be buried in the sand.
I STARED UP at the ceiling. The streetlight still buzzing. How could anyone sleep with that sound? His boxers were scrunched next to the bedpost.
My dress hung limp over my body, but Rachel’s underwear was gone, tangled somewhere between his white down comforter and the starchy bare mattress.
He was beside me, his back turned to me, curled up in the fetal position, breathing. Peaceful.
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Chapter 19
Wednesday, October 8, 2014.
I’M ON MY knees, my body wedged into my closet, and I pull out a single black pump and fumble around for the other shoe. I probably won’t need them, but I’d like to have everything ready just in case. It’s the night before Rachel’s funeral. It’s also the night of the wake. Visiting hours are from seven to nine. It’s six thirty now, and instead of getting ready or even entertaining the idea of making an appearance, I help myself to some of Karen’s wine.
I’d been camped out in my room since yesterday—except to use the bathroom—and I didn’t venture out until I heard Karen’s car edge out of the driveway around noon, and that was only to refill my glass with water and snag an unopened box of cereal.
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I sit on the hardwood floor, outside of my closet, with a glass of Pinot Noir. I can hear her heels clicking on the hardwood in and out of the hall bathroom.
Monday night’s dinner fiasco and everything that followed at Ally’s burn like a fresh wound, and the words keep spinning around in my head.
I heard you did something bad. She really could have used her best friend in the end.
I’ve spent the past two days buried beneath my covers piecing together that night—every word, every smell, or at least what I could remember of it. I heard my door
creak open at around ten—Karen must have been checking in to make sure I was alive—but I kept my face hidden in my pillow and feigned sleep. She hasn’t tried to talk to me yet, and I’ve been brainstorming a way out of the conversation for more than forty-eight hours. I’ve never been good at these types of conversations.
I take a sip of wine and continue fumbling around my closet for the missing black pump. I pull out other mismatched shoes, a couple of rumpled designer bags, and an old shoe box. The box is torn, watermarked, and coming apart at the edges. It’s filled with notebooks, photos, and birthday cards. I take a wad of photos in my hand. There are a few pictures of Rachel and me; Adam and me; Rachel, Adam, and me, but nothing worth keeping. I throw them all into my garbage can.
It feels okay, though. Not liberating or anything, just okay.
I swish the wine in my mouth, swallow, and shuffle through more of the shoe box. I start to toss some old school notes into the garbage, too, but stop to look at the top book, a black Marble notebook with the words As If etched out in pencil on the white part of the cover.
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“Shit,” I say out loud, opening to the center of the book. And right there, taped to the page and printed in faded purple ink, are the lyrics to “Don’t Stop Lovin’ Me, Baby.”
I reach for my wine in pure amusement, my eyes locked on the poorly spelled rendition of our almost breakout hit. I’d forgotten that I’d kept the book after the infamous framing incident. I had lied and told Rachel and Ally that Ms. Price had confiscated it. I don’t realize that I’m smiling, and for a second, just a second, I almost, almost wish I could call Rachel and tell her what I found.
I take another sip of wine. It’s sweet and earthy. Karen raps three times on the door.
“Yes?” The door creaks open, slow and dramatic, like she’s waiting for me to scream or throw a dish at the door. “Yeah?” I say again. Karen pushes the door open, and I see she’s wearing a black pantsuit.