Icy Pretty Love

by L. A. Rose

  Maybe I'll just hang around for a minute, see if I see him, see who he's dancing with...

  Oh. There it is. Great job, brain, concealing my true intent from myself this long. I'm stalking him to find out if he's meeting a girl here. That's a new low of stupidity and misplaced envy. Hadn't he said he wasn't capable of a relationship?

  Maybe he only said that because he's already in one, a wicked voice whispers in my ear.

  Well, so what if he is? He doesn't owe me the truth. He doesn't owe me anything. I'm leaving in a week and then I'll never see him again.

  My heart hurts at that. I wish it wouldn't.

  "There you are!"

  It's Drunky McDrunkPants, back again for round two. He seems to be personally very proud of himself for sneaking a girl without an I.D. into a club. At any rate, he looks like he expects repayment.

  "Was wondering where you'd got to," he says, sliding his arm around me like I'm his girlfriend and like I hadn't already shot down his offer of a drink. "This place is crowded. We Americans gotta stick together, yeah?"

  Great. An uber-patriot with a superiority complex. I gently pry his arm off my shoulder. I'm used to playing nice with men who pay me for it, but I charge a lot more than a little help with a bouncer. "Look, I'm waiting for my...fiancé. Also, I think I might have to jump out a window if you say the phrase 'We Americans' one more time."

  "We Americans," he whispers into my ear with a wide smile, seemingly under the impression that we're flirting. I sigh. Maybe I should just get out of here. Leave Cohen to his mysterious midnight shenanigans.

  "It's been fun, buddy, but I should be heading out," I say, wondering if I can convince a cab to give me a free lift home. It wouldn't be the first time I've played the wide-eyed lost girl card.

  "But you just got here!" His arm snakes out, and he seizes my wrist. "One dance. Come on. I love your style, the whole mismatched I-don't-give-a-fuck theme. Other girls wear way too much makeup."

  He thinks I'm some sort of innocent. I want to laugh. If only he'd seen me in one of my Friday night LA getups. "I'll pass."

  "Come on," he insists, tugging me toward the thick mass of dancers, where he probably thinks he'll be able to rub his body parts all over me with impunity. "I got you in here."

  "Let go!" I snap, yanking back, but his grip is firm. "Lay off, asshole!"

  His expression changes, hardening. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were a fucking bitch."

  Men are all the same.

  He still has neglected to let go of me. I'm about to yell louder in the hopes that one of the people around is sober enough to help, when someone steps in. Not just someone. Cohen, tall and imperious as ever, an island of firm intensity in a crowd of people whose limbs seem to have come unhinged.

  "Take your hands off her," he says in a low, dangerous voice.

  This guy is even stupider than I thought, because his fingers remain on my skin just one defiant moment too long. It happens so fast that I barely have time to process it—Cohen's fist swinging up and plowing sharply, cleanly, into the other guy's face. We Americans flies backwards and skids a few inches on his butt, bright red blood already snaking a trail down his face. He covers his nose with one arm and stares up at Cohen, terrified.

  Cohen takes a step forward, and I can tell by the cut of his jaw and the muscles bunched along his neck that We Americans is about to get a hell of a lot worse than a bloody nose. I grab his arm. "Drop it. I'm fine."

  He stops, but the movement is funny, like it's in slow motion. He turns his head to look at me. Even in the dimness and flashing jagged lights of the club, I can tell something's off about him. It's his eyes. His pupils are dilated, his irises sharpened, like he's more awake than anyone has ever been.

  "What are you doing here?" he says after a few moments, as if the question has finally occurred to him.

  "I followed you," I say. It would only complicate things to lie, and I have a bad feeling about this. "I wanted to know where you've been sneaking off to every night."

  Another long pause, eventually followed by a "None of your business."

  But he doesn't sound angry. He sounds...distracted. Like his head is somewhere else and this is only barely managing to keep his interest.

  "Cohen," I say, biting my lip. "What's going on?"

  He says nothing, simply stares at me like I'm some beautiful alien who's landed in his backyard.

  I sigh. I'm not an idiot. My friends have done drugs before. I'm not a stranger to that world. But I thought that Cohen, with all his cool perfectionism, his high-and-mighty attitude, surely would be.

  Now I understand what Renard was talking about. Why Cohen’s father threatened him so easily. What Annabelle meant when she talked about his stability. If I had to make calculations by how often he sneaks out at night, Cohen's a habitual user. I'm amazed at how well he hides it during the day.

  I put my hand on his arm. "We're going home. Now."

  "Rae," he says, covering my hand with his. I'm not even sure he's conscious of doing it. "You shouldn't be here."

  "No shit, idiot. Neither should you. We're getting a cab. Hope you have cash."

  I lead him out of the fog-filled mess and into the cool night air. It clears my head a little, and I look at Cohen. Knowing him, he probably knew the exact precise amount to take of whatever he took—enough to get him high, but not enough to push him over the edge. A stranger could look at him and believe him to be was perfectly in control of his faculties. But I know better. He looks...different. The mask he ordinarily wears has been stripped away, and I can see the emotions in his face, like I’m looking through a dusty window whose blinds have finally been drawn back. He's starting to get annoyed that I'm here, finally, but there's something else there as he gazes at me. Something more raw.

  I tear my eyes away and hail a cab.

  We drive home in silence. With each block, I get angrier. How could he be doing something so stupid?

  By the time we get back to the apartment building, I'm more or less fuming. Renard is awake, a newspaper folded across his lap, and he doesn't say anything as I drag Cohen across the lobby and toward the elevator, though his eyes widen in surprise. No more secrets, Baldy. I know everything now. And I'm not standing for any of it.

  We get to the apartment. I shut the door behind us. Cohen stands in the center of his living room, looking out the window, at the dulled stars scattered over the soft gray shapes of buildings in the distance.

  I throw the keys on the floor. The clatter makes him look up.

  "What the hell, Cohen?" I say tightly. "Drugs? Really?"

  He watches me, his eyes dark. "You're disappointed in me."

  "Of course I'm disappointed in you! Do you know how many of my friends I've seen waste away and burn their lives on a pyre of that shit? And you have a hell of a lot more than they did to live for. Is that where you go every single night you sneak out? I know about all the nights, Cohen, I live with you and I'm not stupid."

  "I try to be quiet," he says.

  "I'm used to staying up late," I snarl. "How long have you been doing this?"

  He leans against the wall, pressing a hand to his forehead. Suddenly he looks exhausted. "I don't know. Years. This—going to Paris—was supposed to be a fresh start for me." He laughs bitterly. "But that was a lie. Father just wanted me shipped out of the way so I wouldn't be an embarrassment to him.”

  I sigh. That's how Ashworth Sr. was able to threaten him so easily. He could probably have Cohen thrown straight into rehab if he wanted. Although now I'm not so sure that would be a bad thing. "Why do you do it? It just seems so...not you."

  "I can't sleep." Suddenly his voice is gravelly. "If I sleep, I have...awful dreams. The only thing worse than those dreams is lying awake, knowing they're gathering in the darkness, waiting for me. They come with the night. The memories. There's only one way I know of to drive them away."

  I sit on the couch, hoping he'll sit down with me, but he doesn't. I wish the apartment was h
omier. More flawed. Standing in the middle of all that perfect furniture, he looks like someone who wandered into a sample home showing by accident. "Memories of what, Cohen?"

  "The accident," he whispers. "My mother...died in a car accident when I was young. I was in the backseat. I've never been able to get it out of my head."

  I cover my mouth. That must be why Renard tried to convince me to treat him gently. I'd always assumed that because he had money, his life was perfect. That problems didn't exist for him. "That's...that's horrible. I'm so sorry."

  He shakes his head. "It was a long time ago. I don't think about it. I'm fine, I'm stronger than those feelings were, it's just at night that the dreams come and I can't do anything about them. Except what I did tonight."

  I swallow. "This isn't a healthy way to deal with it, though. No matter what."

  "I know." He sits down at last. "I know that."

  I don't know what to say. How is it my right to shame him for the one thing that seems to help? All my friends back home self-medicated. Everybody has something they're unable to forget, and if a substance gives them a vacation from their own heads, however brief...

  I go to the kitchen and fix a cup of tea. The simple actions—filling the kettle with water, twisting the knob on the stove—help clear my head. No matter what pity I feel for him, I can't let him do this to himself anymore. He'll run himself into the ground.

  I bring the tea to the kitchen, but it's too late. Cohen is sleeping on the couch. His head's fallen into the crook of the sofa next to the armrest, and his breathing is deep and soft. His arm dangles over the edge, fingers grazing the floor.

  There's nothing to do but drape a blanket over him, put the tea on the coffee table, and go back to my room for my own uneasy sleep.

  ~12~

  I wake up early, the light filtering in through the gauzy curtains. My sleep was fitful and unsatisfying. I know I have to help Cohen deal with his problem, but I don't know how.

  My phone is on my bedside table, next to the lamp. Right. Sam. It's been a while since I've talked to him. I'd almost decided to let our weird relationship go—after all, how healthy is it to consult someone you've never met for advice on a semi-regular basis—but he's helped me before. And this time, maybe...

  RG: Hey.

  There's no response for a long while. I stay curled in bed. I have to pee but I don't want to get up, don't want to let a possibly awake Cohen know that I'm conscious and available for whatever uncomfortable conversation that'll surely take place this morning.

  Finally, my phone buzzes.

  Sam: It's early.

  RG: Yeah, I know. Sorry to bug you.

  Sam: You're apologizing for bugging me? That's a first.

  RG: I take it back. You deserve to be bugged.

  Sam: At least you acknowledge that what you're doing is annoying.

  RG: I think bugs are cute. So the word 'bugged' should be positive. I've decided that it means 'pleasantly interact with.'

  Sam: As pleasantly as a spider dropping from the ceiling interacts with the open mouth of someone sleeping in bed.

  RG: That was a great visual.

  Sam: I try.

  RG: We can have these dumb conversations forever. But the truth is, I was hoping you could help me out with something.

  Sam: Yeah, I figured. It's the only reason you ever text me.

  RG: And for our charming repartee.

  Sam: That's par for the course. Assuming it's a problem with that guy again?

  RG: Yeah...

  Sam: Ever think maybe you should give him up as a lost cause?

  Sam: People can't be fixed like broken toys.

  Sam: Some of them are just inherently messed up and even they don't know why, and they're best left to their own devices so that normal happy people can lead their normal happy lives without getting dragged down.

  RG: There's no such thing as normal happy people!

  RG: That's what I've learned recently.

  RG: Even him, who I thought had the perfect life, has a reason to be sad.

  RG: Everyone does. It's just that other people don't always see it.

  RG: Lots of times I've pretended to be a girl nothing bad's ever happened to, and it was perfectly convincing.

  RG: Everyone does that in a way, I think. Plays at being someone who's not hurting.

  RG: Anyway. I'm rambling.

  RG: Basically the issue is that this guy has been dealing with his sadness in a way that's not healthy, I think, and I want to help him change.

  RG: But I don't know how.

  RG: Back home when my friends would do that sort of thing, I'd just let them. I figured everyone deserves a break from themselves, no matter how they get it.

  RG: But I'm a smarter person now, or at least I like to think so, and I can tell this kind of behavior isn't good for Cohen.

  RG: Oops, now you know his name. Oh well.

  RG: It's just, like...what right do I have to tell him what to do or what not to do when I didn't even believe he had a reason to be sad in the first place?

  RG: I've just been making all these assumptions about him based on nothing.

  Sam: It sounds like you're letting guilt make you second-guess yourself.

  RG: Maybe.

  Sam: It also sounds like this guy doesn't respect anybody.

  Sam: But I think he respects you.

  Sam: Maybe what he needs is for someone he respects to tell him honestly what they think.

  Sam: Whether it's that what he's doing is bad, or if it's that what he's doing is okay.

  Sam: If you told him what you thought, honestly, I'm sure he'd be happy to hear it.

  RG: You think he respects me?

  Sam: Why wouldn't he?

  RG: Uh, maybe because he's a rich zillionaire and I'm...

  Sam: You're...?

  RG: Let's just say that my profession is considerably less highbrow than his.

  Sam: He doesn't care about that.

  RG: How do you know?

  Sam: Because you talk about him like he's worth your time. And you're smart.

  Sam: You're smart enough to know that somebody who cared about something like that isn't worth your time.

  RG: I kind of thought he treated me like everybody else because he dislikes everyone equally.

  RG: But I'm starting to think maybe that's not true.

  RG: Who knows. Maybe you're right.

  RG: Either way, for some reason, I want to help him.

  RG: He's rude and dumb and way too full of himself, but I want to. I can't help it.

  RG: So that's what I'm going to go do.

  RG: Thanks again. I sure lucked out texting you.

  Sam: Yeah, I guess you did.

  RG: Modesty is a virtue ;)

  Sam: And the winking face makes its hideous reappearance.

  RG: It's like an STD. It never really goes away for good.

  RG: And on that note, have a nice day! ;)

  I toss my phone on my bedside table and get out of bed, wrapping my bathrobe around myself. I take deep breath, steel myself, and leave my bedroom.

  Cohen is sitting upright on the couch, toying with his phone. He stands up immediately when he sees me. Like he was waiting.

  "Cohen..." I start.

  He holds up a hand. "Wait. Can I say something?"

  "Sure." My lecture can wait.

  "At first, I was pretty irritated that you followed me last night. But it's only natural for you to be curious." He sighs. "You shouldn't have seen me like that."

  "It's okay, I've seen lots of people at their lowest points."

  He laughs ironically. "That wasn't my lowest point. If you'd seen me at my lowest point, I'm certain you wouldn't be talking to me right now."

  I just wait.

  "I've been trying to stop," he says after a while.

  "Trying's not good enough." I've decided to take a hard line with this. "You have to stop. Now."

  "It's not that easy."

  "I know it's no
t. Nothing's easy. That doesn't mean it's not worth trying for." I uncross my arms. "I'll help you."

  "How?"

  "You only feel the need to do at night, right?" I say. "So I'll sleep in your bed every night, starting now. I'll wake up if you move around."

  "Rae..."

  "And," I interrupt, "if I need to, I can always distract you with something that's just as fun and considerably less illegal."

  A ghost of a smirk appears on his face. Okay, so my offer wasn't entirely charitable. But helping him with his problem is the main point, I swear.

  "To be honest, I don't know if it only happens at night," he says slowly. "Maybe I'm getting the urge right now."

  I roll my eyes. "Are you seriously using your drug problem to get me into bed?"

  "There are worse things to use it for."

  That's true. He steps forward, the smirk growing slightly. "And who says I want you in bed?"

  “You don’t want me in bed?” I pretend to pout.

  “Of course I do,” he says into my ear. “But I was thinking somewhere more interesting this time.”

  “Where were you thinking?” I ask.