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Sugar & Ice

Page 18

by Brooklyn Wallace


  “What will help?”

  “Finding my own Way. Maybe . . . My roommate’s talked to me about her therapist, and I don’t know if that’s for me, but I’m keeping all options on the table. Gotta put in the work, you know?”

  He nodded, eyes crinkled with a peaceful kind of sadness. “Well, I hope you know I’m proud of you. Whatever it is you decide to do, I’ll be there cheering you on.”

  My eyes prickled hotly with tears. I’d been weak in front of Coach before, lying in that hospital bed crying from the pain and the realization that it was all over. I thought about how much I’d hated him seeing me like that, defeated. I wasn’t defeated now. I was just getting started.

  I let the tears fall down my cheeks and catch at the corners of my smile. “I’m holding you to that.”

  Sixteen

  Gwen

  Jeffrey was waiting in the lobby when I left Jackie, arms crossed and leaning against the wall by the elevators. I pulled out one of the room keys and handed it to him while I pointedly ran my eyes over his pastel shirt and white button-up with the collar popped.

  “ I see you’re in full Miami Vice gear. I hope there isn’t a kilo of coke in that laptop bag of yours.”

  He rolled his eyes and smiled. “Ha ha. It’s a little early for you to be in the catty stage of phone withdrawal syndrome. Come on, let’s get settled in.”

  In the hotel room, we threw our luggage onto our respective beds and, in keeping with Calm Before the Storm tradition, immediately began to scour the neighborhood for alcohol. The closest liquor store was over five miles away, so the cab ride was blessed idea. We grabbed a generous armful of bottles we hoped would last us the rest of the day and into the night.

  “This is a bad idea,” Jeffrey said as we laid our loot out on the hotel room’s table. He scanned the selection of wine and scotch and nodded to himself. “Yep, this is definitely a bad idea.”

  There was a stack of clear cups by the cheap coffee maker above the fridge. I bypassed them to grab a bottle of wine directly. “You don’t have to drink if you don’t want to. I’m sure I could polish these off myself.”

  “I know you could, and that’s why I’m going to have to drink.” He sighed and grabbed a bottle of red wine and waved it in the air. “Be on the lookout for the headline DEM SNOWFLAKE CAN’T HANDLE LIQUOR, DIES OF ALCOHOL POISONING in tomorrow’s Golden State Conservative.”

  “Will do.” I raised my own bottle in a mock salute. “C’est la vie.”

  We sat sprawled out on our beds with a cheesy ’90s action film playing on the hotel TV. We talked about everything and nothing, conversation as aimless as our stream of consciousness. As the day stretched on, so did the lines around Jeffrey’s mouth. By the time the clock struck eight p.m., I was doing most of the talking. When he gave the occasional nod his head would loll just a bit too much to the side. His happy drinking had officially turned into depression drinking.

  I gingerly took the bottle of cheap wine from his hands and placed it far out of reach. He gave a halfhearted protest but didn’t fight it when I pushed him to lie back on the bed. I grabbed a cup from the minibar and went to the bathroom faucet to fill it. I presented it to him, and he downed the whole cup without a word.

  “I think it’s time to cut you off, champ,” I said. “Lightweights who get drunk off wine should stay hydrated.”

  “What if I don’t win?” he asked quietly.

  The question caught me by surprise. I smiled reassuringly, but he was staring up at the ceiling, focused on something only he could see

  “You will win,” I said firmly. “There’s no way you can lose, not to that clown.”

  “People like clowns,” Jeffrey slurred, eyes glassy and distant.

  A smile tugged at my lips. “You’re talking nonsense.”

  He ran a hand over his face and flopped across the bed like a deflated starfish. It would have been almost funny had my heart not ached for him.

  I crawled over to his side of the bed and dangled the bottle of wine over him. “I’m not sure if you need more or less of this, but I’m going to just take a gamble here. Get your glass.”

  His lips were stained red from the wine. It looked as if he were wearing lipstick two shades brighter than his skin tone should have allowed. I had to laugh to myself; it reminded me of the night of our honeymoon, almost fifteen years ago now. We both got shitfaced drunk and he sat giddy but still while I’d applied swatches lipsticks on him from the gift bag his aunt had given me. The next morning, the hotel pillows were smeared with two different shades of red. We’d overtipped the maid on the way out. I loved him, this big, softhearted oaf. Not in the way that I loved Jackie, but so fiercely that I hoped it would still be enough.

  “Don’t go getting soft on me, Crawford,” I chastised good-naturedly.

  He laughed—no, giggled—and shook his head. “I gotta be, to balance you out.”

  “And you do a good job of that.”

  “I really like Jackie,” he said suddenly. “She’s good for you. You know that, right?”

  “I know. You told me.”

  “Don’t push her away.”

  “What? I wouldn’t do that,” I said a little too quickly, a little too defensively.

  He smiled sadly and shook his head. “Yes you would. You don’t let yourself have good things.”

  The answer shocked me. “What? I don’t—”

  “Remember what I said before? About how your intensity can be your own worst enemy?”

  I nodded, my mouth twisting into a frown. I hadn’t thought about it since he said it, but I remembered.

  “I wasn’t lying. You don’t . . . I know you don’t talk to me your, uh, your love life a lot. I mean, you didn’t used to, but I know there have been women you’ve seen. I never met them, never heard their names, never seen you bring them around. Now, I don’t know the full story. Maybe you weren’t compatible with any of them, or maybe you were too compatible. But I always felt the problem was you never letting them get too close.”

  “You’re making me sound like some emotionally-stunted fishwife. Maybe my flings don’t work out because they don’t fit into my very busy schedule, you think about that?”

  “Jackie works with your schedule,” he pointed out.

  I smiled wryly. “No offense to her, but Jackie doesn’t exactly have a lot going on at the moment.”

  “But it’s not really about that, is it?”

  “What are you, my therapist now? Pack it up, drunk Dr. Phil, I’m fine. Jackie isn’t going anywhere unless she wants to.”

  He stared at me, eyes searching. I stared back and refused to squirm under the scrutiny. He was searching for something, and I hoped he found it.

  He seemingly did, as he leaned back on the bed with a slight nod to himself. “Okay.”

  “Okay?

  “Drunk Dr. Phil has cleared you. But he also hopes you will continue to acknowledge your self-destructive tendencies when it comes to relationships and your own happiness.”

  “Drunk Dr. Phil like referring to himself in the third person, doesn’t he?”

  “Drunk Dr. Phil acknowledges your attempt at changing the subject, and he will allow it, as he is very, very drunk.”

  I laughed and leaned over to clink our bottles together. “I’ll drink to that.”

  We both took a swig and fell back into a companionable silence. The movie on the TV had switched to a cheesy rom-com my increasingly fuzzy brain couldn’t remember the name of. I was squinting at the actress's face and trying to place it when Jeffrey cleared his throat.

  I turned to see him sprawled out, everything above his shoulders crowded with the hotel’s large, plush pillows. He looked as if he was being slowly swallowed whole by an ocean of soft paisley fabric. My drunken mind found that hilarious.

  Jeffrey balanced the near empty bottle on his chest, eyes closed. For a second I thought he had fallen asleep, but then he cleared his throat again.

  “If I win this thing—”

&
nbsp; “When you win this thing.”

  “If I do win, it will be because of you.” He patted me on the arm. “When I win, I want you to remind me to give you a generous amount of vacation days after all of this is over. How does four weeks sound?”

  Casually, I said, “I was thinking of something a little longer than that.”

  “If you’re trying to barter six weeks of vacation out of me, you should know it’s cruel to do this when I’m drunk off convenience store wine.”

  “While that does sound like something I would do, I’m still very offended.”

  He brushed me off with a wave of his hand, eyes still closed. “Okay, six weeks’ vacation. We’ve got a great thing going here. We’ll manage. I’m sure someone will step up to the plate. They won’t do as stellar a job as you, of course, but we can’t all be Superwoman.”

  “I prefer Wonder Woman.”

  “Of course, I’m sorry.”

  I took the bottle from him and placed it next other one I had confiscated. He huffed in protest but didn’t move.

  “I bet Jane would be free,” I ventured.

  “Jane? Really?”

  “I checked, and she doesn’t have any campaigns lined up the upcoming year.”

  “Oh . . . well, I—”

  “In fact, I bet she’d even take up managing your entire senatorial run.”

  His eyes snapped open. He stared at me as if I’d grown two heads and announced I was becoming a Libertarian.

  “You have to be joking.”

  “We’re at the home stretch right now. You don’t have to think about it now, but can’t we just—”

  “No, Gwen, Jesus Christ. Where is this even coming from?” Jeffrey’s brow furrowed and his expression turned frustrated. “If this is about Osten and that stupid article, then you already know I don’t care. I don’t want to earn the votes of homophobic asshats at the risk of sacrificing my ideals.”

  I couldn’t help but smile; it was just what I expected. “That should be your campaign slogan next cycle.”

  He smiled weakly. “See? That’s the kind of innovative advice a campaign manager I need should be giving.”

  “I’m sure Jane has some great ideas, too.”

  “Gwendolyn . . .”

  “And honestly? I’m kind of done with the whole political scene. I willingly chose a profession where my job is to kiss up to wrinkly old white men and their mistresses all day. I mean, what was I thinking?” It was a joke, and he had the decency to crack a sad smile. “You know, I used to think I loved doing this job. And I do, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t want it to be all I am. I don’t want to end up like your dad.

  “Plus, dealing with you all day?” I continued with a smile of my own. I held up my fingers and started listing off imaginary grievances. “I don’t get nearly enough vacation time, fundraiser banquet food sucks—”

  “Okay, fine. You hate being a campaign manager now. What else could you do?”

  “I live in California, and my skill set includes being bossy, anal-retentive, and persuasive to the point of almost being manipulative. I could become a Hollywood agent.”

  “And trade in with one type of pampered asshole for another? Gwen, you’d hate that.”

  He was right, but I went on as if I hadn’t heard him. “Movie openings, galas, rubbing elbows with a demographic almost as hated as the political elite—”

  Jeffrey cut in with a list of his own. “Big egos, public breakups and breakdowns, spin-doctoring benders and offensive trips to Africa—”

  “You ruin all the fun.”

  “I am not accepting your resignation. You know that, right?”

  The wine had made Jeffrey’s voice whiny and petulant and defiant and resigned all at once. I placed a hand on his arm and squeezed.

  “I’m going to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me,” I said slowly. ”Do you want me to stay because I can help you be the best senator you can be, or because you care about me?”

  “Why does it have to be one or the other?” he asked impatiently, face tight.

  “Jane is better at this than me,” I explained rationally, even though it stung my pride to say it. “Her style is different than mine and more suited to this. I can say that. Can’t I say that?”

  “I don’t care about Jane!”

  “Then care about me when I say this doesn’t make me happy anymore.”

  His expression cracked and crumbled, as if it couldn’t take the weight of my words and his own emotions. He swiped a hand over his face with a frustrated sigh.

  “Christ, this is like our divorce all over again.”

  “We’re not getting divorced. I’ll still be here, your biggest and most judgmental cheerleader. Jane’ll just be the one at the helm.”

  His eyes bored into me, searching. I stared back, hoping he could find the answer he was looking for.

  “Is this really what you want?”

  “Yes, this is really what I want.”

  “What changed? Was it Dick? Is it Jackie?”

  I closed my eyes on a sigh. The answer to both was yes, but also no. Yes, Dick had a part in it, but that was only because he gave a wake up call I seriously needed. And of course Jackie was a part of it, but no matter how much I loved her I wouldn’t have thrown my job away to please her—and she wouldn’t have wanted that from me anyway.

  “This isn’t just about Jackie, and it sure as hell isn’t about Dick. This is about me and what I want. I’ve needed a break for a while now, I’m just finally at a place where I feel ready to take that leap.”

  “All right . . . So long as it’s your choice and no one else’s.”

  I held up a hand to stop him. “It’s mine, trust me. I know what I want.”

  “And what’s that?”

  I leaned my head back and allowed myself a secret smile. “To go on a soda tour of all fifty states. Climb Mount Everest, maybe.”

  “Sounds less dangerous than being a campaign manager.”

  I poked him on the shoulder until I coaxed a smile out of him. “This isn’t for forever, you know. This whole situation was just a shitshow for me. I need some time away. Jackie talked about letting stuff go and finding what makes you happy—”

  “And you listened to that?”

  “Unbelievable, right? Her roommate’s into some New Age-y bullshit. Anyway, I think it’s time I found that, too. I don’t know what it is, or where I might find it. All I know is that right now, it’s not in politics.”

  He sighed and nodded to himself. “Okay. I can understand that.”

  I walked over to the table and grabbed another bottle of wine. This time I poured them into the plastic cups and brought one over to Jeffrey. He sat up, wobbly, and took the one I offered him with a curious tilt of his head.

  I raised my cup out to him. “To incumbent Senator Jeffrey Adam Crawford, the people’s choice.”

  Jeffrey smiled and raised his glass up to mine. “And to the best damn campaign manager anyone could ever ask for, Gwendolyn Angela Crawford.”

  Our toast sent wine splashing from the sides of our cups, but we paid no mind as we both knocked them back. We fell on the bed beside one another and laid quietly until our breathing was in sync. I let the hum of the TV and the wine and the dim light streaming in through the curtains relax me until my mind was blissfully free of thought.

  Jeffrey shifted next to me and pulled me out of the quiet space between sleep and consciousness. I turned to see him looking at me, his smile barely seen through the dark.

  His eyes turned soft and fond, just a hint of sadness swimming in them. “I love you, you know.”

  Jeffrey always wore his heart on his sleeve, and right now the sadness and sincerity in his voice left me cracked open and raw. I had to clear my throat twice before I could reply with a sad smile, “I know.”

  “I think I always will.”

  I stifled a sigh and placed a hand on his cheek. “I know.”

  “I meant it, about not pushing her awa
y,” he said. “You deserve to be happy, Gwendolyn Crawford.”

  Heat prickled behind my eyes and I turned back up to the ceiling. I had to swallow twice around a lump in my throat before I could speak again.

  “Sap,” I said fondly.

  He knocked his hands against mine with a huff of a laugh. “Guilty.”

  Seventeen

  Jackie

  INCUMBENT JEFFREY CRAWFORD DEFEATS CHALLENGER HENRY OSTEN IN NAIL-BITER RACE

  I grinned at the news ticker on the bar’s TV screen. Olivia whooped, and her boyfriend—fiancé now, because holy shit, my best friend was getting married—raised his glass.

  When the other patrons started sending our table dirty looks, I covered Olivia’s mouth with my hand. She swatted me away and gave one last, defiant whoop for good measure.

  “This may be the most excited anyone’s ever been for a state senatorial election,” Daniel observed.

  “It’s not every day the ex-husband of your best friend’s girlfriend defends his seat in the California state senate,” Olivia said.

  “Hear, hear!” Daniel belted before taking another swig of his beer.

  I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t keep myself from grinning. Olivia had insisted I join her and Daniel out for a drink in preparation for them going wedding venue-hunting. I’d jumped at the chance, not because I was interested in watching them get buzzed at 4 p.m. on a Friday, but because Gwen wouldn’t be free from her press victory lap until much later today. I felt guilty about only hanging out with my friends when my girlfriend was busy, so I stayed even later than planned.

  “So, have you and Gwen celebrated yet?” Olivia teased with an exaggerated waggle of her brows.

  I groaned. “You are not nearly drunk enough to get away with being this cringey, you know that, right?”

 

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