by Zach Wyner
She shook her head.
“Are you sure?”
“Your shoulder looks better,” she said. She reached out but her hand stopped halfway. “Is it…is it okay now?”
“Forget about my shoulder. It’s fine. How did you get away?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“He let you go?”
“What about Bill?” she said, holding her breath, picking at a rough edge of fingernail.
“Bill’s fine,” you said. She exhaled. “His low expectations have made him one of the most resilient people I know.” She smiled and shook her head in that way that suggested your sense of humor required a certain kind of tolerance that you were lucky she possessed. “To be honest, I think the whole experience energized him.”
“Stop it,” she said, her smile widening.
You sat up and pulled your legs to your chest. “You wanna get in here?”
She shook her head. “No thanks.”
“C’mon. A little naked time with Joshy. I’ll add some hot water.”
She bit her nails. “I don’t think that would be right.”
“Baby.”
“Please,” she said.
The flush in her cheeks, her sudden shallowness of breath betrayed the bend of her resolve, her desire to succumb. You stroked her arm and your wet fingertips trailed glistening streaks across her olive skin like dew droplets down a leaf.
“Ba-by,” you cooed.
She pulled her arm away. “Stop.”
That stung, the finality of it. Not to mention the irony that at this point in your story, she would be the one to say no.
“Can you hand me a towel please?” You wanted out of the bath. You felt trapped—wet, naked, and rejected.
“Of course.”
She removed the towel from the hook on the back of the door and you stood up in the tub, dripping, exposed, daring her to avert her eyes again. She met your gaze and handed it over. No false modesty, no shame, no fear. Once again you resented her composure, resented her for demonstrating the kind of growth that had never happened when you’d both been in the habit of saying yes to one another. It felt like she’d anticipated this exact scenario, like she’d made a promise to herself and was in the process of sticking to it. The thought that she had made resolutions regarding how she would handle you was almost too much to bear.
You wrapped the towel around your waist. “You want to give me a minute here?”
She left the bathroom and you dried in the aftermath of her rebuff. You exited the bathroom, drew the curtain between the bedroom area and the living/dining room area and dressed in the dark while she pick-picked at those nails of hers and quietly cleared her throat once, twice, a third time. You got dressed, parted the curtain, sat on the bed, and scanned the room.
“Where’s your duffel bag?” you said.
“I’m staying with my sister for a little while.”
“April?”
“Nope. Dolores.” She dug into her purse and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
You tried to mask your joy, but it was hard. You’d waited for this moment for a long time—for an adult with no ulterior motives to take on the mantle of June’s caretaker. You’d hoped an invitation might be made at June’s mom’s funeral, but June had taken issue with the way Dolores had handled the arrangements and bailed early.
“That’s good,” you said. “I’m glad.”
“I figured you would be.” She lit a cigarette. Considering that this might be the last time you saw her for a while, you decided against giving her any grief for smoking inside. You got a saucer from the cupboard, sank into the sofa, and placed it on the cushion between you. You leaned back, your damp hair slick against the faux leather, and watched tendrils of smoke curl towards the ceiling and form a blue cloud.
“Where’s she living these days?”
“Culver City.”
“That’s far.”
She took a drag and stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette. You got up, opened the door to the balcony in time to see Bill approach the building and disappear under the lobby’s green awning.
“Bill’s home.”
Her face blanched. “I should go.” She stood, slipping her purse strap over her shoulder, and headed for the door.
“June.” You reached out and caught her elbow.
“What?” Her eyes pleaded with you to let her go.
You didn’t have an answer. You couldn’t say what you felt: Now that you have somewhere else to go, I’m not so sure I want you to leave.
She removed your hand from her elbow, squeezed your fingers and then dropped them. “Dolores is picking me up on the corner. I just wanted to make sure you guys were okay.”
“When will I see you again?”
“Josh.”
“What?”
She kissed you on the mouth, her lips slightly parting like a first cautious kiss between lovers. A spare key rattled in the doorknob, she pulled away and the door swung open. Bill froze like a deer caught in headlights, the mouse over his eye reduced in size but still an angry shade of red.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Hey Bill,” said June.
“I can come back later.”
You nodded, eager to accept his offer but she said, “Don’t!” and slipped past him into the hallway. “I was on my way out anyway.” She touched his forearm. “I’m glad you’re okay. I’m sorry I caused so much trouble.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” said Bill. “I started it.”
June backed through the doorway. “Like I said.”
“June,” you said. She glanced toward the elevator, bit her lower lip. “Don’t be a stranger.” She smiled at you as though you’d said the right thing and that made you feel even worse—that such a rare person would be satisfied with such a lame cliché.
Then she walked away.
Self-loathing followed you back inside like an obedient dog. Bill opened two beers and put one in your hand. “Drink it.”
You did as you were told. A minute or so later the intercom buzzed; you ran to it and pressed the talk button, ready to promise her the world, grant any request. All you’d wanted from her was evidence that you were more than a life raft in a series of life rafts that she clung to until they were punctured too full of holes to float.
“June?”
For a moment there was no response, just street sounds and static.
“Uhm, it’s me,” said Amare. “I forgot my key.”
“Oh. C’mon up.” You buzzed him in and faced Bill, who was suddenly preoccupied by the task of peeling a beer bottle label—a gesture you guessed was meant to spare you the embarrassment of a witness to the unmistakable note of need in your voice when you called out her name.
*
That night the three of you retreated to The Burrow. Having earlier discovered a check from his parents in your mailbox, Bill quickly got drunk on bourbon and beer and then bounced a dart off the side of the electronic dartboard into a petite blonde girl’s cheek. He tried to apologize by buying a round for her and her boyfriend, but the boyfriend wasn’t having it. With a firmly extended arm, he barred Bill from getting too close to the girl, eyeing you and Amare all the while. In the past, you would have intervened on Bill’s behalf, but that night you didn’t have the stomach to reason with aggressive boyfriends in the mood to exhibit their quick tempers. You held your darts in one hand, a whiskey and ginger in the other and leaned against the popcorn machine, waiting for the boyfriend to finish demonstrating his physical dominance to all the lecherous eyes, sparkling in anticipation of violence. Maybe Bill’s bruised face had given the boyfriend the impression that he was looking for a fight, but Bill’s demeanor—his bowed head, sagging eyelids, and slurred apologies—eventually convinced him otherwise.
Harrison showed up around eleven. You aban
doned the darts and the four of you snagged a booth from a group of yuppie thirty-somethings that had no business being there in the first place and had filled the jukebox with a bunch of tired eighties rock anthems, imagining that there was something charming or original about drunkenly reciting the lyrics to Bon Jovi’s Living on a Prayer. You slid across the seat, catching your jeans on a grimy piece of electrical tape meant to hold together a tear in the vinyl. Amare got in beside you and gazed indifferently at the television hanging over the bar. Harrison scooted in across from you. Bill flopped down next to him and stared into his drink. Amare and Bill had hung out with Harrison a few times, but always as part of a crew. As you recounted the day’s events to Harrison, the boys stayed quiet, as though, embarrassed by having intruded on friends who had gotten together by choice, they were trying to make themselves invisible.
“You okay?” said Harrison. Until that moment, you hadn’t realized how badly you’d needed someone to ask you that question.
“It feels weird to lose her again, even if I didn’t really want her back in the first place.”
Harrison sipped his glass of Baker’s and nodded. “Sure.”
“At least this time she’s safe.”
“She’s…June,” slurred Bill. He squinted at Harrison through bloodshot eyes. “You know June?”
“Oh yeah,” chuckled Harrison. “I know June.”
“She’s…” Bill clutched Harrison’s elbow. “Isn’t she pretty?”
Harrison laughed. “Yeah. She’s pretty all right.”
“Damn right she is,” said Bill, patting Harrison on the shoulder and returning his hand to his drink. “How Josh ever… I could never talk to a girl like that.”
“She’s with her older sister now,” you said. “Dolores. She’s solid. I wish June had gone there months ago.”
“Sometimes that makes it harder,” said Harrison. “When the person is solid, I mean.”
“How’s that?” you said.
“Cause of the contrast. She doesn’t want every solid person in her life thinking she’s a fuck up.”
You downed the rest of your drink and chewed on a mouthful of ice. An old Tom Waits song came on the jukebox and everything got quiet, as though the bar and its patrons had suffered a simultaneous gut punch.
“Who the hell puts Tom Waits on before one-thirty in the morning?” said Harrison. “I came here to feel good.” You smiled. “This was you, wasn’t it? You morose son of a bitch.”
You held up your right palm. “Not guilty.” You craned your neck and spied a short, curvaceous brunette, leaning against the jukebox and singing along with the lyrics. Her eyes were closed; a bottle of PBR dangled loosely from her fingers. You nodded in her direction and Harrison looked over his shoulder.
“Somebody’s gotta do something.”
Bill lifted his face up from the table and openly ogled the girl. “I’m buying her a drink.” And before you could stop him, he was off, stumbling his way toward the bar.
“Is June’s sister married?” said Amare, his eyes fixed on the stained glass window near the ceiling.
“No,” you said. “Why?”
“So that was her boyfriend that picked her up?”
“What are you talking about?”
Amare gazed down into his drink.
“Jesus Christ,” you said, your breath grew shallow and your hands trembled.
“Take it easy,” said Harrison.
“A guy picked her up?” you said.
Amare nodded.
You quelled an impulse to throw your drink at the wall.
“What did he look like?”
“I didn’t…”
“Did he have sideburns and tattoos? Was he more Rockabilly or more yuppie? What fucking kind of car was he driving?”
“I don’t know exactly.” He sipped his drink and leaned back. “It was black. Looked like an old Chevy.”
You groaned. Tom Waits lamented a lost love over the speakers, goading you to find the nearest gutter and lay down your weary head in a puddle.
“Let me out,” you said.
“Josh,” said Harrison.
“Seriously,” you said. “I just need some air.”
Amare stood and you slid out of the booth. You made for the exit, weaving through the hipsters and the drunks, past the giant doorman perched on his reinforced steel stool beside the door.
“Hey, homey,” he said. “You gonna be sick, go around the side.”
You burst through the exit, nearly toppling a young couple on their way inside. “Sorry,” you mumbled, but the guy still had to squint maliciously at you, as though you’d intended to harm whoever stood on the other side of that door.
You clenched your fists. “You got a fucking problem, then say it!”
The guy put his hands up. The girl’s eyes widened and her jaw dropped.
You took a deep breath. “Fuck me. I’m sorry.”
The girl stepped behind the guy and pointed at you. “You should be sorry. We didn’t do anything.”
The guy grinned. He stood up a little straighter, puffed out his chest. “You’re lucky I’m a tolerant guy, buddy.”
You grimaced. “Look, I apologized precisely so you wouldn’t go and say something stupid like that.”
“What the fuck?”
Ordinarily, the adrenaline rush accompanying the kind of threat you were about to make would cause your hands to quiver, but the combination of booze and fury made the finger you pointed at the guy as straight and steady as a baseball bat. “You call me ‘buddy’ again and we’re fighting.” You lowered your hand and watched his eyes, waiting for them to give away his intent.
The girl tugged at the sleeve of the guy’s flannel. “C’mon, baby. This guy’s an asshole.”
He held your gaze for another second or two and then broke. “Only because she’s here, motherfucker,” he said.
You snorted.
He shot you one last murderous glance and walked inside.
You fished your cigarettes out of your pocket, shook one free of the pack. As you inhaled that first deep drag, you leaned against the wall, lumpy red brick boring into the back of your skull. The night was cool, the temperature having dipped significantly since you’d arrived. The clench went out of your muscles and you sat there like a doused campfire, wisps of white smoke rising from your impotent sizzle.
Harrison walked outside and looked both ways, his eyes passing over you like a shrub, a newspaper vending machine, or some such static piece of scenery.
“Hey,” you said.
He flinched. “Jesus!”
“I’m fine,” you said. “No pep talk, okay?”
“Bullshit you’re fine.” He fished into his pockets, pulled out a decimated cigarette pack and shook it. “Give me one of those things,” he said, crumpling the empty pack and tossing it in the ashtray.
“I just wanted a humdrum life for a while. You know…go to work, come home, crack a beer, watch baseball, and not worry about anything besides the Sox’s playoff chances.”
“What’s the worst case scenario here?” he said.
You sighed. “History repeats itself.”
“In which case she’ll come crawling back, right?”
“And then the whole fucking circus starts all over again.”
“Well now, that’s up to you, not her.”
You groaned. “This is so boring.” You flicked your half-smoked cigarette into the street, where its tip glowed amidst an armada of tires. “I hate these conversations. I’m sure that’s hard for you to believe, but they’re really like my least favorite thing.”
“Man, as long as you chase wounded birds, you’re doomed to repeat this conversation.”
You sank back into the brick.
“Stop looking so sad,” he said. “That’s step one. If you stop sig
hing and frowning so fucking much, you’ll attract a different kind of person, the kind of person who’ll make you want to smile like an idiot all the time. Then you can spend idle evenings with friends talking about baseball or books like you used to.”
Amare walked outside and approached the two of you. “Can I get one of those things?”
“Since when do you smoke?”
“I’m sorry, dude,” he said, putting a hand on your shoulder. “I should have kept my mouth shut.”
“Forget it.” You gave him a cigarette and lit if for him. He took a drag, held the smoke in his mouth and let it dribble out in a thick, un-inhaled rope. “Better that I find out now.”
Harrison put his cigarette out on the sole of his shoe. “How’s your boy Bill doing in there?”
“Still talking up that girl,” said Amare.
“No shit?” said Harrison.
“Who’s holding down our table?” you said.
“Long gone. As soon as I stood up, some vultures swooped on it like a fresh carcass. Didn’t even bother to clear off the empties.”
“Fuck it,” you said, remembering your near confrontation. “I probably shouldn’t go back in there anyway.”
Harrison raised an eyebrow. “Why’s that?”
You shook your head back and forth, indicating that it wasn’t worth getting into.
He shrugged and suggested that the four of you head to another bar, but Amare wanted to stick around and wait for Bill. He said Bill had made the girl laugh out loud and the three of you agreed that sounded too promising to interrupt.
“He’s such an idiot,” said Amare. “Girls love him when he’s not insulting them. You have no idea.”
“I actually have no trouble believing that,” you said.
Harrison put a hand on your shoulder. “Look, seeing that you’re not in the mood for speeches and you’re too broke to join me in another round of Baker’s, maybe you should get a little private time. Go for a drive, go home, take a shower. Do some fucking thing to get your head clear. I’ll give your boys a lift home.”
“Yeah?”
“Take a breather, dude,” said Amare. “Trust me, you won’t miss anything.”
You loved your friends. The best kind of friends didn’t need to hear the sound of their own voices; they weren’t gluttons for gossip, or people looking for human dumpsters to unload their own problems into; their purpose was to protect you, to bolster you, to argue in the face of evidence to the contrary that you were right and good and worthy of their loyalty. You handshake-hugged each of them and wandered off, your eyes on your feet, carefully avoiding the cracks in the sidewalk.