Where I End and You Begin

by Andra Brynn

  He backs the car out, weaves through the obstacle course of the parking lot, and then turns onto the road.

  It’s so black outside the window I feel as though we are hurtling through space, in a starship on our way to another planet. My head lolls on my neck and I lean my forehead against the glass. The cold of the night outside seeps into my skin, cooling my overheated brain and I start to come down from the high of not caring.

  It doesn’t feel good.

  We wind through streets I don’t recognize. I have no idea how I got to that bar, or who drove me. I can’t remember much at all right now, only that I’m pretty much a hopeless case, and now I’ve pulled a totally innocent bystander into my vortex of crazy. I want to say I’m sorry again, but I couldn’t stand to hear him tell me it’s all right when I know it isn’t, and I can’t think of anything else to say so I keep my mouth shut.

  There is quiet between us, and I’m so drunk that I don’t really realize that he’s not saying anything until I start to recognize landmarks. They all look different in the dark, but a sign here, a store there, and I realize we’re getting close to the college.

  “Where were we?” I blurt suddenly.

  From the corner of my eye I see him glance at me, as though surprised I can speak. “We were at the Blue Room,” he says. “Where did you think you were?”

  “McGruder’s,” I say, and I feel stupid. “I’ve only been there once or twice and most bars look the same on the inside. I’ve never even heard of the Blue Room.”

  He just nods. Doesn’t ask me why I was there, or how I came to be there without even knowing it. He’s just... quiet.

  I know what’s going on in people’s heads when their quiet like that.

  “Stop judging me,” I say. “I’ve had a really shitty day.”

  “I’m not judging,” he tells me.

  “Then why are you so quiet?” I demand. This time I turn to him and scowl, hating myself for being such a jerk to someone who has done nothing but be kind to me. But I know all about people who are kind and quiet. They are taking a small, smug pride in being better. I would never let this happen to me, they are thinking. I am a good person. I don’t deserve this, so it won’t happen to me. Even if they don’t mean to, they think it anyway. It’s just human nature. I am everyone’s bad example, the horrible warning that they can avoid if they’re good enough, strong enough, believe in God, give money to hobos, pet kittens. I mean, I must have done something. And I have. I’ve drunk a shit ton of alcohol. But they never think, Where did it start? They never think, Would I do it too, if I knew the same things?

  It takes a few moments for Daniel to respond, and in those moments I’m imagining all the horrible things he is thinking about me. The things that are true, the things that I wish I could run away from. Then he shakes his head.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “It just seemed like you needed someone to be quiet with you for a while.”

  I sit back in my seat, stunned. “What?” I say.

  His shoulders move, an elegant shrug. “You don’t need me asking you questions,” he says. “If you wanted to talk you would.” Then he turns to me and smiles.

  I clamp my mouth shut. This guy has a background in counseling? I think. I don’t believe it for a second. It’s all about questions and probing and feeling things, and for the briefest of moments I consider actually talking to him, telling him all my troubles and woes, but then I catch myself.

  It’s a trap, I think. Reverse psychology. I hug myself and look out the window, wearily watching the landscape slide past me. There’s the liquor store on the corner across from campus, and there’s the little ancient neighborhood of huge old houses. Marchand House was part of that neighborhood once, before the college grew so large it consumed it.

  “Turn here,” I say, suddenly realizing how close we are to my home.

  Daniel dutifully follows my instructions as I guide him through the small labyrinth of streets to Marchand. When he finally pulls up in front of it he whistles. “Wow,” he says. “When I was living on campus there was nothing like this.”

  So he didn’t come here for undergrad? That was interesting. Not surprising, but interesting. “It’s a shithole,” I say. “On the inside. I mean, it’s home, but it’s still a shithole.”

  To my shock he laughs at that. “All dorms are like that,” he tells me. “I’ve been in plenty. Come on, I’ll make sure you get inside all right.”

  But when I open the door of his car and try to stand up, my foot catches on the curb. I feel it happen, I know it’s happening, but I can’t stop it. The world plummets upwards and then my hands are stinging and I’m on the sidewalk trying to see straight. A car door slams and then there are large warm hands on me, hauling me to my feet.

  “Sorry,” Daniel says. “Sorry, I should have...sorry, I thought you were okay.”

  “I am okay,” I tell him, despite all evidence to the contrary.

  “Here,” he says, and then all I can think about is how warm he is as he wraps his arm around my waist and loops my elbow over his shoulders, but he’s so tall and his shoulders are so broad that eventually he gives up and guides my hand to his hips. The almost-illicit touch makes the blood rush through my constricted veins, leaving me lightheaded and wanting. An automatic response. I should pull away, but I lean into him because I have no other choice, and together we hobble up the front walk to the house.

  “Do you remember the code?” he asks me, and I nod, feeling as though I’m going to pitch over any second, and the warm anchor at my side is the only thing keeping me upright. Which is probably the truth.

  Licking my lips I reach out and punch the numbers into the keypad, not caring if he sees. He could have raped and killed me five times by now, so he’s probably safe. Probably. And he’s a teacher, sort of. So it’s okay.

  The lock clicks, loud on my sensitive ears, and Daniel reaches out and turns the knob, pushing the heavy door open, and together we stumble inside.

  There’s a video game tournament going on in the living room. Two in the morning, and people are fighting over whose pixels can beat up whose the best. For a moment I wish I was good at video games, because then I could have just stayed here instead of gone out and got drunk and have to be half-carried home by a guy too nice for me.

  One good thing about it, though, is that everyone is too involved in the tournament to notice Daniel and me. For that I’m grateful.

  We pause in the foyer and I look up to see Daniel staring into the living room as though he’s never seen a bunch of people screaming for virtual blood. After a second he seems to shake himself and looks down at me. “Uh, where’s your room?”

  I point up the stairs.

  He looks at the sweeping staircase and I feel his ribs expand and fall in a sigh. “I was afraid of that,” he says. “I’m going to carry you, okay?”

  We stand there, and then I realize that he’s asking me if it’s okay that he carries me up the stairs. I could melt into the ground, I’m so humiliated. “Yes,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he says for probably the tenth time tonight, and then he is kneeling down, his strong arms lifting me into the air, and I’m cradled against his chest as he ascends the stairs.

  For a moment I think I’m dreaming. The warmth of his body suffuses mine, and I’m leaning my head against his shoulder. His steps are sure and steady as he climbs the stairs, the old wood creaking under our combined weight. I want to apologize for being so heavy, for being such a burden, but I’m sick of hearing myself say sorry. For the length of the time it takes to climb the staircase, I wrap an arm around his neck and close my eyes, letting myself float on a warm, blissful cloud, and to my shock I feel safe. I don’t want it to end, but when it does I let go willingly, happy for that one stolen moment.

  When Daniel sets me on my feet, I realize that I’m not quite as shaky as I was when I got out of the car. Our ungraceful stagger up the walk must have got the blood moving and pumped some ox
ygen to my brain.

  “This is me,” I say, gesturing to the door next to the head of the stairs. I wait for him to nod and say goodbye, but then I realize that he’s waiting to see me inside. Really inside, and now I feel slightly insulted. “I’m not going to die between here and my bed,” I say.

  “I know,” he says. “I think we should talk, though.”

  My head jerks in surprise, and my tenuous balance is lost. Daniel reaches for me but I manage to shy away from his hands and find the wall next to the room. Grateful, I lean against it. “You want to talk?” I say, and even I can hear how drunk I am in my voice. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not so hot on talking right now.”

  “I mean I think we should talk again,” he says. “When you’re sober.”

  I lower my eyes. “No, that’s okay. You’ve helped me a lot tonight. I’d be sleeping behind a dumpster if it weren’t for you.”

  He doesn’t say anything and when I steal a glance at him his face is the picture of incredulity. “Sleeping behind a dumpster?” he says. “That’s your floor? That’s where you’re not okay?”

  I scowl. “A lot of people sleep behind dumpsters,” I tell him. “Some of them sleep in dumpsters. Nothing wrong with it. So yeah. I’m okay.”

  He stares at me as if he’s never seen me before, then shakes himself. “Are you going to go out and drink tomorrow night? It’s Friday.”

  Friday, I think. I had something to do on Friday. It was probably drink. I shrug.

  “Come out to dinner with me instead,” he says.

  My mouth drops open, but I shut it quickly. What the fuck? I think. Is this guy asking me on a... on a date?

  I don’t think I’ve ever been on a date before. I didn’t date in high school, and in college it’s all been drunk hookups. No one in their right mind would want to date me. And I wouldn’t want them to, either. I wouldn’t want to throw all my shit on anyone else. No one deserves that.

  But no. This can’t be a date. He’s seen me at my worst. I’m disgusting. I’ll have to admire those brown eyes from afar. Very...pretty...brown eyes. And broad shoulders. The type of shoulders you can lean into and close your eyes and know you are safe...

  I realize I am staring at his chest and force my eyes back to his, ashamed I’ve been sullying him with my gaze. “Why dinner?” I say.

  He shrugs. “It’s food,” he says. “You’re going to turn down free food?”

  Damn. He knows the weakness of every college student. “Fine,” I say.

  “Six o’clock?”

  “Six o’clock. Fine. Whatever.”

  For some reason he looks relieved. “Okay. Good. I’ll come pick you up.”

  “Where are we going?”

  He smiles. “It’ll be a surprise.”

  And now I’m back to not being sure if this is a date or not. And I can’t ask him. No matter what the answer, I’ll be too embarrassed to show up. I’ll fake sick. In fact, I’ll probably do that anyway. I’d better get to working on my cough.

  “Okay,” I say, and then the door opens and Tanya is standing there in her pajamas. She looks cranky.

  “Would you shut up?” she says to us. “I’m trying to sleep.”

  “Sorry,” I say, and fall over.

  Daniel catches me before I hit the ground, and then he’s passing me off to Tanya. “Could you make sure she gets into bed?” he asks her.

  Tanya is never at her best when her sleep is interrupted. “Fucking duh,” she says. “I’m her roommate. That’s in the contract or whatever.” Her hands are on my shoulders and now I want to fall into her instead of Daniel.

  Or bed. I could fall into bed, too.

  “See you tomorrow,” Daniel says.

  “Tomorrow,” I echo, and then he nods to Tanya.

  “Sorry to wake you,” he says with a smile, then he turns and descends the stairs.

  Tanya pulls me into our room, and I can tell she’s trying to gauge how wasted I am. When she determines that I am very wasted but not terminally wasted she heaves a sigh.

  “Looks like you’d better take the bottom bunk tonight,” she tells me. “Who was that guy?”

  I don’t know how to answer that. She guides me to a chair and I shuffle off my coat and shoes, and then she pulls me up and tips me over into her bed, which is still warm from her body. “Just some guy,” I say as she pulls the covers over me and puts a bottle of water next to the bed.

  “He’s some nice guy, which is a good change,” she says. “I was worried about you when you couldn’t remember the name of the guy who was picking you up.”

  I think about it. “That was pretty stupid, wasn’t it?”

  She snorts. “Go to sleep.”

  Her feet pad against the worn carpet, and then the bed shakes as she hauls herself up the ladder to the top bunk.

  A good change, I think. My eyes close and I sleep, a drunken sleep with no dreams.

  .0.

  In the Tarot deck, the Death card doesn’t portray death so much as change. Something will happen. You will die to one life and be reborn into another. The old ways will be washed away and you will step into a new place.

  There’s no card for changing, though, and there should be, because there is a place between when you die and when you come back. Doorways. Thresholds. The in between. The place where ghosts live.

  In Tibet, there is a word for that place. It’s called the bardo. The place where you teeter between one state and the other. The dangerous place where you are stripped of your defenses, where reality brushes against you.

  Those places happen in life, too. Sometimes soft transitions, between dreams and waking, sometimes harsh, swift, brutal. An accident, perhaps. Going a hundred miles an hour down the highway you lose control of the car and your life spirals out of your hands. You smash into a barrier. You aren’t wearing your seat belt. You fly through the windshield.

  Suspended in the air, a thousand glittering fragments twinkle around you. Old life left behind. New life not yet begun.

  That’s what changing is.

  .8.

  When I wake up the next day I am so hung over that I think I’ve legitimately made myself sick. My throat scratches and burns, but after I roll out of Tanya’s bed and take a hot shower I start to feel less like death warmed over and more like toasty terminal illness. The only problem is that I have the terrible feeling that I’m forgetting something. Something important.

  All through classes I sit and try to recall the night before. I remember almost all of it, which is pretty good for me, but there’s something nagging at me. I keep checking my phone, knowing that Daniel has said he’s going to take me out to dinner, but while it is fresh in my memory I keep thinking that I dreamed it. But he texts me at three as I’m getting out of my Vichy France class and says he’ll pick me up at five thirty.

  It still doesn’t seem real. It’s a trap. I’m being set up.

  Shaking my head I cross the campus back to the house. When I open the door and step into the foyer, the first thing that happens is someone hits me in the head with a Nerf dart. The second thing that happens is that I remember I’ve told Alice and Jibril that I’d drive them out to go poke around in Nompton, the small town just up the highway with about ten decaying structures perfect for exploring.

  “Shit,” I say out loud.

  “Sorry.” It’s Lana. She sniped me through the railing of the staircase from the second floor.

  I shake my head at her. “Not you, don’t worry.”

  “Okay!” she says. “Mind tossing that back up here?”

  I bend down and pick up the dart and lob it up to her. She reloads and ducks behind the half-wall at the head of the stairs.

  I turn toward the living room—except I turn the wrong way, toward the kitchen. The living room was to the right in my old house, not in this new one. I shake my head and turn left, stepping into the living room to wait out the game. They usually only last about twenty minutes before someone wins. I plop down on the couch and start w
orrying.

  Here’s the thing: Daniel is a very nice guy, very cute, very sweet, but I am not a nice girl. I don’t think he wants to sleep with me, and I certainly don’t think he’s been taken by my charm. And while I desperately want a good meal, even more desperately I don’t want to be some nice guy’s charity case. Besides, I have a perfectly legitimate excuse: I have a prior engagement.

  I should call and cancel.

  I dig in my backpack and grab my phone. From behind the loveseat Andy pops up and shoots a dart over my head, pinning Carson in the doorway. Carson screams and falls over. The hazards of playing Nerf assassin with a drama major.

  “Hey,” I say. “I’m trying to make a call here.”

  “Sorry,” Carson says from the floor.

  I scroll through my list of numbers and find Daniel’s. My finger hovers over his name.

  I hesitate.

  Sucking my lower lip between my teeth I begin to chew, my eyebrows drawing down fiercely. The thing is... I don’t really want to cancel. Even if I am a charity case... wouldn’t it be nice to talk to someone who doesn’t know me at all? Like a chance to start over.

  On the other hand, I can’t leave Alice and Jibril in the lurch. I chew harder on my lip.

  I’ve finally reached a decision when the game comes to an end. Lana was the victor. She does a victory lap around the living room, her hands held over her head, singing, “I’m number one! I’m number one!” Then the players crowd into the living room for postgame discussion. To my complete and utter unsurprise, Alice and Jibril are among them. I stand up and sidle over to Alice.

  “Hey,” I say, leaning over the back of the couch where she’s sitting. She looks up at me, her face a huge grin.

  “Hey!” she says. “What’s up?”

  I open my mouth, hesitate, then decide to just go for it. “Would it be okay if I brought someone with me tonight?”