by Vivien Vale
“I don’t want it hanging over your head, either. Just let it out. It’s okay.”
“Do you think you’re going about things the right way?”
I pull away from my sister like I just felt a static shock.
“Are you talking about what I think you’re talking about?”
She rolls her eyes to the sunroof and back.
“What the fuck else would I be talking about, Chloe?”
I fold my arms over my chest and sit up straight in my seat. I glance out the window at the barren landscape moving by slowly.
“Honestly,” I say to the window, “I have no idea.”
I expect Cassie to have some sort of empathy in her eyes, a caring, or at least an understanding look. But when I turn to her, waiting for a response, she looks exasperated.
At me.
What the fuck?
“You have no idea? Really?”
Ethan slams on the brakes to avoid hitting that stupid silver sedan, which is in front of us again. I see a sign for the airport through the windshield, but we aren’t getting there very soon.
“Goddammit!” Ethan exclaims, settling back into stoicism a second later. “Don’t mind me,” he mutters, turning on the radio. Some ambient, new-age music starts playing quietly.
Ethan’s frustrated by the traffic, but he’s letting us have our private conversation.
“What idea should I have?” I ask Cassie, trying to stop my voicing from climbing too far into antagonism.
“An idea of how to act reasonable.”
My arms uncross, and I my hands thud down onto the seat. I should’ve just let Cassie stare at me silently. Then I could fly home blissfully unaware that my own sister’s turned against me.
“Reasonable?” I croak out, hoping that maybe I’m misunderstanding her, that she’s talking about something else.
“How to act fair.”
There’s no fucking doubt that she’s talking about Aaron. Ethan turns up the radio; it’s playing Sigur Ros or something.
“I’m glad I finally know the truth.”
“The truth? Do tell, Chloe.”
I feel the backs of my hands digging into the fabric of the seat. I concentrate on not getting physically upset. Why did she have to do this on the car to the fucking airport?
“The truth that when push comes to shove, I can’t even count on my own sister to be on my side.”
“Chloe...”
I’m looking out the window again. I’m trying not to cry before we get to the airport, but the tone in Cassie’s voice—a tone that says you know you’re being ridiculous, plus you’re hurting me—doesn’t make it any easier.
The traffic’s cleared up, and the sound of a commercial airliner taking off overpowers everything for a few seconds. I take a breath and get myself together, knowing the ride will be over soon.
I turn back from the window and Cassie’s still facing me, with a little bit of the compassion I expected earlier—probably because she just watched me stop myself from breaking down.
“It’s not a matter of sides, Chloe. It’s a matter of perspective.”
I’m trying to give Cassie a chance, but she’s not doing much to help her cause.
“He lied to me. Not a small one, either. We’re talking massive deception here. I mean, come on, how is that okay from any perspective?”
I wait for Cassie’s response, but she’s just looking at me blankly. She must be getting uncomfortable in that position by now—but she’s still focused on the conversation.
“It’s over, that’s all,” I add. I think I sound completely reasonable. That should be enough to convince Cassie to just let it go, already.
“Okay,” Cassie responds.
I feel a surge of relief. This is all painful enough without having to worry about an unresolved argument with Cassie that’ll carry over back into the States.
But why is she still looking at me?
“If that’s what you want,” she continues. “Is that what you want?”
“Do I have a fucking choice?”
Ethan hits the brakes again, stopped behind another line of traffic heading to the airport. I can tell it’s going to be much more crowded than Keflavik.
“What if you stayed with Aaron?”
“Cassie, that has to be one of the craziest, most tone-deaf...”
“Hold on—what if you stayed with Aaron, and he broke up with you?”
“Okay, in this hypothetical world in which I say ‘okay, Aaron, you completely fucking misrepresented yourself from the get-go, but no biggie. What’s for lunch?’ And after that...You know what? Who knows? Who cares? Why are you even fucking asking me this?”
“Okay, let me ask another question.”
The airport’s in sight, but the traffic’s still not moving.
“Fine,” I say, like a petulant child, looking out the window again.
“What’s the simplest explanation for you wanting to leave Aaron?”
“I already told you: he lied. It’s simple as that.”
“Couldn’t Aaron say the same about you, if he wanted?”
“Cassie, what the fuck?”
“If the crime is dishonesty, it seems like both parties are guilty.”
I stare hard at Cassie. I feel my cheeks flushing with anger, but I can’t think of a single word to say.
Cassie turns back to face the windshield as we start moving again.
“Like I said, I have no idea.” I get the words out, my voice sounding weak, as Ethan pulls carefully to the curb by the terminal entrance.
Cassie turns to face me one last time.
“I know, Chloe, but you’ll figure it out. And you know I’ll be there for you, whenever you need me, every goddamn step of the way—just like you’d be there for me. Now, if you’re determined to run away from this, go catch your fucking flight.”
Aaron
I swirl the amber-looking liquid in my heavy glass. It’s dangerously close to spilling, but it recedes just in time. I’ve created a tiny whirlwind in my glass.
For a minute or two, my imagination runs away with me. I think I can see tiny Chloe heads bob up and down in my glass. I can’t quite understand what they’re saying, but she’s trying to say something.
Their mouths open and close, goldfish-like. I feel like giggling, but her eyes look fucking serious.
Quickly I bring the glass to my lips and take a big swig of whiskey. All those Chloe heads are now bobbing on my tongue.
“You fucking lied to me,” they say until they tumble down my throat.
As the liquid snakes through me, a fire ignites.
Fuck.
My life really has gone down the fucking toilet.
My eyes fix on my drink again.
I’m on the same bar stool, in the same bar I first met Chloe.
Those cheesy Humphrey Bogart lines spring to mind.
“Out of all the gin joints in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine.”
Or something like that.
How fucking right he was.
Except I realize how fucking lucky I was to have Chloe walk in to my life. And I the fucking fool, I was fucking stuffed up.
I still remember every tiny detail of that first meeting. Well, maybe not every tiny detail, but I remember Chloe. I remember the way she smelled and her smile and those delicious tits of hers. I remember how she complained of not being able to get a drink.
I sigh.
Life was so fucking unfair.
Didn’t every story have a happy fucking ending? So why didn’t mine?
Because this is life and not a fucking story, my inner voice reminds me.
I sigh again.
“Hey, Aaron.” Theo appears behind the bar.
Instead of a reply, I just nod my head.
“What’s a handsome dude like you doing all alone drinking at my bar on a night like tonight?”
At first I say nothing.
“You trying to drown your fucking sorrows or so
mething?”
No denying it.
“It’s been a rough day.” I evade the direct question. I’m so fucking good at avoiding the direct question, aren’t I? Chloe had outright asked me what I do, and what had I done? I avoided the fucking question.
Why the fuck had I not told her the truth there and then?
Rough day my ass. It’s been a fucking rough week.
“Give me another,” I say to Theo and keep wallowing in self-pity.
I replay what happened in Reykjavik over and over again like a fucking annoying jingle from a television ad.
Who the fuck could have predicted we were both pretending to be fucking different people?
Theo pushes my drink toward me.
The jackhammer in my head’s got to work already, but it’s bearable. Later, when he really starts to hammer away, it’ll become almost unbearable.
My hand reaches for the drink, and I pour some of it down my throat.
Its effect seems a little delayed.
This fucking stuff was almost pure alcohol. Why was it not taking the pain away?
Fucking stuff had also not worked all alone in my executive hotel suite in Reykjavik. I had sat day after day, night after night, watching the fucking northern lights by myself.
The display of colors was fucking awesome. Trouble was, I had no one to share the experience with.
Hope of Chloe coming to see me turned to fucking desperation, until I realized she was not coming to see me.
After a week of waiting and getting drunk, I came home.
It seems fitting I should go back to where I first met Chloe.
If fate helped us once before, maybe fate would smile on us again.
Instinctively I glance around. It’s early. There are only a few people around.
Unfortunately, most of the patrons are couples.
I hate seeing fucking happy couples. It makes me want to puke.
There’s no sign of her.
If I’m going to run into her anywhere, I’m sure it’ll be here.
Where else would she go? She would come here and I would be ready. Ready to what?
With a sigh, I take another big swig of my whiskey.
Then I keep staring at the glass.
Again, little Chloe heads appear. This time, they seem to be frowning. I shake my head and open and close my eyes.
Drowning my sorrows like this wasn’t going to fucking work, was it?
Nothing was achieved, and I seem to be starting to go mad. I’m sure it’s not normal to see tiny heads in your drink. Was I losing my fucking mind? Quite possibly.
Action—I needed to take fucking action. Instead of navel-gazing, I should be coming up with a plan. The current one seemed not to be working.
If she were to come through the door right here, right now, I’d get on one knee and declare my undying love for her. She’d have to listen.
I stare at the door again. I’m willing her to walk through it.
And then to my utter surprise, the door does open. I almost tumble off my barstool.
Now that I’m faced with the possibility of seeing Chloe, I feel my throat constrict. Breathing becomes difficult.
A woman does walk through it, but it ain’t Chloe.
Fuck.
Why is life so fucking complicated?
“You sure getting drunk is the answer?” Theo’s come back to me and is polishing a glass.
Barmen always seem to be polishing glasses. I thought they only did this in movies. Turns out in real life they’re the same.
The same.
Chloe and I, we are the same. We’re kindred spirits. We think along the same wavelength.
We dig the same stuff.
We both love books. We fucking love words. Words are our lives.
I rest my head in both my hands.
Argh.
If we’re so alike and meant for each other, why isn’t she with me right now?
I lift my head and pull out my phone.
There’s still no message from her.
I’ve left like a million messages for her—all of them so far have gone unanswered.
Why the fuck is she ignoring me?
Sure, I stuffed up, but don’t I at least deserve a second chance?
I sigh again.
Seems like she’s not coming to the bar, at least not tonight.
What the fuck should I do now?
I rummage around my brain. No inspiration comes to me.
I bet Ms. Winters would have an idea. No. She wouldn’t just have an idea, she’d be full of action.
Ms. Winters.
Mr. BadBoy.
There’s a connection. What the fuck’s the connection?
And then slowly the light bulb goes on inside my head.
I need to get in touch with BadBoy.
It’s a little bit difficult for my index finger to find the right keys on the tiny, itty-bitty mobile of mine, but somehow I manage. And why the fuck it’s harder tonight than ever before is beyond me.
And then, just as I open up Thebadboys.net app, the fucking phone glides out of my fingers and lands with a loud thud on the floor.
Fuck.
The fucking thing better not be broken now.
My eyes try and focus to see where it landed.
Slowly I get off my barstool and sway a little when my feet find the floor. My hands reach out to steady myself, and it takes enormous fucking effort to find the slippery sucker of a phone on the floor.
It takes more than one attempt to grab it. Every time my fingers reach out to pick it up, the possessed device slides away from me.
I swear if it weren’t for the fact I’m trying to get in touch with Chloe, I’d be giving up.
But Chloe’s worth it. Chloe is, well, Chloe is Chloe.
She’s one of a kind. She’s the kind of girl you don’t meet too often, and when you do, you take her home and introduce her to your mother.
What the fuck was I doing?
The bar seems to be spinning anticlockwise. I close my eyes and steady myself. Fuck, who turned on the spin cycle?
“Here you go, my man.”
I register Theo, no, I think there are two Theos. Is that even fucking possible?
“Double espresso, on the house.”
Double fucking Dutch to me.
With a shaking hand, I pick up the tiny cup and bring it to my lips.
Coffee. Wow. Smells fucking delicious.
I drink it with one gulp and close my eyes.
Five seconds later, the fog in my brain’s lifting a bit.
My eyes find my phone again.
That’s right. I was going to contact Mr. BadBoy.
With a sigh, I open up the message app and start to type.
It’s short and simple, straight to the point.
I think we should have that date we never got the chance for.
Once I press send, I keep my eyes glued to the screen, willing her to reply. The chances are fucking slim, but a guy needs something to hang on to, right?
Aaron
Ok. I’ve had two espressos.
I’ve had some water to wash everything down. I feel a little less intoxicated.
I’ve sent the fucking message to BadBoy and so far, there’s been deafening silence.
Would he respond—I mean she respond? It’s still a little bit difficult for me to think of Mr. BadBoy as Chloe.
Chloe is impersonating a man. I’m impersonating a woman. What a crazy world. And yet we worked perfectly together. We zinged. Thoughts swirl around my head faster than a tornado. Fuck. It’s hurting.
A further check of the bar and there’s still no sign of her.
The cold hard reality of the situation is refusing to sink in.
What if?
The door opens, my heart lurches but it’s some bloke and his big boobed chick walking in. They’re so closely intertwined I think they’ve come to the wrong fucking place. They need a room, not a bar.
Where the fuck is she?
I slide from side to side on my barstool. This is starting to feel like eternity. I check my phone to see how long since I’ve sent the message. Yeah. I suppose it’s time to fucking accept she’s not coming tonight.
“Theo,” I call out to the barman. “Can I get my usual?”
I’ll just have one more drink and if she doesn’t show by the time I’ve finished it, I’m calling it a day.
It’s the act of a desperate man, but that’s what I am, fucking desperate. I don’t want to accept defeat. I’m not a loser. I’m Ms. Fucking Winters.
There are a few more people milling about now, but no sign of Chloe. No matter how many times I will her to walk through that door, she doesn’t.
The caffeine has helped clear my alcohol haze a little.
My phone is remaining silent. If she got my message, she’s not responding.
A dark cloak wraps around me. Have I really blown it? Is this already the end of the road for Chloe and me?
If I can’t fucking explain my side and say sorry to her, how can she ever forgive me? And I can’t do any of those fucking things if she does not return my call or answer any of my messages.
With a shake of the head, I drain my glass. What’s the fucking point of delaying the inevitable? May as well head home and do what?
Fucking drink some more.
Fuck.
The more I drink, the more it hurts.
Fucking alcohol doesn’t solve the fucking the problem.
I feel someone touch me on the shoulder.
It’s a soft touch.
A familiar perfume wafts in my direction. My insides feel as if they’re put into a vice and squeezed so tight I can barely breathe.
“Excuse me.” And there’s the familiar voice. The one that can caress my ego and tip me over the edge, drive me mad with desire. “Excuse me.”
I turn to look at her.
I can’t believe my fucking eyes. I pinch myself to make sure I’m not imagining it.
It really is Chloe.
And boy does she look fucking hot.
“What do you think a girl has to do to get a drink around here?”
She’s smiling at me.
Fireworks erupt in my head. And an orchestra is providing the music to the display.
“Let me get you something.” My voice is croaky.
She bows her head a little.
“I’ll have what she’s having.”
We both laugh.