by Ginger Scott
After another minute or two, the others join us in the living room. Kyle brings in a dozen cold beers ready to fill the cups, and I tap the one in front of me. He quirks a lip, and I tell him to shut up and fill it.
“Always so eager to get right to the buzz, Joss. I don’t think you even taste half the shit you drink,” Kyle says, filling my plastic cup to the top, knowing I’ll drink most of it down before we even begin to play.
Wes is looking at me; I can feel it, but he’s not saying anything.
“Yeah, well, I’m a hot drunk and you know it,” I say with a wink, emptying my cup in seconds.
“Woooooooo, she’s not messing around tonight. Taryn, I hope you’re ready to take your girl home later,” Kyle teases, filling my cup again. I feel Wes shift next to me, moving forward, his arms on his knees, his hands clasped in front of his body.
I feel his disgust.
I start to tip my second cup back, but Taryn reaches across the table, pulling my arm down lightly with a few of her fingers, her eyes catching mine, her warning loud and clear.
“What?” I mouth over the cup’s edge, my tongue taking a small taste of the liquid beaded around the edge. I hate the way beer tastes, but I love how it makes me feel—drink enough, and everything sharp gets softer.
“Stop it,” she whispers back, the worry line deep between her eyes.
My lips purse as I pause and decide if I’m going to engage, like I normally do, or listen to my friend and not fall into my usual pattern, which I know would ruin her night with TK. Kyle is me, and I am him, and nobody tests the nerve that runs through me like he does. He likes to push me into things. I like to let him. I hate that he’s quitting smoking, because he’s the reason I started, and part of me wants to get shitfaced in minutes just to spite him. But Taryn’s right. Besides, that’s what he wants. He wants the push—and I think part of him is showing off our connection in front of Wes just to prove to the new guy that he doesn’t get to be everyone’s favorite.
I put my cup down and sink back into the couch, ready to play the game. My buzz will come soon enough, and I’m willing to wait the hour it might take before the reality of what I’ll have to deal with at home sinks into me.
Taryn starts things off easy, with statements like “never have I ever kissed more than one person in the same night” and “never have I ever slept in the nude.” I drink for both because I’ve done both, and I feel Wes’s eyes on me for my confessions.
The admissions get heavier as the hour wears on, and I’ve only sat out a few of them. I haven’t been arrested—officially—so I don’t drink for that, and I’ve never kissed a girl. Kyle asks this question every time we play, and I know it’s because he wants to see me finally check that box and kiss Taryn in front of him. That check doesn’t happen tonight though.
I notice Wes has hardly drunk any, and I wonder why he even bothered to come. Conner’s girlfriend, Layla, showed up late along with Taryn’s cousin, Emily, our friend Noah, and a couple of other girls I sort of know. They’ve all had more to drink than Wes. The new girls are also quite taken with him. The way he sits, holding his half cup of beer in one hand, arm slung over the back of the sofa, his shirt tight around his biceps, hair falling in his face—it’s almost laughable how good looking he is. He doesn’t belong here in this dark room on the poor side of Bakersfield in a house with olive-colored carpet and wood-paneled walls. And god, the way he smells. I’m feeling my beer pretty good at this point, and the only thing keeping my wits with me is Wes’s cologne. I keep trying to follow the scent into a dream, but whenever I do, I end up staring at him.
“I have to pee,” I announce, standing clumsily and knocking over a few half-filled cups teetering on the edge of the coffee table.
“Shit, Joss. You’re making a goddamned mess,” Kyle says, laughing halfway through his lecture. He’s as drunk as I am, and at least that feels right.
I stumble down the hallway to the bathroom and spend several minutes looking at myself in the mirror after I’ve taken care of business. My eyes are heavy, and my hair is down. It’s tangled around my shoulders. I pull the band from my wrist and twist my hair up, fastening it in place before running a finger under each of my eyes, smearing away some of the excess eyeliner. My head falls forward and I let out a faint laugh when I realize how silly I’m being. I’m trying to look good for Wes, but I also want to call him on his bullshit and make him admit he’s Christopher—and beyond that, I want him to quit looking at me like I’m doing something wrong. He has no idea what it’s like to live in my house. Saturday nights are my one escape, at least until my phone rings and reality comes calling.
My phone hasn’t rung yet, though. Maybe tonight I’ll get a break. I wash my hands and flip off the light before entering the hall, running right into Wes’s chest when I do. My palm finds the center of it, and his hand finds my wrist, steadying me when I startle and scream.
“Sorry, I didn’t know you were coming out. I was waiting for my turn,” he says, same stupid crooked smirk.
“It’s okay,” I say, and I smile back at him. Doe-eyes are back, and I feel them, so I straighten my posture and pull my lips tight, taking my arm from his grasp. “We’ll wait for you before we start again, Christopher.”
I just let it slip out. My heartbeat drums quickly in my chest, and the last vestige of sober me fights to act nonchalant while I watch Wes’s face for a reaction. His eyes never flinch, though, and his reaction is nothing but natural. One eyebrow quirks up, and he points to himself. “It’s Wes, and I think maybe you’ve had enough,” he says.
“It’s not Wes; it’s Christopher,” I say, squinting at him and pointing my finger in his chest. He glances down at it, his face still resolved, which pisses me off even more. “And I’m not even close to drunk yet.”
I leave him there in the hall, but before I turn the corner to the living room, I run into Kyle. He grabs my elbows when I stumble, and glances behind me before looking in my eyes. I see him look back at Wes again before he disappears behind the bathroom door, and then he turns to me with a question.
“He was waiting to use the bathroom, and he scared the shit out of me in the dark,” I say.
It’s the truth, but somehow it reads like a lie, and I can now feel my heart beating in my stomach. I shirk off Kyle’s hold on my arms and step over Taryn and TK, who are practically spooning on the floor. I get back to my spot on the couch and fill my cup with one of the beers—drinking it down almost completely before Kyle and Wes get back to the game.
McKenna, one of the girls who showed up late, has somehow wormed her way to Wes’s other side. There really isn’t a seat there, so her leg is pressed into his as she attempts to split the couch cushion with him. She’s not even subtle about the way she’s maneuvering her body so that her skirt rides up just enough to catch his eye. It works. Hell, every human that’s not spooning on the goddamned floor has ogled her leg by now—me included. But I still feel the tingle of jealousy in my veins, amplified by alcohol.
“Let’s play more,” Kyle says, interrupting my jaunt down envy lane. “I…” he says, standing in the center of our circle, his finger out as he spins slowly, pointing to each of us as if he’s the prize wheel and we’re the prizes. He stops at me, and the right side of his lip rises.
Shit.
“I…have never, not ever made out with Josselyn Winters.” His declaration comes out smug, and he brings his cup to his smiling lips quickly, drinking his entire cup empty and setting it down with a smack on the table right in front of Wes. He just made me a challenge, like I’m some trophy he won. Most of the room rolls their eyes—aware of the few hook ups Kyle and I have had over the last couple years—none of them caring. But his turn wasn’t for them—it was for Wes, for Kyle to prove he’s already had me, in some small way, and that he had me first. Wes is holding his cup in both hands between his knees, spinning it slowly, his lips pursed, and his jaw twitching. It would be sweet if it were because he’s jealous, but it’s not—i
t’s because he doesn’t like people paying attention to him. Just like Christopher.
Reaching forward, I smack my hand flat on the table to get everyone’s attention, and when they all look at me, I sit up tall, pulling my cup into my hand.
“I have one! I have never ever pretended to be someone I’m not,” I say, my words coming out ugly, but clear enough that everyone hears. I hold my breath and scan the room slowly, stopping when my eyes reach Wes’s. I wait for him to drink, but he just stares at me, his brow slightly lowered, his face full of concern, maybe even disappointment. I look back at him, my breath slow and even, when something else comes over me. Maybe he’s pretending to be someone else, but so is everyone here. Kyle, Taryn…all of my friends—me! We’re pretending to be okay with the fact that we live where we live, that not one of us can afford college and that the kids who live on the north side all have nice cars and two parents who have jobs with suits and business meetings and fancy parties. We pretend to be tough, to be grown up and ready—but we’re not. We’re so far away from any of that.
“You’re all fuckin’ liars,” I say, holding my cup against my lips, my breath held. I don’t flinch, my eyes playing defense against Wes’s stare as I tip my cup back and swallow the remains of my last beer. I feel the vibration of my phone in my pocket, so I pull it out to confirm my father’s cell phone number before putting it away and turning to face Wes one last time. “I know who you are. Why are you ashamed to admit it? Is it because I wasn’t worth saving? Is that why?”
His brow is furrowed as he keeps his eyes on mine, his head shaking slightly side-to-side like he’s trying to understand my language. To the rest of the room, this sounds like my usual drunken rant—nonsensical, meaningless conversation that will be forgotten in the morning. But my wits are there by a thread, and I’ll remember this.
So will he.
“I’m out, Kyle. As always, thanks for taking me away from the shit for a while,” I say, stumbling over the legs of the girls I don’t really know and wrapping my arms around Kyle.
“You want me to come with?” he asks, and I squeeze his shoulder before bringing my face to his.
“Nah, I got it this time. I’m good,” I shrug.
I kick at Taryn’s feet, and she tilts her head to one side. She feels guilty because she’s usually my ride home, but I know she’s staying here with TK. And Taryn’s seen my nightmare enough. She deserves a night off.
“I’m good. I promise,” I say, tripping over her feet a little. It makes me laugh, but I catch myself quickly, holding up a hand and crossing my heart with the other.
“Okay, call me if you need me?” she says from her position wrapped deep in TK’s arms. I hold my phone up and waggle it at her. I won’t call, and she wouldn’t answer—not tonight. And that’s okay.
“It’s been real, TK…Levi,” I say, pounding both of their knuckles on my way through the living room. Conner and his girlfriend left the party a long time ago, so I don’t bother with anyone else, instead giving over my attention to the buzz of a message on my phone.
I wait until I’m completely out of the house and walking down the driveway before I dial in and listen. It’s the same message it always is, my dad’s voice coming and going as he holds the phone at various distances from his face.
“Fucking assholes say you need to come get me,” he puffs out, his face muffling his words as the rough stubble of his cheek presses into the phone. “I’ll be out front. You can take the car…”
“Shit,” I mutter to myself, looking at the time stamp from the message, feeling the vibration of my father’s next call. It’s only been two minutes. This is how it goes, though. He calls until I answer, or until I show up. I quit answering months ago, because it doesn’t get me to him any faster, and not answering means I can enjoy these few minutes before I have to talk to him in person.
“You need a ride?” His voice comes out of the complete calm of the night behind me. My legs buckle from the adrenaline coursing through me as a result.
“Shshshshit!” I say, pressing the buzzing phone against my chest.
“Sorry,” Wes says; I think maybe wincing a little.
“I’m fine. Go back to the party,” I say, shaking my head and sighing with relief that the ringing has stopped. I push my phone back into my pocket and turn to head to the end of the block. Wes stays with me, though.
“You’re lit,” he says. “I don’t feel comfortable with you walking home in the dark.”
I laugh loudly, and turn to face him, continuing to shuffle backward. “Welcome to my every Saturday night, Christopher,” I say with my hands out on either side.
“Right, uhm…I’m Wes,” he nods, which only makes me laugh harder. I hold my hands to my stomach to exaggerate it, but he talks right through me. “You’re not in a position to be walking along the road in the dark. Come on, I’ll take you home.”
“Ah, yeah, right…cuz you know where I live!” I say, holding a finger up. “Give it up. I just wanted to say thanks for what you did, but if you want to pretend that you’re not him, whatever.”
I’m slurring more, and my feet feel heavier. I can tell I passed the line, and I know I’m probably going to get sick any minute, but I have to make it to Jim’s first. Wes walks away, and I turn around to go forward because this backward shit is making me dizzy. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and this time I pull it out and silence it.
I do my best to pick up my stride, and I’m close to the end of the block when I hear the familiar idle of Wes’s truck pull alongside me. I chuckle to myself, and stop, turning to face him with my thumbs hanging from the pockets of my jeans.
“You left your jacket, Joss. I have it in the truck. Just…just get in,” he says, and as if Mother Nature is in his corner, the breeze picks up, sending a chill over my bare shoulders, blowing the fabric of my tank top tight against my stomach.
“Fine,” I say, feeling the buzz in my pocket begin again. I let it go this time, and when I slam the cab door shut in his truck, I can hear the phone’s sound vibrate against his seat.
“You need to get that?” Wes asks.
I remind myself that he hasn’t done this dance before, so I’m polite—or as polite as I can be with a burning esophagus, fading consciousness, and rancid taste of bile in my mouth.
“It’s fine. He’ll call back,” I say, fumbling with the buckle. This truck doesn’t even work right. Wes tugs the belt away from me and snaps it into place, pausing with his hands on the wheel before shifting into drive.
“Who’ll call back, Joss?”
“My dad. It’s…it’s always my dad. It’s fine; just…take me to Jim’s. It’s like, super close. You probably know where it is, though, because you, like, know everything,” I say, and it comes out both sing-songy and bitchy. I don’t mean it to, so I try to correct it. “It’s okay that you know everything. I mean…whatever, right?”
He sighs heavily, laying his forehead against the steering wheel while he pushes the gear into place. I curl my legs up sideways and rest my head on his window, willing myself not to be sick.
“I don’t know what Jim’s is,” he bites, and I roll my head to the side against the glass to meet his stare. His head is lying on his hands, against the wheel, and he looks as frustrated as I feel every time my phone vibrates against me. Maybe he doesn’t know Jim’s. Maybe he doesn’t know anything at all. Maybe I’ve hit rock bottom, and I’m making things up in my head because I want to feel like I did when Christopher’s arms held me away from the harms of the world. That was the last time I ever felt safe, and it was the day I almost died. I’ve been chasing that feeling for years, and maybe I just want to find it so badly that I’m seeing things.
“Fifth and Washburn,” I answer in a whisper, mostly because I’m pretty sure if I speak any more loudly, I will lose everything in my stomach. “Just go three blocks to the right, and then turn left at Fifth. You’ll see it.”
His only response is a heavy exhale as he drives forward. His truck
rides rough; every turn makes my stomach clench, and by the time we reach Jim’s, I kick open his door just in time to puke all over the gravel parking lot beneath my feet. I hate the way it tastes. I hate everything about this part. But not enough that I won’t do it again next weekend. I’d do it every day if I could, but my dad is home too often during the week. Not that he’d care, but it’s just too much when it’s both of us living in the fog. I can always count on Saturdays, though. I probably won’t be able to afford college, but Jim—if there even is a Jim that this bar is named after—is probably driving a Mercedes by now, thanks to my dad’s patronage.
“You okay?” Wes says, his hand tentative against my back. I shudder from his faint touch, and he pulls his hand away. I regret it instantly.
“I’m fine,” I say, running the sleeve of my zip jacket along my jaw and stepping wide around my mess. My stomach feels better, but I know I’ll do that again. I just hope I can wait until I get home. I don’t want to throw up inside Wes’s truck.
Per the norm, my dad is sitting on the bench outside of Jim’s, his phone in his hands while he repeats hitting the dial button over and over.
“Quit calling me; I’m here,” I say, grabbing his arm and slinging it over my shoulder. Wes steps to the other side, pulling most of my father’s dead weight against him. I’m embarrassed, but too grateful that I don’t have to fall and drag him like I normally do to feel the sting of it right now.
“Awwww, Josselyn. Goddamnit! Don’t bring him into our mess,” my dad says, his eyes watery from his usual self-pity cry.
“This isn’t our mess, Dad. It’s yours. It’s always yours,” I say through gritted teeth. Maybe it is ours. But at least when it comes to my half, I never need any help getting home in the end. I’m like the family cat nobody wants; I could be dropped at the ends of the earth and somehow still find my way home on my feet.
“It’s okay, Mr. Winters. I’m here to help,” Wes says, and I wave my other hand to get his attention.