Drowning Erin

by Elizabeth O'Roark

  "I'm going to fuck you so hard you won't be able to stand when I'm done,” he grunts.

  And say what you will about Brendan, but he always keeps his promises.

  48

  Erin

  Present

  The next afternoon, with 30 minutes to spare, Harper prints the mock-ups.

  “You look terrible,” she laughs.

  “I feel terrible.” If I had a body scan right now, it would show that I am 90-percent coffee, and yet I still can’t keep my eyes open.

  “You should walk in there and forcibly shove these up his ass,” she says.

  “That would kind of defeat the purpose of staying up all night.”

  She sighs. “Yeah, well, you you shouldn’t have done that either.”

  I grab the mock-ups and knock on Timothy’s door. “I’ve got your stuff for that meeting.”

  He takes a cursory glance at the pieces and hands them back to me. “The meeting was cancelled, so you’ll have a little time to get these cleaned up. Looks like they need it too.”

  He returns to whatever he was doing before. I’m forgotten. The stuff I just spent 24 hours on is forgotten. This is where Olivia and Brendan might turn violent, but I’ve never thrown a punch in my life. I’ve never even pulled someone’s hair.

  “I stayed up all night working on this.”

  “You wouldn’t have had to stay up all night if you’d gotten it done sooner.”

  My voice trembles. “I didn’t know you needed it done until yesterday afternoon.”

  “Well, now you have extra time to go over these and refine your work,” he says.

  I cross my arms over my chest. I hate him. I really fucking hate him. I do not make less than Olivia’s nanny to stay up all night and put up with this shit.

  “My work is about as refined as it’s going to get, Timothy,” I reply. “If you need more refinement, consider giving me a damn raise. In the meantime, I’m going home, and I’m going to bed.”

  He calls after me, his voice stern and full of reprimand, and I just keep walking, straight to the chancellor’s office, because he needs to put a face with the work he demands at the last minute all the time.

  I’m exhausted, running on nothing but rage at this point. I must look like I’m running on rage too; when I step into his secretary’s office, she appears slightly alarmed.

  “Can I help you?” she asks.

  I tell her who I am. I add that I’m a former student, and that I know the chancellor from my days on the track team, which is a bit of a stretch. I only met him a few times, and I guarantee he doesn’t remember me.

  A few minutes later, I am ushered into his office. It’s clear by the look on his face that he has no idea who I am. I introduce myself, mentioning that we met a few times at events in honor of Olivia, who’s probably the only ECU graduate to go on to even marginal fame. That softens him up a little. Olivia, in the years since she left, has put our athletics department on the map. He asks what he can help me with.

  “I have the marketing campaign you asked for,” I tell him, trying my best not to sound as pissed as I feel. “These pieces are a little rough, since we didn’t learn until yesterday that you needed them, but I thought I’d bring them by.”

  It only occurs to me as I slide the pieces forward that I’ve just bypassed our workplace hierarchy. I’m going to be written up for this, at the very least. Probably worse.

  The chancellor looks confused. “Marketing campaign?” he says. “I didn’t ask for this.”

  I stare at him in confusion for a moment, and then my body goes cold. I think of all the last-minute requests Timothy’s made, and realize most of them coincided with times he wanted to punish me for something. I wonder if any of those requests came from the chancellor.

  I can’t believe I’m just figuring this out now. And I can’t believe I just risked my job for no reason at all.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “Timothy gave us this project late yesterday and said they were needed today. I thought it must have been something important, given the turnaround time.”

  “I didn’t ask for any of these,” he says. He looks at the pieces again. “How on Earth did you get all of this done so fast?”

  My rage is gone, and the exhaustion hits me so suddenly I think I could curl up in this chair and sleep.

  “We stayed up all night—me and one artist,” I say, rising with dejection pressing down on my shoulders. “I’m sorry I interrupted you.”

  I did all this work for nothing and may very well have gotten myself fired the first time I tried to do something about it.

  “Does this happen a lot?” he asks. “Last-minute projects like that?”

  “It happens every week.”

  He nods slowly. “And do you see much of Olivia these days?”

  “I went up to watch her run Western States a few weeks ago, and I’m godmother to her kids, so I’ll be back for her daughter’s christening in a few months.”

  He tells me to say hello for him. I get the feeling my connection to Olivia matters far more than the marketing pieces I just left on his desk. I can only pray it matters enough that he doesn’t rat me out to my boss.

  I tell Brendan the story later that night.

  He groans. “Please explain to me why the fuck you’re still there.”

  “Normal people require this thing called money, Brendan. I have bills.” I don’t expect him to understand, though. Brendan comes home each night raving about the tour he gave that day, spilling over with plans for bigger and more extensive adventures. His income is almost an afterthought because he has a job he’d do for free.

  “But you act like that place is the only job in the entire world,” he argues. “There are lots of jobs, and there are lots of jobs you might enjoy, or have a chance of getting promoted at, or not have to deal with a tool like your boss.”

  “But I like ECU. In terms of marketing jobs, it’s a good cause. What if my next job is marketing cigarettes to children? Or cocaine?”

  He cocks a brow. “I haven’t seen a whole lot of cocaine advertising directed at kids.”

  “And I might not make what Rob makes, but I’m sure I could make less. If my dad gets fired again, my parents will need help. And Sean always needs something. That’s not changing anytime soon.”

  He slaps his palm to his face. “Are you fucking serious right now? You’re talking about two grown-ass men who can handle their own shit.”

  “I’ve just made a lot of huge changes at once,” I tell him. “People do that when their lives suck, but mine didn’t suck. It just needed improvement. And I’m worried that if I keep changing everything, I’m going to look back and regret what I’ve done.”

  “Are you talking about work?” he asks, not looking at me. “Or are you talking about Rob?”

  “I don’t even know anymore. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  Three months ago I had job security and a fiancé and a very nice home. I had 20k in savings. Now I have none of those things. Sometimes people burn a bridge because they must. But you’re not supposed to burn them all at once.

  I spend the next day waiting to be called into Timothy’s office, feeling sick. The call doesn’t come, but it makes me realize just how often I’ve waited here, exactly like I am now, to be punished for something, and typically something that isn’t my fault.

  It’s time to face the music: I love my office mates, and I love my school, but my time at ECU has run its course.

  49

  Brendan

  Three Years Earlier

  I go to work on Monday, but my tour’s been cancelled. Seb, the owner, asks me to go with him to shop for bikes instead. I agree without a second thought. Shopping for bikes is like porn for me. Once it’s suggested, it’s almost impossible to resist.

  The first text from Gabi asking where I am arrives around noon, and it isn’t until it arrives that I realize I’ve been waiting for it, bracing myself almost, the way you do before you reach for a light sw
itch when you know it’s going to shock you.

  It’s puzzling even to me, recognizing that I dreaded this text and that I somehow knew it would make me grind my teeth, that I would loosen this tired sigh before I send her a simple reply, telling her I’m looking at bikes.

  She’s been doing this more and more, ever since the discussion about Erin, keeping tabs on me the moment I’m out of sight.

  But my irritation with her over something so mild also makes me feel like an asshole. She’s my girlfriend. Of course she wants to know where I am. Why the fuck should that bother me?

  But just seconds later comes the next text, asking when I’ll be home.

  And I’m annoyed anew.

  Because I’m annoyed, I tell her I’m not sure, knowing even as I write the words that I’m making the problem worse. Gabrielle is not the type to handle any kind of ambiguity well—she approaches life as if it is science, and she wants a precise why and when and what for every question. This is probably why laid-back dudes who lead bike tours don’t usually wind up with Stanford medical students—the personalities required for each are diametrically opposed.

  When the follow-up text comes from her—why don’t you know?—I do the ultimate dick move and just turn off my phone. I want to enjoy this. I love looking at bikes, and I love testing bikes, and discussing bikes, and she’s ruining it by aggravating me. So I’m not going to let her. I’m going to enjoy this, and I’ll deal with her afterward.

  It’s late afternoon by the time I’m done. I head home, checking my phone. There are 32 texts, all of them from her.

  She’s pissed when I get to the apartment, but I’m pissed too.

  “Texting someone 32 times might work with your little pre-med boyfriends,” I tell her, “but it’s not going to work with me.”

  Her face falls, which is when I realize I wanted to fight with her. I wanted her to stay pissed off. I guess the truth is I want a little air, a break from this thing. I miss not having to be on my best behavior all the time.

  She starts to cry, and my irritation vaporizes, replaced by guilt. I’m responsible for this. She’s younger than me, and she’s also just…young. She has so much less life experience than most 22-year-olds. In this moment, as I watch her weeping, her hair clinging to her face, I know I’ve made some kind of grave error.

  “Gabi,” I plead, “don’t cry. I’m sorry.”

  “Are you cheating on me?”

  “What? No! I was seriously looking at bikes. That’s it.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says, pressing her face into her hands, crying harder. “I’m not good at being with someone. And now that I’ve slept with you, I feel like there’s nothing to keep you coming back.”

  “Gabi, that’s crazy. Of course there is. I like you. Did you think this was all about me sleeping with you a few times and moving on?”

  “I don’t know. It’s what you’ve done before, right? I love you. I love you so much, Brendan. I don’t know what I’d do if you cheated.”

  She waits there, wide-eyed and broken, wanting me to say it back. And—because I know the truth will hurt her, because I’ve fucked this whole thing up so badly, and she’s leaving in a little over a month—I do.

  50

  Erin

  Present

  Brendan and I have spent most nights at his apartment, rarely venturing outside of it. I enjoy our nights in, but I sometimes wonder if we’re staying in for reasons he’d rather not discuss.

  “Harper says if there’s a zombie apocalypse, you and I will be the only ones to survive,” I tell him.

  “Because I’m such a badass that no zombie could take me?”

  I laugh. “No. Because we never go out in public.”

  He’s quiet for a moment, long enough that I’m sure I’m about to get the speech: Erin, we are in the bubble; we aren’t dating.

  “My friend Beck has a bar in Elliott Falls,” he finally says. “A bunch of friends from school are getting together up there this weekend. You want to go?”

  “You want me to go with you?” I tease. “In public? You mean actually go out, or would I be wearing an invisibility cloak or something?”

  “It’s so hot when you reference Harry Potter. Yes, with me, in public. Visible. Unless you’re worried about Rob finding out. But he doesn’t know any of the people coming.”

  I tell him I’m not worried, but my smile dims. I hate being reminded that Brendan and I have an expiration date.

  “So he’s finally taking you out,” Harper says as I get ready on Friday.

  “It’s not really a date. It’s just a party.”

  “Which you are attending with a guy. A guy who invited you and with whom you are fornicating. It is, therefore, a date. And since I’ve conclusively established that you and Brendan are dating…”

  “We’re not dating.”

  “Just because he doesn’t realize it’s a relationship doesn’t mean it isn’t one,” she counters. “So I’m wondering what you plan to do when Rob comes home?”

  The question rests like a barbell on my shoulders, pushing so hard I actually want to rub them in response. “You mean what’s going to happen with me and Rob?”

  “You and Rob. You and Brendan. Brendan and Rob. Wow, it just occurred to me that that would make for one un-fucking-believable threesome.”

  “We won’t be having a threesome, I can promise you. And in response to your question, I don’t know. I guess no one will be with anyone.” Rob can never find out about this, so it has to end with Brendan at some point. And I don’t see how I could get back together with Rob without telling him what I did, and I can’t, so…that’s probably off the table too.

  “Enjoy it while it lasts then,” says Harper. She goes into her room and emerges moments later, handing me a pair of her skinny jeans and a silky blouse that hangs off one shoulder. “I’m not even bothering to look through your clothes for tonight.”

  “Size 25 jeans?” I laugh. “Are you high? I can’t fit into these.”

  “Of course you can. I’m not sure if you’ve followed the styles over the last, I don’t know, 40 years or so, but jeans are supposed to be tight. You’ll look hot.”

  “Yeah, it’s going to be really hot when I go home with Brendan and require medical intervention to pull them off,” I reply, yanking them closed.

  She grins. “You look good. Believe me, he’ll be happy to help.”

  When Brendan shows up, he appears to agree. “Wow,” he says, looking me over, head to foot. He yanks me toward him, free hand sliding over my ass, mouth finding mine for a soft, slow kiss—one that lets me know where he'd like it to lead.

  I forget, for a moment, that we are not at his place. When his mouth moves to my neck, I groan so loudly that Harper, two rooms away, laughs.

  "Erin," he says, pulling away only slightly, "unless you're going to let me fuck you right here in the foyer, we'd better get in the car."

  I grab my purse. "I guess you'll just have to wait," I tell him over my shoulder as I walk out the door.

  "I have a feeling," he says, his mouth close to my ear, "that this may be a very short night out."

  When Brendan told me his friend had a bar, I expected something small. A glorified shack with six bar stools and a jukebox. Instead I discover a sprawling lakeside beauty with multiple decks, already so crowded at 9 PM that we struggle to find a parking space. I don’t know why it matters, but I’m thrilled—I know it’s not really a date, necessarily, but suddenly it sort of feels like one.

  “Wow. This is not what I was expecting.”

  “Yeah,” he says with a half-hearted smile. “It’s something.”

  I’m not sure what happened to the Brendan I drove here with, but the one beside me now seems to have lost his interest in this night out entirely over the course of five seconds.

  I slide my fingers through his as we walk toward the bar. “You okay?”

  He nods, pulling his hand away as he reaches for the door. Inside, a group of people wave to us fr
om the deck. I follow as he heads in their direction, wondering what he’s told them about me, remembering the summer we worked together and how infuriating I found the endless parade of girls he brought out at night. Is that how his friends will see me? Or has he let them know that this is different, ongoing?

  I have my answer pretty quickly.

  “This is Erin,” he tells the group. “My sister-in-law’s best friend.”

  No, I’m not a part of the parade. I’m less. He’s just explained my presence here in a way that makes it sound like he was forced to bring me. He didn’t even introduce me as his friend. He finds me a seat at a table with only one available chair, and then he walks away—no kiss, no hand to my shoulder, no promise that he’ll return. I smile awkwardly at this group of people who all know each other while my stomach sinks to the floor.

  This meant nothing. This was him feeling forced to bring me out because I said something. I did not realize how much I wanted this to be a date until now, when I discover Brendan doesn’t consider it one. And what makes it all worse is that it’s clear he wants no one here to think it is either.

  “So you’re friends with Olivia?” one girl at the table asks. “Are you visiting from Seattle?”

  “No,” I tell her. “I live here. How do you all know Brendan?”

  “College,” she replies.

  And then they start swapping Brendan stories: Brendan with triplets. Brendan getting stalked by girls on campus. Brendan caught climbing out of a girl’s dorm window. I listen in silence with a forced smile on my face.

  “He was with a different girl every night,” says one of them with a rueful laugh, twisting the wedding ring on her finger.