Chapter 21 #2
“Because it’s plastered all over Insta—look, it doesn’t matter. Can you tell me whose house it’s at?”
She’s wary, guarded. We’ve yet to make up from our fight, all of our cat scratches still oozing and fresh, not that it matters right now. “Why?”
“Please just tell me.”
“But you’re being weird.”
Fuck it, I don’t have time to dance around this. “Jordan’s at that party,” I tell her. “And the night we were all at Anathema, he drugged my drink.”
There’s a split-second of silence so thick it could be knifed before she blurts out, “Wait, what? Are you serious, Noel?”
“Jamil’s posting pics with him, and I’m worried—”
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Her brain’s still stuck on the first part. “That was weeks ago. Wait, what the hell happened? Were you—”
“Dani, later. Just tell me where it’s at.”
“Hold on.” I hear the tap of her nails on her phone screen. “I’m looking through my messages. It’s—you know that weird friend Brady always brought around, Mackenzie? Except everyone always called him ‘Mack Truck’ because—”
“The address?” I say impatiently.
“I don’t have it,” she returns. “Like, I remember going there a few times to hang out, but I don’t actually remember the street or house number or anything. And it’s not like Jamil told me—he was the one who was going to give me a ride.”
Right. Because Danika doesn’t drive. I try to think, chewing the skin on my lower lip to bits. “It was right near Brady’s house. They went to high school together or whatever.”
“Yeah, up in Newburyport.”
A fucking hike, in other words, an hour north of the city. “Fuck,” I say, dismayed.
“One of us really needs to get a car, you know.” She tries to joke, but the worry in her voice is obvious. Well, same. “Are you gonna take an Uber or something?”
“No.” Don’t need to. “I’ll just take Luca’s truck.” Assuming he lets me, which he has to of course. There’s no fucking way he won’t; I’m confident about that. “Thanks, Danika. I guess I’m gonna go crash Mack Truck’s party.”
“Dammit,” she says with feeling. “The one time I have to fucking work. I can’t leave, either, it’s just me and the other girl here tonight and we’re slammed. Keep me updated, will you?”
I’m already grabbing my Docs, phone pinched between my shoulder and ear. “I will.”
We hang up. I lace up the boots and then go clomping back into the bedroom and pounce on the bed. Luca’s already awake, sitting up and rubbing his eyes when I stick my expectant nose into his face.
“I need your truck,” I declare. “And I need you to just say yes without arguing.”
He doesn’t miss a beat, picking up his keys from the side table. “Your mom?” he asks, I guess recalling the last time I’ve made a similar request of him.
“No. My ex.”
He goes still, gazing at me. “I’m going with you.”
Involving himself in my problems like he always does, like it’s fun for him, willingly integrating with the high drama in which I operate when he’s got enough on his own plate.
His dad’s dying and the life he had is slipping between his fingers and I know just how much that hurts him.
To lose something you’ve fought for for so long, even if you don’t want it.
But as before, I don’t bother to dissuade him. I only nod and get off the bed.
The drive to the north shore is mostly quiet and I get the sense, without looking over at the speedometer, that Luca’s driving as fast as he dares.
The cops will be out as this sultry Friday night in July is perfect for pulling over speeders and drunk drivers.
I’m staring out the dark window and trying not to think of much of anything at all but it’s hard.
A sick tension coils in my belly making me nauseous, and can I really face him again?
Through the phone was fucking scary enough. And I hate myself for being scared.
Should’ve called the cops. Should’ve gone to the hospital. Should’ve told them. Keep thinking it, keep punishing myself with it, keep punching myself in the same spot over and over, keep the bruise fresh so it never stops aching and I never ever forget.
Luca’s hand finds mine across the center console.
He is, as always, in perfect alignment with me.
Scarily so. Like he can read my damn mind, or maybe I’m just that obvious.
The latter, probably. Though he’s always been empathetic to my moods.
“It’s okay,” he says. His eyes don’t leave the road.
“I’m not going to let anything happen to you. ”
If that means I get to watch him beat the shit out of Jordan, this might all be worth it.
It’s not what I want though, gratifying as it would be.
Then again, I don’t know what I want. For Jordan to just fucking disappear.
For him to stop making my life and everyone else’s hell.
For him to realize that he is a piece of garbage, and maybe I was just as much of a toxic shithead to him as he was to me, but it didn’t mean I deserved it. What he did.
And maybe then I could finally just forgive myself, give myself just a little bit of absolution—not just from this but from everything.
I want to give myself a break and take myself off this rack where I’ve become both the tortured and the torturer.
I’m a hamster on a wheel except the wheel is spiked and all I’m doing is hurting myself, running myself absolutely ragged this way, and maybe I’m finally seeing this all for what it really is: exhausting and pointless.
I remember where Brady lives, and from there it’s not too hard to suss out which house the party’s actually happening. One driveway a few doors down in particular is packed full of cars, spilling out onto the street. We can hear the loud bass music thumping even from inside the truck.
Luca pulls over and parks, looking around. “This looks like one of those neighborhoods where someone’s gonna call a tow truck on me for daring to park in front of their house.”
“You and ten other people, I guess.” I hop out and slam the door, and he follows suit. “Surprised the NIMBYs haven’t hit them with a noise complaint yet.”
“Surprised NIMBY is part of your vocabulary.”
I scoff. “Ready to be the oldest guy at this party, then?”
“My thirties aren’t quite turning out to be what I thought they would,” he returns dryly.
“You spent your twenties being boring and married. Gotta fit the mess in somewhere.”
“True, actually.”
We thread our way between the sloppily parked cars and up to the front door.
There’s people on the porch smoking and drinking, and they spare neither of us a second glance.
Or a first one, either. They’re drunk and high and as far as they know, we’re supposed to be here.
I don’t recognize anyone so I don’t bother to say anything, just let myself inside where the music is even louder and so are the people.
I feel Luca at my back as I navigate the dark and crowded house, trying to catch a glimpse of either Jamil or Jordan.
It reeks of alcohol in here, as if someone’s spilled a keg.
A group of girls hovering in the foyer take notice of Luca in all of his tattooed glory and titter to themselves; I can’t blame them.
He definitely stands out amongst all the twenty-something boys scattered around, making them look unfinished in comparison.
“Everyone looks so young.” Luca’s voice is low in my ear. “When did twenty-year-olds start looking like kids?”
“Since always,” I say absently, though I have to agree it’s sort of startling.
I never realized until I got with him just how young people my age look.
Which asks the question of what, exactly, he sees in me, but maybe I don’t count.
Maybe I look old. Maybe the gauntlet of my life has aged me prematurely and fuck, am I the one who needs Botox?
Shut up, brain. I don’t need this shit right now.
In the crowded, dark living room I finally spot a face I do recognize, though it’s not exactly one I welcome.
Kris, the boy Jordan cheated on me with and ultimately left me for, though they broke up only months later.
He’s just as dismayed to see me, judging by the look on his face; his brassy blonde hair’s in a disarray, clinging to wet cheeks.
The state of his eyeliner and how much of it’s migrated down his face tells me he’s been crying recently.
“Hi, Kris,” I say.
“Do I know you?” It comes out in a rude sneer, his words stabbing like a random pocket knife in the dark but quite missing the target. I don’t really have beef with this kid anymore.
“Probably,” I reply mildly. “You fucked my ex-boyfriend back in January.”
“You mean Jordan?” He laughs nastily, but there’s a tinge of hysteria in his voice that makes me think that maybe he’s the reason for the tears. “You can have him. He’s a piece of shit.”
God knows I don’t particularly want him. “Where is he?”
Kris scrubs his face on his sleeve. It does absolutely nothing to help with the black smudges on his cheeks. He hiccups and huffs—drunk, definitely—before he finally responds: “Why?”
“Sheesh. You just offered him up, didn’t you?”
But Kris isn’t in a helpful mood; no, he’s upset, sloppy and wasted and in his feelings and I’m a good outlet for all that, I guess.
A bunch of bullshit he must’ve been suppressing for months is spilling out of his face now.
“He always fucking talked about you. Always compared me to you like I wasn’t good enough, even though before he finally dumped you all he did was talk shit.
You looked okay in your Insta pics but up close you’re not even that pretty. ”
Oh, boy. “So you haven’t seen him tonight?”
“Of course I have.” Not that he bothers to expound on that. “I think he just liked how easy you were. He doesn’t really like working for it, you know, he’s so fuckin’ porn-brained—fucking scumbag—”
“This is a waste of time.” Luca, echoing my precise thoughts. “Let’s keep looking.”
“Is this your boyfriend?” Kris glares dolefully at him. “I heard he was old. You don’t look old.”
“Thanks for your help, Kris,” I say sweetly. “You need a mirror, by the way.”
I think he calls me a bitch to my back but we’re already wending our way to the other side of the room.
It’s too dark and too noisy and there’s too many people—how the fuck does Mackenzie even know this many people?
—and none of them have my friend’s face, or Jordan’s, either.
Or if they do I can’t tell, and even though Luca’s got a higher vantage point than me he’s never seen Jamil in person and probably can’t pick him out of a crowd like I can.
But he’s seen Jordan in the dark, at least.
I hope they aren’t together. I hope I am overreacting.
And I really wish Danika was here because she’s good at this sort of shit, singling out the right people and getting them to talk, and she’s one of those types who sort of knows everyone too, and everyone likes her.
Me, I just seem to piss people off by virtue of existing.
Can’t even have a reasonable conversation with my ex’s ex without it getting inflammatory.
Then again, I did call him an ugly twink once.
Not to his face, but I’m sure Jordan told him.
The dining room is totally trashed and there’s people doing keg stands on top of the long wooden table, a feat only made possible by how damn high the ceilings are, though the person doing the stand has their feet tangled in the chandelier and everyone watching is crowing and ooo-ing at how ominously the crystal rattles.
I catch sight of Luca’s face and he’s wincing, sucking the inside of his cheek.
I don’t see Jamil or Jordan in here, either. Two rooms down, a billion to go—this house is entirely too big, and there’s still the basement, too. I grab Luca’s arm. “Let’s split up,” I say.
Luca balks immediately. “What? No way. I’m not leaving you to fend for yourself from that asshole.”
“There’s no time, Luca. If—you know. Can you check upstairs, please?”
“Are you sure?” He’s reluctant. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”
“I’ll be okay,” I promise. “It’s not like I’m gonna drink anything.”
He gives me a brief kiss and then he’s heading towards the stairs back in the foyer and now I’m all on my own. Just me and Mackenzie’s three hundred closest fucking friends, all packed into his parents’ house.