Chapter 9
nine
There’s a semi-truck sitting on my head. Not literally, but with the intense pressure of the hangover inside my skull, there could be. Maybe there’s an entire highway in there?
I smack the snooze button on my cell’s alarm and it dies in a slow whine. My hand slides away, but I don’t have the energy to return it to my side. It hangs off the bed as I groan in agonizing pain. My neck is stiff, and my pillow’s wet from drool.
A shower would help, but there’s no hot water, a fact I forget until I’m standing in the tub naked and reaching for a hot water knob that doesn’t exist.
So I work on plan B—hyping myself up to take a cold shower.
I blow out several quick breaths and turn the water knob, screaming when icy pellets rain from the showerhead, stabbing my skin.
Goose bumps rise to the size of mountains, and I whimper as I scramble to soap myself up and then quickly rinse off.
Tylenol and two glasses of water ease some of the intensity of the headache.
Looking back with a little clarity, I remember finishing off the bottle of Chianti by myself.
That accounts for my courage . . . or insanity.
However I look at it, last night was a failure on many unfortunate levels.
I flinch when Evan’s rejection shines in the forefront of my mind.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but I can’t shake this embarrassment. I’m living in it like a second skin.
I set up the old-school coffee maker Aggie gave me, and then settle my head onto my arms, slumped over the cool kitchen counter until it brews.
When it switches off, I transfer the filled pot to the stove, pour in a cup of cream, dump in almost the same amount of sugar, and stir everything with a spatula.
With my pot holders tucked under my arm, I carry the coffeepot to the living room and set it on a tile coaster. I click a snapshot of the arrangement and text it to Aggie.
Cait
I’ll never, EVER make fun of u about this again. You’re a genius.
As I sit back and wait for the coffee to cool, my eyelids droop and close, but the relief is temporary. They snap open when my cell buzzes.
Aggie
Damn straight. Get dressed. I’m here.
Before I can make it off the couch, Aggie lets herself in.
“You have a key?” I fall back into the cushions, relieved about not having to get up, but a little worried about her having access to my place. I may return home to an apartment filled with random thrifted knickknacks.
“Don’t you have one of mine?” She sets her things down.
“How would I? You never gave me a key. I never gave you mine.” My forehead creases.
“What kind of bestie would I be if I didn’t break into your apartment every now and then?”
I nod, considering the genius of the coffeepot. A copy of her apartment key would have come in handy last night while she was out. It might have saved me. I inspect her, contemplating her eccentric genius, and find something unexpected.
“You’re glowing or something,” I say as she sprawls in the chair opposite me.
“If you’re wondering if I did the deed, the answer is . . .” After a flutter of jiggling body parts, she pauses, holding me in suspense.
“Just tell me.” I toss a pillow over my face, waiting to hear the details of her conquest while I have to wallow in the failure of mine. I can’t take it anymore. And what’s worse, I’ll have to text Lou and ask him to play along with my epic lie. He’s going to kill me. I groan.
“I did not,” she admits.
I peek from beneath my pillow. She’s moved over to the love seat and is sipping from my coffeepot. She places it back on the table.
“All those theatrics for nothing?”
“Charlie and I were having fun. It got complex. He went off on a nerd tangent. Amy from accounting dumped a gallon of iced cherry Kool-Aid on me. You know, one of those hurricane drinks? Anyway, it was right before we hijacked the Architectural Tour Boat, crashed it into the Downward Dawgs hot dog stand, and were arrested. Long story.” She wiggles her fingers at me, the pads blackened with fingerprint ink. A mischievous grin dances on her face.
“You’re happy because you have a rap sheet now?”
“Pfft. I’ve had one of those for years. I’m happy because I met Paul.
He’s gorgeous and charming, and he has a white horse that he dresses like a unicorn.
Sort of. And there’s a strong possibility we may never see each other again.
” She sighs and lifts her shoulders to her ears with glee.
“It was a brief and beautiful love affair.”
I clutch the pillow to my chest and belt out a hysterical giggle until my gut hurts.
I curl into the pain and hold my midsection.
Tears stream down my cheeks, blurring my vision.
The movement makes my hangover pound, so I grab my head and rub the skull-splitting pain.
But the longer I laugh, the more the tension releases until it’s gone.
“But I didn’t even tell you the good part,” she says.
“Oh, man.” I rein in the laughter and wipe the tears away. I needed that. “I should have come with you.”
“Didn’t you do your normal woe-is-me-sucky-non-happy-hour thingee and then run for five hours?”
“How did you know?”
“I just imagine the most boring thing in the world, and that’s usually what you’re doing.”
My lips twist. I could tell Aggie everything, but I’m too ashamed to confess my leap into possible awesomeness and then quick descent into epic crash-and-burn. Besides, I’d rather hear the details of her night than relive the horrors of mine. I reposition on the couch, moving closer.
She relays her story while sharing photos on her phone.
In true Aggie fashion, it’s no less than amazing.
By the time she’s finished her epic tale, I believe with my entire heart she and Paul belong together.
At least, that’s what I tell her. I’m a little more of a cynic than that, but why kill her buzz?
She’s happy and over weasel-boy Brad with one crazy night.
Maybe there’s something to finding a new guy to replace the old one?
She turns and kicks her feet onto the arm of the love seat, relaxing into the cushions. Her attention swings around the room. “I should bring some stuff over to decorate. Your apartment needs some color. Some happy.”
“Or you could stay at your place and admire your crazy stuff there.”
“But you don’t even have a TV.” She rattles off the names of all the reality shows she’s missing, including the current season of some “psychic secret lover, wilderness tree house survival show” she’s obsessed with.
“Who even watches TV anymore?” I deflect.
I don’t share the reason I don’t have a TV.
With my amnesia, watching is overwhelming.
I avoid the news. Hearing of any violence sends me into a panic attack.
Watching abstract commercials flash from one scene to the next leaves me with a thousand questions.
Some things make sense while others don’t.
Recovering has been more than remembering my life.
It’s been about sorting out and making sense of almost everything else too.
During my recovery, I spent a large part of my time with various tutors and therapists who helped get me back into college so I could return to a normal existence—whatever that is.
That being said, I’ve learned a lot from watching movies and TV shows on Netflix on my iPad.
Depending on how you look at it, they saved me or gave me a false view of the world.
It’s easier to follow a simple story from beginning to end where I can piece together some semblance of meaning.
But still, I stick to watching romance and comedy. That’s all I can handle.
Aggie would be shocked to learn her Princess of Darkness needs to laugh at a comedy or sink into a romance rather than watch The Walking Dead. I’ve had enough of that on my own.
We nap on the couch for a few hours. When we wake, Aggie heads home. I rise with the bizarre and overwhelming urge to shop. Or maybe I know exactly why I need to shop but can’t come to terms with the reason.
When I return home with an armful of shopping bags, Evan still hasn’t fixed my hot water handle. It pains me even more on Monday when I take another freezing shower for work.
I select one of my new outfits, a trim crimson dress suit and black heels with red soles. This morning, I style my hair in loose waves down my back and apply makeup. When I look in the mirror, I barely recognize myself. The last time I wore bright colors or makeup? I can’t recall.
And there’s the information I want to ignore .
. . the reason I’m doing this in the first place.
I need to reassure myself after Saturday night’s rejection.
I need to feel better, even if it’s only physically.
The more troublesome part? I want to make Evan regret his dismissal.
I’m reasonable enough to understand this is a childish response, but I’m stuck on the idea of revenge.
You look ridiculous.
I twist in front of the mirror. My mind picks at the roundness of my hips, the thickness of my thighs, the way the suit hugs too tight to the curve of my butt, and cautions I’ll be fighting the tangles in my hair all day.
No matter what I do or how I dress, I’ll still be the same mess beneath the lip gloss and painted fingernails. I sigh at my stupidity.
Giving in to the negative whispers, I unbutton my red jacket and shimmy out of it. I hang it up while mentally making plans to return all the impulse purchases tonight. The suits, the shoes, the lingerie. What was I thinking?
When I remove my normal drab Monday suit from the closet, my cell chirps. I pick it up from my dresser and read the message.
Linden
Where are you? Meeting moved to 8:30.
I freeze, glance at the clock, and then yelp. It’s 8:15 a.m. For the sake of my job, I forgo the pity party, snatch the jacket off the hanger, and race for the front door. There’s no time to change.
By the time I reach the bottom of the stairs, I’m dressed again. Heart racing, I dart through the lobby, out the building’s front door, and into the blaring sunshine. The chilly morning air smacks me in the face, and I shiver as I dash down the front steps.
Evan leans over a long garden planter on his hands and knees, tugging out the dying summer flowers and replacing them with purple and orange mums for the fall. He’s scattered dark potting soil everywhere.
In my new heels, I tiptoe across the dirt to reach the curb. I raise my arm, frantic to wave down a taxi. It’s the only way I’ll arrive at work on time.
“Morning, princess,” Evan says.
Stiffening at his greeting, I look over at him, even though I don’t want to. He shifts to sit on the ground, one arm draped over a bent knee. Squinting, he peers up at me, the fringe of his dark lashes nearly knitted. Golden sunlight hits his face, highlighting a smudge of dirt on his cheek.
I hoped he would leave me alone in my shame, but he wouldn’t be Evan if he did. Instead, he gives me extra attention.
He doesn’t bother hiding his longing gaze.
It starts at my ankles, pauses at the SpongeBob Band-Aid I left there, perhaps on purpose, and meanders up my legs.
I’m wearing a new pair of what Aggie would call fuck-me heels, which I also may have originally worn on purpose.
But now? I want to step into the street to move as far away from him as possible.
Instead of giving in to self-consciousness, I roll my shoulders back, lift myself higher, and take a deep breath. “Morning, Evan.”
I remain cheery. If I pretend nothing happened the other night, that I’m not affected by him, that I haven’t spent the better part of the weekend thinking about his body pressed against mine, maybe my mask will reinforce the outrageous lie.
When two taxis pass with fares, I wave a little harder, desperate for someone to rescue me.
“Did you buy that sexy new outfit for me?”
My eyes widen. Unwilling to let him win whatever this game is between us, I return the zinger, refusing to step down or lose. “No, I bought it for me.”
“Snappier than usual too. I like it,” he says with a grin. “Special occasion?”
I’ll continue this charade of confidence to put him in his place, to affirm I’m splendid, despite every inner voice screaming at me to stop.
“Oh, it’s because I just love wearing skirts on crisp days.” I throw back my shoulders and grasp the strap of my handbag.
“Why’s that?”
“I love the chilly wind whipping underneath my skirt when I’m pantyless.”
As his jaw drops, I step off the curb to meet a stopped taxi and open the back door. Before I leave, I turn my backside to him, and then glance over my shoulder. “No panty lines, see?”
I don’t wait for his response. Instead, I swing my hips into the back seat, slip my feet inside, and slam the door. Shocked at my sudden confidence, I mutter the address to the driver. He sets his meter and takes off.
Eyes glazing over, I replay our conversation in my head. An unexpected burst of frenzied laughter escapes my lips, and I cover my mouth with my hand when the driver curiously glances back in the rearview mirror.
I stare out the window, replaying Evan’s shocked expression in my mind’s eye. I took control. I pushed back. For the first time since after, I’m discovering how much fun it is to flirt, and I think I like it.