Chapter 20 #2
“I know. I’m that guy now.” I roll my eyes, and Jamie chuckles softly. I tell Anthony, “There’s sparkling water in the fridge if you want some.”
“Fancy, but no thanks.” Anthony takes a seat in the chair next to me while Jamie sits down on the couch beside me.
“I really appreciate you both bringing my stuff,” I admit, knowing it’s true.
“Especially my board, Jamie. I owe you.” Seems like I’m always in Jamie’s debt.
For letting me crash at his place, for answering my call whenever I need help, for back when we were twelve and he was the only friend who’d listen about my dad.
“Sure.” Jamie gestures at my broken leg. “How’s it going? You know, since your dramatic rescue and all.”
I smirk. “Ah yes, my Baywatch moment. Except with less slow-mo and more vomiting seawater.”
“Sexy.” Jamie laughs.
“I’m as good as can be expected, given all this.” I motion vaguely at my cast, then to the bruises mottling my ribs.
A pause stretches between us as I once again desperately search my memory and come up blank.
What happened to me?
“Still trying to piece things together.” I glance at my housemates, attempting to keep it light.
Anthony shrugs lazily. “You were wasted. Doubt you were thinking rationally.”
“You didn’t hear anything, right? Didn’t see me?” I ask Jamie.
“Sorry, man. I was pretty lit, too.” His mouth twists down at the corners.
I turn my attention to Anthony. “How about you? See or hear anything?”
“Nope, sorry.” He pauses, his eyes darting toward the balcony like something out there suddenly caught his attention. For a second, I think he’s remembering. I lean toward him, waiting, but then he just shrugs, forcing a quick grin. “Guess I was too busy trying to not puke at that point.”
I sigh, disappointed with their answers, but even more with myself. How could I have been so stupid?
I slump back into the couch and stare at the ceiling.
My ribs ache. My leg itches under the cast, and I haven’t shaved in days.
There’s a heaviness hanging around me now.
Depression flickering in my periphery. It’s always there, ever since the accident, just beneath the surface.
Waiting to slip in the second I stop pretending everything’s fine.
Anthony gets up and stalks around the condo, brushing his fingers over the potted plant on the table, flipping through the medical textbooks piled on the counter.
Something about it bothers me, watching him touch Helen’s things like he has the right to do it.
Jamie notices too—his gaze follows the movement, lips pressing into a thin line.
Finally, Anthony turns back to me. “Swanky place. I can see why you left the rest of us behind.” His tone is teasing, but there’s a resentful edge underneath.
“Hey!” I protest. “It’s not like that. I didn’t even know where Helen lived when I agreed to come here. I just knew there wasn’t any way I could manage the stairs at the Venice house, that’s all.”
Anthony shrugs, too casually. “Classic Teddy.” He aims the words at Jamie instead of me, like I’m not even in the room. “Even when he screws up, he lands ass-backwards into something better. Like this.” He sweeps his hand at the condo.
“Seriously?” I snap. “What the fuck, Anthony? What crawled up your butt?”
“What?” He throws his hands up, voice sharp. “It’s true, isn’t it? You screw around, you bail, and somehow you end up with the doctor, the condo, the—” He cuts himself off, jaw tight.
“That’s not what happened,” I argue.
“Yes, it is,” he insists. “This is how it always goes with you. Remember Willie Needlemyer and his buddies back in high school? You ran your mouth. We all got dragged into it. You came out without a scratch, and I got a black eye. Or the time we were working in that bar down by the pier, we were both hungover and late for work, but I was the one they fired. Not you.”
I start to protest, to tell him none of his bad luck was my fault, but the words dry up because…
maybe some of it was. My recklessness, my lack of responsibility, other people have paid for that.
People I care about. I never let myself see it before, but looking at Anthony’s clenched jaw now, I can’t help wondering how long he’s been keeping score.
The worst part is, he has a right to be upset with me.
That stings more than any punch Willie Needlemyer ever threw.
Maybe Gwen’s right. Maybe it really is time to grow up.
“Hey,” I say, more softly. “It’s not like it’s been all bad. Remember when you got fired, I quit too?”
“Because you hated that job,” Anthony mutters down at his feet.
“No,” I say, telling him the truth. “I didn’t want to work there without you. That’s what made that place fun. You and me, picking the playlist to blast over the speakers, making up our own drink concoctions. Remember the Anthony special? Tequila, club soda, a splash of grapefruit juice?”
The corners of his mouth twitch up. “That was pretty good.” For a second, I almost think we’ve smoothed it over, but then his eyes cut away, sharp and shuttered. Like even the good stuff is spoiled. Like it doesn’t make up for the rest.
Jamie, ever the peacemaker, throws up a hand like a ref calling a foul. “All right, kids, that’s enough trauma hour. Let’s get back to the real story here.” He jabs a finger at me, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Teddy shacking up with the doctor he’s been drooling over since last Christmas.”
“Wh—what?” I turn to him and sputter, “I had to come here. It’s not about Helen.”
“Please,” Jamie says with an exaggerated eye roll.
“I’ve known you forever. You think I wouldn’t notice how weird you’ve been?
No women. Lights off by one a.m. You used to be the guy pouring shots at sunrise and dragging speakers onto the roof.
You were my wingman, my crash-and-burn ride-or-die. Now you’re...what? Playing house?”
“I still do stuff.” Even as I say it, I know how weak it sounds.
“You go to bed early and drink tea. You’re like, a suburban dad.”
“I have to work, take classes. We’re not twenty-one anymore, Jamie.” I wince as I say it, hating how much I sound like Gwen. “Sometimes the hangovers last longer than the party these days. Don’t you ever feel like that?”
“Yeah, maybe,” Jamie says with a sigh, his tone flat. “It doesn’t always hit like it used to.”
I blink, shocked by that small admission. That was…surprisingly self-aware.
“Wow. Never thought I’d hear that from you. You’re like, the king of parties. Remember those keggers you used to throw back in high school?”
He barks out a harsh laugh. “It’s easy to party when there aren’t any adults around to tell you no.” He rubs the back of his neck.
I tilt my head, studying him. He’s been off lately, more cynical, quicker to snap, a kind of restlessness buzzing beneath his usual cool. I even asked him about it a few weeks ago, but he just brushed me off with a dismissive, “Nothing’s wrong.”
Sure. Maybe it’s nothing, or maybe he’s just really good at pretending.
He nods at the stack of medical textbooks on the counter, like they’re a physical representation of Helen. “I still say she’s part of it, how you’re different these days. I don’t get it. What do you two even do together?”
I almost tell him how Helen and I have binged five seasons of Sex and the City over the past couple of weeks, breaking it up with anime and the occasional nature documentary like we’re playing an unhinged version of TV roulette.
But that would mean explaining why she’s home so much, and I won’t divulge her secrets.
Besides, I don’t want to get into how awkward it is to sit next to a woman I’ve had sex with, a woman who now acts like that night never happened, while watching a show that’s basically hot actors hooking up in increasingly creative positions.
I’ve perfected the art of staring straight ahead, refusing to glance her way.
I don’t want to see the discomfort in her eyes.
Or, worse, indifference. I don’t want proof that I’m the only one who still thinks about that night, who remembers every touch, every moan.
“I agree with Jamie. You’ve been off ever since you got together with her.” Anthony’s arms are crossed, his tone flat but edged.
It’s hard not to feel like they’re ganging up on me. For the first time, I regret telling them about Helen. It felt natural when I did—they’re my best friends—but now the disapproval in their voices grates.
“That’s not true,” I tell them. “I still do all our usual stuff, just less. Less drinking. Less women.”
“No women,” Jamie corrects. “Haven’t seen you with anyone since. Poor Gina’s been climbing the walls trying to get your attention.” His tone stays even, but his eyes flick toward Anthony, measuring the reaction.
Anthony’s jaw tightens. He says nothing, but his knee bounces, fast, hard, restless, like his energy has to go somewhere.
I ask, “How is Gina?”
The pause that follows is too long, loaded. Anthony doesn’t look at me. Jamie’s mouth twitches like he’s debating whether to respond, but he keeps his eyes on Anthony.
“Uh…guys?”
Jamie turns to Anthony and mutters, “Tell him.”
Anthony’s gaze flicks to him, then to me. He sets his jaw and crosses his arms. “I hooked up with her. Gina.”
My mouth drops open. I blink. “No way. Seriously?”
“Yep. A few nights ago.” He ducks his head for half a second, then looks back up at me. “Thought you might be mad.”
I do a quick internal check. No anger. No betrayal. Just…nothing. “Honestly? I’m not. Not mad at all.”
Anthony’s face shifts, subtle but sharp. His brows draw together, his eyes narrowing. “Figures,” he barks out with a humorless laugh, bitter, almost wounded. He shakes his head at me, full of judgment.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I bristle at his tone.
“You’re fucking unbelievable. That’s what it means,” he sneers. “Of course you’re not mad. Why would you be? You never gave a damn about her.”
My head jerks back. “That’s not true.”