Chapter 11 The Bullet and the Darkness
The Bullet and the Darkness
I WAS LIVING ON AND OFF WITH STACY BY THE TIME I HIT my late teenage years. She was very moody and unstable, so I was always walking on eggshells around her. But I loved her for who she was and not who I wanted her to be.
There were plenty of times when Stacy’s moms, Phyllis and Kate, would catch us climbing in or out of bedroom windows—and we were always grounded.
Her relationship with her mothers was a rocky one, but all I saw from the outside was a spoiled and rebellious kid.
Years later, I’d learn where her anger stemmed from, but it’s not my story to tell.
Phyllis was the butch of the relationship and a lot of the times she would lay the smack down on us.
She never raised a hand to me, but poor Stacy definitely had her share of ass whoopings.
One night, Phyllis was waiting and ready for us as we snuck back inside.
The minute we locked the door behind us, the light flipped on to reveal Phyllis in the living room ready for attack.
I honestly was tired of seeing Stacy get smacked around, so when Phyllis made a beeline for Stacy with her hand raised, I stood in front of her, willing to take the hit.
Before Phyllis’s hand landed, she stopped midair.
Without missing a beat, her angry fist turned into an angry pointed finger, and she screamed at us to get up the stairs.
“Hey, thanks for doing that,” Stacy said, her big eyes peering in through a crack in my bedroom door.
I smiled and put my finger to my mouth. Shhhh. I didn’t want us to get in trouble again.
Stacy and I always had a strong bond, even though she could be the biggest asshole.
There would be mornings I’d wake up and she would have taken the blow-dryer and curling iron with her just so I couldn’t use it.
Other times, if I dared to go into her closet to borrow a shirt, she would lose her mind.
But I’ll never forget the night Stacy tried to take her own life.
It’s when I realized just how badly she was hurting inside.
Stacy and the moms had been going at it again.
She had come upstairs in tears and disappeared into her moms’ bedroom for the majority of the night.
I would periodically go in to check on her and just see if she was okay because she had the TV on so loud, but every time I peeked in, she was smothered up in covers and appeared to be sleeping.
It was getting late so I went to my room to try to fall asleep—until I heard Kate screaming.
“She’s not breathing!! Call 911!”
I ran across the hall and found Kate lifting Stacy’s lifeless body off the bed. Her arms were limp, her skin was gray, and she wasn’t responding to Kate’s shrieks.
By the time the ambulance got there, Stacy was slightly coherent.
I remember her puking nonstop, but because I was so scared, my memory has blocked out the majority of that night.
By then, my brain was well accustomed to papering over the worst of my pain, and in some ways I’m thankful to my body for letting me survive.
I don’t know that I would have made it through those years if I’d been lucid.
But eventually, I’d have to face the pain head on.
I’d have to excavate and process it all—years down the line—to finally heal.
We found out later that she’d downed an entire bottle of Valium. After that night, I knew Stacy wasn’t okay—in her mind or in her heart. I told myself no matter what we have to go through as friends—even when she wasn’t always lovable—I’d love her through it. And I did.
* * *
WEEKS LATER, AFTER STACY HAD started therapy and seemed to be doing better, the moms decided to go out of town for the weekend.
Thinking we had hit the lottery, we instantly planned a huge fucking house party.
When I say huge, I mean massive. Stacy and I were known for throwing pretty amazing kickbacks at her place, and this would be no different.
We invited everyone we knew. We even printed flyers and handed them out around town. All high schools were welcome.
Come the night of the party, we had to start turning people away.
Over two hundred people showed up for ya girls.
Kids we knew from school, boys who ran with different crews, anyone who was looking for a good time or trouble walked through Stacy’s door.
And one of them was a handsome Italian boy named Mark.
Maybe I shouldn’t say “boy,” because Mark was in his twenties, and he was just about the most beautiful man I’d ever seen, with full lips and jet-black hair.
Now listen, I’ve never claimed to be a saint, but men were always my weakness.
I love love. Actually, strike that. I love lust. So any chance to have a short fling filled with twitterpation? Sign me up.
But because I’m such a Pisces Venus lover girl, I also love to ignore all the red flags that come flapping toward me.
My favorite color is red—wave those flags, boys!
We young, impressionable teens thought an older dude liking us meant we were special.
Wrong. Obviously, what happened with Jeff wasn’t enough to steer me clear.
My seventeen-year-old self jumped at the opportunity to be with this man.
This hot Italian Stallion thinks I’m the kitty’s titties? I’m in.
We flirted all night, and he told me about his big Italian family. He had two brothers and a sister who all looked like him—full of Italian pride. He even wore a spiraling Italian horn on a chain around his neck for good luck.
I’d had the abortion with Jordan and the ectopic pregnancy with Tony.
My body was still in survival mode then—I hadn’t given it any time to recalibrate or even rest. When it came to all things traumatic or painful, I’d always push forward, figuring I’d deal with the fallout later.
I hadn’t even begun to try to figure out how I really felt inside after all I’d been through.
Bill always said, “Rolling stones gather no moss,” and that’s exactly what I was doing.
I had a bad habit of overlapping relationships, and breaking hearts was all I knew. But by the time I met ol’ Mark, I was a free agent. I was ready to pounce.
He became my new toy. He wasn’t in any of the crews I knew. He was older. And the fact that he was a d-boy and a gangster had my little heart beating.
* * *
MARK RAN GAME FOR SURE. He had a slick mouth and knew exactly what to say to manipulate any situation. He was a hustler—that’s what they do.
He told me a whole story about how he’d just broken up with his crazy ex-girlfriend and was single. Ladies, word to the wise: If any man refers to his ex as crazy, it’s either him who ’s crazy or he made her crazy.
For the first few months, he would pick me up in his white Ford Explorer with tinted windows. We would go on little dates and fuck and he’d bring me back home. So cute, right? Wrong.
One day, I was at Stacy’s house and a number popped up on my pager. I called it back thinking it was Mark. It was a girl on the other end.
“Hello?”
“Hi,” I said, confused. She didn’t sound like any of my girls.
“How long have you been talking to Mark?” she asked. I could hear the sincerity in her voice. She was hurting. I could barely speak—I was stunned. This had never happened to me before.
“Probably about three or four months,” I said. “Who is this?”
“This is his girlfriend. Jess.”
I felt like I’d been punched in my stomach. Jess and I talked for a couple of hours, comparing notes, and turns out, I liked her. We agreed to meet up and confront Mark together—and ask him who he really wanted to be with.
Mark had cheated on his girlfriend with me.
I was the other woman. I’d never done that before, and I had no idea what I was getting myself into.
She offered to pick me up the next day, and wouldn’t you know, she showed up in the little white Ford Explorer with tinted windows.
That man had been driving me around in her car.
I opened the passenger-side door, and in the driver’s seat was a gorgeous blond-haired, blue-eyed girl with freckles all across her cheeks.
I couldn’t even believe he was cheating on her with me.
We had an awkward hug, but we were both checking each other out.
I don’t think either of us had any idea where this situation was going to land.
As we rolled down his street, Jess slowed down and started panicking.
They had been together for a few years, and the reality was setting in.
She parked and tried to slow her breathing.
I hugged her and said, “I’ll never talk to him again. You can drop me back off right now and I’ll lose his number.”
Her big blue eyes had tears in them.
“No,” she whispered, “because then I wouldn’t know which one of us he really wanted to be with.”
I was gutted. I was mad. Why the fuck had he put us both in this situation?
We pulled up in front of his house and my stomach filled with butterflies. Handsome as Mark was, he had a temper on him too. And he had no idea he was going to find both of us in the car.
When he got to the passenger door, I rolled the window down and we both smiled at him.
“Funny seeing you here!” we both shrieked. Mark looked like he’d seen a ghost.
“What the fuck is wrong with you bitches?” he asked. Automatic gaslighting.
“What’s wrong with us? What’s wrong with you? You’ve been cheating on me for months!” she yelled. They started going at it, screaming at the top of their lungs over me. I leaned my seat back a tad just to get out of the line of fire.
“I’m done with this shit!” Jess yelled through snot and tears. “Pick who you want to be with now!”
I glanced at her and glanced back at him. I waited for him to pick her.
“I want to be with Alisa,” he said.
My head snapped to the right to look at him fast enough to give me whiplash.