Chapter Twenty-nine
Elizabeth
“All’s hushed as midnight yet.”
The Tempest
The temperature must have dropped another ten degrees while we were inside, but I was so angry, I burned with the heat of a million suns.
I stormed up the street, grumbling about assholes and their asshole behavior.
For a heartbeat, I considered turning back to confront Evan and make him apologize, make him tell me he hadn’t meant any of it, that he was just caught up in the heat of the moment.
Was I a coward for running away instead of standing up to him?
At the corner, I spied a twenty-four-hour laundromat and ducked inside to stay warm while I ordered an Uber.
Once I had one booked, I dialed Chelsea’s number and waited while it rang.
And rang. When it dropped me to voice mail, I kicked a laundry basket, watching as it rolled away wobbly and pathetic.
I tried her number again, hoping she’d respond with the urgency I always reserved for her, but as it rolled off to voice mail again, I realized she’d probably turned off her phone to enjoy her night with Bas uninterrupted, and I cursed him for stealing my friend.
At the tone, I said, “I really, really, really need you to call me ASAP.”
As soon as I hung up, I texted her the same, then stared at my phone, willing it to ring.
But it never did. I was irrationally angry at her for failing to live up to her end of our friend contract.
It was supposed to be us against the world, but lately, her world had revolved around a Greek sun.
I wanted to be happy about that, but I felt abandoned.
I scrolled through my contacts, looking for someone else to call, but who could I talk to?
I had no other friends. Kate? Gigi? I’d never spoken to either outside of work.
Kyan? The author of my current situation?
There was nobody. I’d put all my friend eggs in the Chelsea basket, and once she made good on her plans to vamoose, I’d be left here all alone.
I’d been counting on her to chicken out, but tonight felt like a trial run, and I didn’t know what I’d do here without her. I couldn’t even process tonight’s events without her serving as my sounding board.
So I sat on a bench under fluorescent lights, drinking out of a wine bottle, alone on a Saturday night, feeling like a poor character out of a Victor Hugo novel.
Fuck that. I didn’t need Chelsea here to know exactly what she’d say. I stood up and paced the laundromat, breathing in the dryer sheet smells and talking out loud.
“Tonight went catastrophically off the rails,” I told my imaginary friend.
“Do tell,” I answered, imitating her slight Western Virginia drawl.
I retraced the entire trajectory of the night, starting from the moment we arrived. “Evan was on edge meeting all these people he used to know.”
“Because high school sucked,” imaginary Chelsea answered. She was right about that.
“But he rallied, despite the Vicky of it all. He faced down one of his tormentors, and I was so proud of the way he handled that.” The advantage of talking to a figment of my imagination was that I hadn’t told the real Chelsea everything Evan had confided in me, so I could talk openly about Patagonia Vicky.
In that moment, I’d thought a weight had lifted, that maybe Evan had faced one of his fears, and he’d let it all go.
“That’s admirable,” imaginary Chelsea conceded. “It takes a lot of courage to confront your demons.”
If the night had ended right there, I wouldn’t be standing in a laundromat, talking to myself. “But then Kyan detonated a landmine, and Evan just—” what? How was I ever going to explain this to Chelsea without her next sentence being, “Kick him to the curb.”
Imaginary Chelsea tsked. “That bomb should have been defused already.”
“Right? We’ve been over it. I’m not crazy to think he overreacted, am I?”
“You know that wasn’t even about you, right?” Chelsea would remind me, and that was true. “But there was no excuse for using you like a punching bag.”
And there it was. I’d done none of the things Evan had accused me of, and even if I had, I didn’t deserve a verbal beat down. “But I promised him grace. Should I have given him time to process?”
How much grace was I expected to give him? At a certain point, what part of his behavior was a knee-jerk trauma response, and how much was just jerk?
Imaginary Chelsea went quiet on me. And I realized I didn’t actually know if she’d identify with Evan or if she’d see him as an avatar for her dad. Victim or bully? Did his trauma excuse any of his behavior?
A horn tooted outside, and as soon as I’d slid into the backseat of the Elantra, I texted Chelsea, Never mind. I’m going to bed. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Don’t worry about me.
At least one of us should have a quiet date night.