Author's Note: This chapter contains mentions or depictions of the following acts for which reader discretion is advised: dubiously consented sex, drug use, underage drinking, prostitution, and purging.
"Every habit he's ever had is still there in his body, lying dormant like flowers in the desert. Given the right conditions, all his old addictions would burst into full and luxuriant bloom." -Margaret Atwood
91 days sober
“Hello?”
“I’m in New Haven right now. Come out and play.”
There’s a vague sound of something shifting on the other end of the phone—probably books, then probably a body stretching out in bed—before Ben says, “Why are you in New Haven?”
“Just got off the train at Union Station, I was visiting James in New York,” I say, switching my phone to speakerphone and dropping it on the dashboard so that I can peel out of my parking space. It’s about a minute and a half until the clock hits one, and I am not about to pay for another hour of parking. The garage attendant makes a big deal out of scowling down at the clock, then at my ticket. I ignore him in favor of saying to Ben, “Figured I’d see if you were free before I made the drive back to Lakewood. Do you want to grab lunch?”
“Kinda just ate. Alex asked me to make lasagna last night, and we’ve got a ton of leftovers. Come over and have some of them. You eat like a fucking football player, so that should take care of about half of what’s in my fridge.”
Ben’s lasagna—the same recipe his mom uses at her catering business—is the best food in the entire world, and I would cut the throat of anyone who dared to disagree. The first time I stayed at his house for dinner last October, I took one bite and said, without thinking, “This lasagna is come-in-your-pants delicious.” Mr. McCutcheon had choked, Ben had stabbed me under the table, and all of his little sisters had wanted to know what that meant. I’m still kind of surprised that they ever let me back again, let alone allowed me to babysit the girls with Ben a few times.
Even though Ben can’t see it over the phone, I make a brief jerking-off pantomime to show my approval of this meal idea. The garage attendant shoots me a bewildered look, and I sneer at him, take my change, and pull up to the traffic light. “Alright, I’ll be there in like, two minutes. Is Alex there? ‘Cause if not, I’m stealing his space in your lot, you know I fucking hate parking on the street.”
“He’s here, but you can have my spot. My dad needed to borrow my car to pick up some donations to the store today, so as long as you’re gone by five when he gets back with it, you won’t have to park on the street.”
“Thanks, man. You’re a rockstar,” I say, and he laughs. It’s how he used to tell me I was awesome when we first met—more often than not, the announcement was followed immediately by sex, because apparently that’s all it takes to get me going. I hang up the phone and make the short drive to his building. The lot behind it is almost full, but there’s a free space next to Alex’s car. I pull into it, lock my car, and head for the front door. A woman is exiting the building just as I step around the corner, so I don’t bother to call up for permission to enter. A few floors up, the apartment door is similarly unlocked, so I let myself in.
Ben’s not in the kitchen or the living room, but Alex is set up in front of the television, playing Xbox. He barely glances up at me, but does take a second to say, “Hey, G. Didn’t know you were coming over.”
“I’m a total whore for Ben’s cooking, and he said you guys had leftovers. I was in town anyway, so I figured I’d do the martyr thing, come help you guys free up some fridge space. He in his room?” I ask, not bothering to wait for a response before I shuffle down the hall to Ben’s room. His door is slightly ajar, so I nudge it the rest of the way open with my hip. He is sprawled out on his bed, frowning down at a worn paperback and wearing his dark red reading glasses. He always looks so serious when he reads—I feel a surge of affection for the kid, which I demonstrate by crawling onto his bed with him and pressing soft kisses to his jawline. He doesn’t much react, except with a vague hum of acknowledgment. Unsatisfied with the attention I’m getting, I burrow under his arm and curl up against his side, peering at the book. “‘--the great delight that each of them had in using the other’s body.’ Sounds like my kind of book. So, you’re paying Yale how much per semester to go read erotica for credit?”
“It’s neither erotica, nor for credit. Alex is supposed to be reading this for school, and I figured he’s going to get me to proofread his paper eventually anyway, so why not refresh my memory? It’s been a few years since I’ve read it. Also, most of the book is about God.”
“God and sex?” I say.
“Sort of,” he admits. “Also, food. And illness.”
I jab a finger into his side. “Speaking of food…”
“Uh, am I your slave? Pretty sure you know where the kitchen is,” he grumbles, but he lets me haul him off the bed and joins me out to the kitchen. He ducks out from under my arm to open the fridge, tosses a tupperware container of lasagna into the microwave, and begins to heat it up. His glasses are still perched on his nose, even though he’s no longer reading; I pluck them off, fold the arms back, and slip them into the pocket of his hoodie before folding him back into my arms. He rolls his eyes, but still tucks his hands into the back pocket of my jeans as he says, “You know, you were a lot less grabby before you got clean.”
“I know. My therapist says the fact that I can show affection for people without snorting cocaine off of their naked bodies or getting my dick out means that I’m evolving,” I tell him proudly. Another eyeroll. I add, “Also, shut up, I’m a free spirit. Is my food done yet?” In answer, he reaches over and pops open the microwave door. The smell of the sauce hits me instantly, and I groan, “Oh my god, Ben. Seriously, I think I just got a little bit hard.”
“I’m sure my mom would be thrilled to hear that her recipes have such an effect on you,” Ben says dryly.
“She totally would, your mom thinks I’m so hot,” I say, dodging the swing he takes at me. “But honestly, it’s a shame you and I gave up on each other and both went after McCall, because this lasagna? This one right here? Makes me want to marry you. I mean, you cook me delicious Italian meals from scratch, you understand that sex is so much better when it leaves you with a few bruises, and you once drove ten hours to drag my drug-addled body to rehab. If that doesn’t make you husband material, I don’t know what would.”
I grab a fork out of the cutlery drawer and take a bite out of the lasagna, still in the tupperware. Ben, who has taken a plate out of the cupboard and is now just awkwardly hovering next to me with it, says, “Uh, do you plan to stop eating long enough to actually use a dish?”
I blink at him. “No? You’d just bitch at me for getting an extra dish dirty, and I’m not planning to hang around and help you load the dishwasher, so I figured this would make the whole process less irritating for both of us.”
“Garen, you didn’t say why you were in New Haven anyway,” Alex says, and I trudge back into the living room.
“I was just over at the train station, just got in. I was in New York, visiting Jamie.”
That earns me a glance. “Yeah? How is he?”
I flop down next to him on the couch, kicking my feet up onto the coffee table and digging into my container of lasagna—though Ben protests both with a growl of, “Seriously, Anderson? Are you a goddamn savage?”—as I shrug and say, “He’s good. Well, he started off good, and then he fucked some hipster chick at the club we went to, so then he was great.”
“He fucked a chick while you guys were out?” Ben says, now seated comfortably in his homework armchair and absorbed in his book again. “Wasn’t that… I don’t know. Weird?”
I snort. “Dude, it’s not like I watched. I was out back, nailing the chick’s boyfriend.” That earns another eyeroll. Annoying Ben with my lack of morals is always kind of funny to me, so I add, “Anyway, by that point, I had already had Jamie earlier in the evening. I figured it was time to share.”
Alex stills just long enough to get killed by a zombie onscreen. The level offers to start over, but Al switches it off and sets the controller down on the table. He scratches the back of his neck a bit awkwardly, then turns to me and says, “You and James still hook up?”
“Um,” I say, because that sounds a lot better than, yeah, dude, all the friggin’ time. I can only assume that he’s thinking about his own half-hearted attempts to drunkenly seduce Ben every few months. It’s… kind of pathetic, honestly. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad, if Ben didn’t still think Alex was straight. Or if Alex hadn’t reluctantly admitted to me last spring that he has feelings for Ben. Or if he hadn’t been enough of a fucking idiot to phrase it as, So, I guess I sort of like Ben. Or whatever. God, stop looking at me like that. And because I’m an asshole, but also because I try to be a good friend and help my buddies out when they’re too lame to make their own moves, I smile widely at him and say, “Best friend sex is always pretty great, ‘cause the other dude already knows all your turn-ons, even if he doesn’t realize it. For example, back when I was at Patton, I had no idea I would be into roleplay, until Jamie pointed out that I’ve had a crush on one of my teachers almost every year since I was like, ten. He put on a suit and his reading glasses and gave me detention, which involved significantly more oral sex than any actual detention I’ve ever gotten. It was really fucking hot. Maybe you and Ben should try that.”
“Student-teacher roleplay?” Ben says, not looking up from his book.
I have to resist the urge to go over and cuff him upside the head. “The best friend sex thing.”
“I’d kind of rather just do the roleplay part,” Ben says. When my only response is to glare at him, he finally looks up, exasperated, and says, “What am I supposed to say? ‘Yeah, you’re right, I should have sex with my straight best friend?’ ‘Hey, Al, put it in me?’”
I look over at Alex, mainly to see if he looks a little bit titillated by the offer, but he’s still just looking at me with something close to hesitation in his eyes. He obviously wants to say something, so I make a vague spit it out gesture. He coughs. “Do you guys hook up a lot?”
“Who, me and this sarcastic piece of shit?” I say, jerking my thumb towards Ben. “Not since last October. Well, December, I guess, if we’re going to count making out as—”
“Not you and Ben,” Alex interrupts. “You and uh, James. Do you guys hook up often?”
I shrug once more. “I mean, it’s all relative. It’s not like we fucked last night or anything, I just gave him head. Other than that and one handjob after I got kicked out, we haven’t done anything since I left Patton. So, recently, no, we haven’t been hooking up often. But before I moved here, it was like… a couple times a week, unless one of us was exclusive with somebody—”
“Define ‘a couple,’” Alex cuts across me again, and now I’m starting to get annoyed, because how is this his business? “Do you mean once or twice? Or—”
“No, I mean that if I wasn’t practicing with my band, he wasn’t at lacrosse practice, and we were both in our dorm room at the same time, odds are really good that I was in him. Why do you care?” I say sharply.
His response is a very blunt, “I don’t,” followed immediately by straight-up silence. I glance over at Ben, who is dutifully reading, clearly unwilling to participate in this sudden and confusing bitch fit. I look back at Alex. The way he’s looking at me is making me feel a little uncomfortable, so I break the tension by forcing a forkful of lasagna into his mouth. He rolls his eyes and bats me away, but swallows it anyway. Mouth empty once more, he mutters, “It’s like you’re five, man.”
“Nah, I’m way cooler now than I was when I was five.”
Ben snorts. “I can’t even picture you as a little kid, to be honest. I’m just seeing you as you are now, only two and half feet tall, without the lip ring, and wearing way smaller combat boots.”
I laugh along with him and Alex, but there’s a pinch of embarrassment in my stomach. Sometimes, I forget that my parents are the only people in my life who actually know what a loser I was when I was a kid. It’s not like any of my friends realize that the things that make me Garen now—my recklessness, my impatience, my inability to sit still, my unreasonably active sex drive, my penchant for singing at random moments, my addictions, my flaws—are all the same things that used to make me some mostly-friendless dork in Ohio. They’ve all been fortunate enough to miss the “before,” but they’re all so familiar with the “after.” Me, after I lost my virginity, and formed an alt rock band, and started getting high—freshman year. Me, after I got pretty into drinking, and got better at pulling pranks without getting caught, and got my ass kicked enough times to get good at fighting—sophomore year. Me, after I got my semi-signature, spiked and ironed haircut, and bought the Testarossa, and gave up on normal dating—junior year. Me, showing up in Lakewood, seducing my own stepbrother, setting school property on fire, rocking out at coffee house open mic nights, partying like a rockstar, and burning out, hard and fast, violent and pretty.
The problem, I guess, is that I don’t know who I’m supposed to be, if I’m not the Garen they know, the one who’s all about sex, drugs, and rock and roll. I don’t know what’s left of me.
92 days sober
Monday’s late evening rehearsal is so much better than the read-through, up until it’s not. Once we’ve all gathered together in the auditorium, Nate does his best to get us to shut up—Ms. Markland seems to be our leader in title only, because she’s nowhere to be found, which means absolutely no one is bothering to give a shit what Nate has to say. He tries to silence us for almost two full minutes, getting progressively pissier, until I get bored of watching him pout. I let my head loll back and say, very loudly to the ceiling, “Can you all just shut the fuck up for five minutes so Holliday can talk? Jesus Christ. No wonder I hated this place enough to just stop showing up last year.”
The silence is broken only by a laugh that someone tries to disguise with a cough. I glance over my shoulder, even though I already know who I’m going to see grinning at me. Travis is seated a few rows back with a handful of the other people who have agreed to do stage crew. He shoots me something akin to a smirk, but then his eyes are flickering off to the side, like someone else is trying to get his attention. I turn in time to see Joss lowering her hand from a small wave, then look back to see Travis biting back a smile. I slump down in my seat and look at Nate, who is watching me with thankful eyes. I scowl and say, “You know, a desire to hear my own voice wasn’t the only reason I said that. Are you going to fucking talk to us, or are you just going to stand there all evening?”
“Oh. Yeah, I’m going to, um… thanks,” he says, like that makes any goddamn sense. He takes a deep breath, then addresses the group at large, “So, as you all know, today is the first day of our consistent rehearsals. I want to make these next few week as productive as possible, so here’s what we’re going to do. For the next three weeks, we’re going to split into two groups. All of the cast members who are playing named characters will be doing script work on Mondays and Wednesdays, and music on Tuesdays and Thursdays. People who are in the chorus will be doing music on every day except Thursdays, when you’ll be helping the crew with set construction and stuff. After this first month, we’re going to start doing full scene rehearsals and choreography. Is everybody clear on that?”
There’s a general murmur of assent; like a good military schoolboy, I salute him. He dismisses us to work in smaller group, or pairs, or whatever. I should probably find Christine, the girl I’ve got most of my scenes with, but I assume that she’ll be working with Joss, since their characters—Dani and Nikki—are supposed to be best friends, or whatever.
I’ve barely had time to fish my script out of my bag when Nate pops up in front of me, saying, a little too eagerly, “Do you want help running your lines?”
“Uh,” I say, trying to find a more humane way of saying back the fuck off. “I think I’m actually going to just find someplace quiet to read through everything by myself, if that’s cool? I wanna try like, getting in the headspace of my character.”
He smiles, all white teeth and dimples. “How method of you.”
“It is,” I agree, because I’m not sure what else to say. Rather than continue to engage in conversation, I duck backstage to find someplace to hide. It’s quiet here; I can barely hear my castmates’ muffled voices through the thick velvet curtain. It’s nice. Behind the second curtain, a huge scaffold is set up, presumably to work on painting the background. I curl my hands over the side of it and give it a testing shake to make sure it will support my weight. It doesn’t move, so I climb up it. The top level makes for a perfect little reading nest. I curl my legs up under myself and prop my script open on my lap. The truth is, I’ve barely bothered to read through my lines so far. I’ve highlighted them all, I’ve glanced at most of my big scenes, and I’ve downloaded both of the songs I’m singing lead on to my iPod—a gender-switched “There Are Worse Things I Could Do,” and a completely unchanged and now much more offensive “Sandra Dee”—but that’s kind of it. There are still weeks left until I need to even get rid of my script, so why start freaking out over it now? But whatever. I took the part, I might as well read through it when my director tells me to.
“Do you mind if I ask you something personal?”
For a second, I think that the question is directed towards me. I look around, only to see that the speaker is Joss, standing in the right wing and slowly circling the rumpled pile of canvas that we’ve been told to spread out before any set painting. I open my mouth to respond, but the sound catches in my throat when I see Travis—my Travis, Travis McCall—stepping away from the shadow of the curtain. He sits down on the wooden bench and swings one leg over it so he’s straddling it. “Yeah, go ahead.”
Joss sits down across from him, but the bench is really only built for one person. Her knees are knocking against his. What the fuck, where is her concept of personal space? The edges of my script are slicing tiny papercuts into my palms because I am gripping it too tightly. I set it down on the scaffolding next to me, smooth my palms across my thighs, and try not to move enough to make my presence known.
“How do you know you’re really gay?” Joss asks.
Travis laughs. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you and I have been going to the same school for years now, and I never saw you show any interest in another guy until last year. Obviously you dated Garen in secret, and everybody knows you went to prom with what’s-his-name. Ben?” Travis nods once. Joss shrugs, a half-smile playing at the corner of her mouth, as though that makes up for the fact that she’s being really rude right now. “Of course, it’s your life, so you’d know better than anyone else what you are. But, like… Gabe says you’re gay. Garen says you’re gay. Everybody says you’re gay. But I’ve never heard you say you’re gay. So, I guess what I’m asking is… are you?”
For a very long moment, Travis just blinks at her, though perhaps not in the offended way he should be. He’s blinking at her in that slow, thoughtful sort of way he has about him, the same as when he’s choosing the wording of his response to an open-ended question on a study guide. Finally, he says, “I can’t remember anyone asking me that without already assuming they knew the real answer. Look… Garen was the first person I ever fell in love with. He’s always going to be that, no matter how much of a pain in the ass he might be now.”
My heart constricts painfully.
He continues, “Garen and I only really dated for about two months, until he left for New York. Ben and I dated for four—it wasn’t just prom, it was a legitimate relationship, and I loved him. So, I don’t think you’re going to be too surprised when I say that I slept with both of them, multiple times. And hey, maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t think that falling in love and having sex with other guys is something that straight people are known for. I like guys, Joss.”
“I know that,” she says, laughing. She has a great smile; that makes things so much worse. “I’m not trying to say you’re straight, not at all. Of course you like guys. I’m just wondering if maybe you like girls, too.”
No, I am bellowing at him in my head, willing him to say the words aloud. No, no, no. He does not like girls, too. He likes boys. He’s gay, completely, unequivocally gay. He isn’t interested, so stop it, stop it, stop it. Leave him alone. But Travis isn’t saying any of those things out loud. He isn’t saying anything at all, he’s just staring at Joss, smile gone. I’m shaking so hard that I’m worried the scaffolding is about to collapse underneath me.
Joss says, “Do you think I’m pretty?”
It feels like a trick question, because she is. I don’t want her to be, but she’s pretty, anyone can see that, even a guy who isn’t interested in women. And Travis isn’t a liar, so she already knows what she’s about to hear.
“Yes,” he says. His voice cracks.
I know that Joss is going to kiss him before she actually does it, and I think he knows, too. Still, I can’t convince myself to look away, can’t even blink until she has leaned forward and brushed her lips against his. He doesn’t kiss back, but he doesn’t pull away. His eyes are closed, and his eyebrows have drawn together, as though he’s in pain, or he’s confused.
Please pull away from her. Please stop doing this to me.
Joss is the one to break the kiss. I’m not expecting that. Neither is Travis; when she leans back, he follows her almost involuntarily, and has to catch himself by bracing one hand on the bench between them. His eyes are still closed. From my place in the scaffolding above them, I can barely hear her when she whispers, “I hope that was okay. Ever since we started talking last week, I’ve just thought you seemed like a really great guy. I thought maybe you were interested, but didn’t know how to bring it up because everybody thinks you’re gay. If I’ve been misreading everything, you can tell me, and I’ll—”
Travis hooks his hands under her bent knees and drags her across the bench towards him so that she is seated on his lap, her thighs on either side of his hips. This kiss is so much more frenzied, so much more desperate than the last, with her arms twined around his neck, and his hands shifting against her waist. I have only ever seen Travis kiss one person, other than myself, but at least seeing him kiss Ben was bearable. At least those kisses were brief, or chaste, or—more often than not—a wordless thank-you for Ben dragging me back from my latest attempt to escape myself. At least I never had to see Travis dip a hand under the back of Ben’s shirt to palm at the small of his back, like he’s doing to Joss right now. I never had to watch Ben knot his fingers in Travis’ hair and tug it hard enough to make Travis’ breathing hitch.
If I have to keep watching this, I’m going to be sick. Moving as quickly but silently as possible, I stuff my rolled-up script into my back pocket, stand, and make my way to the other end of the scaffolding. Once I’m sure I’m out of sight, I climb down and cross the stage, nearly stumbling over my own boots as I cut through the left wing. Just outside of the stage door, I collide with Nate, who visibly brightens. “Hi, Garen. Do you have any questions about the script?”
“No, Nate, the script is perfect,” I say, flashing him a brief and incredibly forced smile. He glows. I have to clear my throat before I can speak again. “Listen, I’m not really feeling well. I know I’m supposed to be staying here a while longer, running lines with people, whatever. Do you mind if I cut out early instead? I promise I’ll stay late tomorrow.”
“O-Oh. Yeah, that’s fine. Um, if you stay late tomorrow, you might end up just running your lines with me, instead of Christine. But I’d be happy to hang back, spend some more time with you. I mean, so you’re sure you have everything under—”
“That’s fine,” I cut him off. I don’t have time to deal with his painfully obvious crush on me, or whatever ideas he’s suddenly entertaining about us cozying up together over a script. He looks a little sheepish, clearly realizing his enthusiasm is misplaced, so I offer him another smile and beg off with another complaint about not feeling well. Snatching my backpack off the seat I left it on, I barrel out into the hallway, already pulling out my cell phone and selecting the first safe number in my contacts list.
Alex picks up on the last ring before voicemail. “Hey, I can’t talk long. I’m supposed to be in class, just stepped into the hall.”
“What time do you get out?” I ask.
“Not until ten thirty. It’s my once-a-week, three-hour political science class. Why, what’s up?”
“I’m suddenly having an incredibly shitty day, and I need something to take my mind off things. Can I come over after your class?” I ask. I pull the phone away from my ear to check the clock on it— nine thirty. An hour. I can put up with an hour.
Alex says, “Yeah, that’s totally fine. But right after class, I have a chapter from the textbook that I need to photocopy in the library, because I’m too cheap to buy my own textbook. I’ve just been using the one on reserve in the library. I probably won’t get back to the apartment until eleven, but Ben’s there now. I think he got out of class at six? Just head on over, I doubt he’s doing anything.”
I have to practically bite back a gasp of relief. When I can speak, I say, “Thanks. Seriously, Alex, thank you.”
“No problem,” he says slowly. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie, “I’ll see you in a few hours, I’m leaving rehearsal now.””
Once outside, I lock myself in the Testarossa, turn the radio up as high as it will go, and peel out of the parking lot, gunning it out of Lakewood. At my first red light, I text my dad to say, I’m heading to Alex’s now, might end up staying over. Don’t wait up. See you later. My high school is only half an hour from downtown New Haven, maybe ten minutes more with traffic. With Ben already parked and Alex coming home in a few hours, there’s nowhere behind the building for me to park, and I’m still wary about parking an eighty thousand dollar Ferrari at a meter, so I pay ten bucks to park in a private lot three blocks over. It’s still only a few minutes after ten. I dig a semi-crushed pack of cigarettes out of my backpack and light one as I set off down the street in the direction of their building.
The image of Travis and Joss and their awful, frantic kissing is still burned into my mind. It makes no sense. Why would he suddenly decide he wants Joss, of all people? Why would he kiss a girl? She’s right, he never explicitly told me he was gay, but he never told me he was bisexual, either. I was there. I remember how disinterested he was in Blaire Kennedy, especially when she tried to kiss him at their pathetic ring dance last fall. Even after I left, he didn’t go off and find a girlfriend. He found Ben, he found a guy, not a girl. Why is he suddenly interested in Josslyn?
Halfway down the block, the door to a pizza parlor swings open and three girls in sky-high heels tumble out. One of them—a brunette in a glittery dress—almost eats it, but her friend—a blond in shorts and some weird, sparkly top—hauls her upright at last minute, hissing, “Jesus, Amanda, keep your shit on lock. We’re not going to get in if they can tell we’re drunk already.”
“It’s fine, ‘s none of their business,” the brunette, Amanda, slurs. I can’t stop an eyeroll. Even at the worst part of my addictions, I could at least stay upright. But Amanda keeps talking, props herself up on the blond’s shoulder and says, “Besides, everybody knows New Haven clubs totally serve underage people. It’s fine!”
Christ.
Before I’m quite aware of why I’m doing what I’m doing, I jog a few steps closer and say, “Excuse me. Ladies, can I ask you a question?”
The third girl, the second brunette, seems to be the only sober one. She gives me a once-over, smiles, and says, “Of course. What’s up?”
“Well, I’m not really from around here,” I say, flashing her my most bashful smile. She melts. “I couldn’t help but overhear your friend just now. Do the clubs around here really not card people?”
“Oh, they definitely card people to get in,” she says, shrugging. “They check IDs at the door to make sure you’re over eighteen, and if you’re over twenty-one, you get a stamp or a wristband, depending on the place. But once you’re actually in the door, the bartenders barely care at all, and the shot servers care even less. My boyfriend, Steve? His roommate dragged us all to this crazy gay bar one time, and I straight up told one of the shot boys that I’m only nineteen, but he was like, ‘‘So? I’m not your mom, it’s not my job to tell you what to do.’ If you go to the right places, you can drink as much as you want, and as long as you’re not passing out or throwing up, nobody cares how old you are.”
How did I not know about this? How is it possible that I’ve spent almost a month coming to visit Alex and Ben in their apartment here, but I’ve never once felt the aching temptation that’s rolling in my gut now? I force a smile, give the girls my thanks, and edge past them, setting off down the street once more. My cigarette has burned away to ash now; I smash it against my boot sole. Only two blocks between me and my friends’ apartment now. It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.
I turn a corner and skid to a stop. Halfway down the block—the official halfway point between my car and Alex’s apartment—an imposing black metal door is propped open and draped with a rainbow flag. Dance music is thudding violently out from within the club, and a few people are lined up outside, having their IDs checked by a large man with a bushy mustache. That must be it, the club the girl mentioned; it’s not like there can really be that many gay clubs in a city this size. It’s not New York, or anything.
This is the type of thing that Ryan is constantly warning us about in our meetings. This is the kind of temptation that seems bearable, that seems easy enough to get through, until we’re in the thick of it. Until it’s too late to escape. But I can’t not know. I can’’t not at least check it out. Even with all of my better instincts screaming at me to keep walking until I get to Ben’s, I dig into my pocket, pull out my driver’s license, and join the end of the line to get into the club. The bouncer checks my ID, scribbles a large X across each of my hands, and says, “Ten bucks cover.” I pass him a bill, he waves me into the building.
The club is almost pitch-black, lit only by the glow of strobe lights and beer signs above the bar. God, the bar. There must be at least a hundred bottles against the back wall, and now I feel like I can’t breathe. Against the far wall, a door is open, and beyond it, I can see what seems to be a smoking courtyard. I edge through the club—surprisingly crowded for ten o’clock on a Monday night—and out into the courtyard. Thirty or so people are scattered about, drinking, smoking, laughing. A few of the guys give me vaguely appraising looks, one actually touches my wrist and murmurs a soft, “How are you?” I shoulder past him and slump against a bare stretch of brick wall.
This was so stupid. I have no idea what I’m doing here, but I know this isn’t healthy. I know I should be anywhere else. I extract another cigarette from my pack and move to dig my Zippo out of my front pocket, but someone flicks a Bic in front of me. I lean into it, take one long drag from my cigarette, then glance at the man now pocketing the lighter. He’s older than a lot of the other people here, but not old old. Mid-thirties, maybe. He’s fit, but his smile is kind of creepy. He extends a hand. “Hello, beautiful. I’m Scott.”
“Garen,” I say.
He seems much more intrigued by that than necessary. “That’s a great name. Is it Irish?”
“Yeah,” I say, even though it’s actually Armenian. In an ideal world, he would realize I’m not interested and go away. In this world, however, he slips a hand into his pocket and removes a ten dollar bill. In a surprising show of balls for such an average-looking guy, he takes a step closer and folds the bill over the top of my jeans, his fingers lingering over my belt buckle. He moves even closer to murmur, “Can I buy you a drink, Garen?”
Oh, Jesus. Yes, yes, you can buy me all the drinks. But I’m a better man than that. I am ninety days sober; I’m not going to fuck that up because some random guy in a club wants to get in my pants. I stub out the cigarette and say, “Sorry, I’m only eighteen.”
“I won’t tell,” Scott says, shrugging.
“Alright, then, sorry, I don’t drink.” My tone must be enough to dissuade him from the drink idea, but it’s not enough to dissuade him from the hook-up idea. Without any further comment, he ducks down and presses his lips to mine. Whatever. I’ve kissed people I was less interested in for worse reasons than boredom and loneliness, so I stay there, slumped against the bricks and letting him roll his tongue around in my mouth for a few minutes. It’s not doing anything for me, but I’m not surprised. I guess I’m not like Travis; I can’t just let a veritable stranger kiss me and be practically dry-humping them in a few seconds. After a while, though, Scott makes a grab for my crotch, and I knock his hand away.
“If you’re trying to get anything more than a kiss, it’s going to cost you a lot more than that ten you stuffed down my jeans,” I mutter.
It’s meant to be a joke, even if it’s said in monotone, but Scott pulls back enough to give me another appraising look. He reaches back into his pocket and folds a twenty over the ten. I don’t move. A beat, and then he folds a second twenty over the first. I still don’t move, and then he brushes his lips over my earlobe to whisper, “I’m not looking to fuck anybody tonight. But I wouldn’t turn down head, for that.”
I blew Dave in exchange for beatings and a coma.
I blew Seth for a line of cocaine.
How is fifty dollars any worse?
My answering shrug must count as consent, because just inside of a minute later, I’m on my knees in a bathroom stall, watching Scott roll a condom on before he shoves himself into my mouth. It’s not the first time I’ve blown a stranger, and I doubt it will be the last, but right now, even with this guy not bothering to stifle his groans as he fucks my throat, all I can think about is Travis. Did he come to his senses and take back the kiss? Or is he still kissing Joss right now? Has he taken her home, is he touching her, is he going to fuck her, is he going to fall in love with her and forget all about me and leave me here, in New Haven, blowing strangers for money? Fuck that. If he can move on, if he can fool around with some stranger without a single thought to how it might impact me, I can do the same thing.
Or, at the very least, I can make sure that this man gets his money’s worth.
I nudge Scott back against the stall door and pin his hips in place. Even after sucking Jamie on Saturday, I’m a little out of practice with giving head. By the time I relax my throat enough to swallow down his entire length, he’s already babbling above my head. One hand fisted in my hair, he mutters, “That’s right, just like that. God, you’re so fucking sexy.”
And it’s pathetic, but this piece of shit, this sleazy, disgusting man who pays barely-legal boys for sex in public restrooms—he’s the first guy besides Jamie who has called me sexy since I ended things with Travis. Seth was content to call me a cheap piece of ass, a filthy, drug-addicted slut. Dave didn’t call me much of anything, not once he realized how eager I was to get back together with someone who would hurt me the way I needed. What’s his name—Patrick, from the bar in New York, didn’t have to say a word, he just needed to pass his girlfriend along to Jamie first. And this guy may be paying me, he may be a stranger, but at least he wants me right now.
With one last grunt, Scott empties himself into the condom. Before he even has time to remove it, I stand, brush the grime off the knees of my jeans, and leave the stall. I take a few quick swallows of water from the sink, trying to get the taste of latex off my tongue; I don’t acknowledge Scott as he washes his hands next to me, or when he leaves the bathroom. For several long minutes, all I do is stand at the sink, my hands braced on the side, my eyes locked on my reflection.
Then, from behind me, I hear hushed voices in another of the stalls, then a loud sniff. I freeze. One of the people makes a soft comment to the other, there’s a break for chuckling, and then another sniff. I can’t do this, not now. I can’t be here, I can’t do what I just did, I can’t have that in the stall right behind me and not--
I spin around and knock very gently on the stall door. One of the guys inside immediately shushes the other, loudly and unnecessarily. Like I can’t hear them? Like his attempts to silence his buddy did anything other than draw more attention to them? But the bathroom is still empty except for us, so I say, quietly, “How much for a bump?””
“We don’t know what you’re talking about,” one of the men says, affecting a shrill, obviously fake accent, for reasons I can’t figure out. His friend giggles madly. The man adds, “There’s no one in here! Sorry!”
“I’m not an idiot, I’m not a club employee, and I’m not a cop,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut. “I just need some blow.”
“Honey, it sounds like you already just got some blow,” says the man, dropping the accent. He cracks the stall door, peers out at me, then grabs my arm and drags me in. There are two men—one’s a ginger, and the other’s a short Puerto Rican, both closer to my age than Scott was. The Puerto Rican gives me a once-over. “Five bucks a bump, ten for a line.”
“How ‘bout I give you a twenty instead, and you make it a long line?” I say. He blows me a kiss and plucks one of the twenties from the waistband of my jeans. I hold my hand out flat, palm facing down, and allow the ginger to tap a decent amount of cocaine from a small plastic bag. Using my driver’s license, I cut the coke into a line that stretches from the base of my little finger diagonally across to the base knuckle of my thumb.
“Cheers!” the Puerto Rican says brightly. The last thing I need right now is for half my nose to feel fine and the other half to be numb, like I’m some sort of fucking stroke victim, so I snort the line in two halves, first into my left nostril, then the right. And I know I shouldn’t be able to feel it yet, I know it takes about a minute to start to feel the full buzz, but I swear, the second it’s in me, I’m gone.
“Oh, fuck,” I gasp, closing my eyes again and falling back against the side of the stall.
“Easy, honey,” says the Puerto Rican, clearly amused. “You new to this, or something?”
“No,” I whisper. “I just haven’t had any since before I went into rehab last June.”
Neither of the men seems to know how to react to that, and that’s fine, because I don’t care what their reactions are. I let myself back out of the stall and pause to check my nose in the mirror, just to make sure there’s no powder left on my face before I leave. Just outside the door to the bathroom, a shot boy, wearing nothing but a pair of hotpants and a pair of Chucks, saunters past me. On one hand, he balances a tray carrying a rack of shots in test tubes.
When it rains, it pours. Right now, it looks like it’s time to splash around in the puddles.
I follow the shot boy back out into the courtyard, because really, what’s the point of pretending that this night can be salvaged? What’s the point of pretending sobriety is even an option for me anymore? There are a few iron garden tables set up, each surrounded by a couple of chairs. The shot boy pauses next to one of the tables where three people—two dark-haired men and a woman with long blond hair—are sitting, and asks them, “Do you guys want shots?”
Before they can respond, I sling an arm around his shoulders and ask, “How much for the entire tray?”
He laughs. “Two bucks a shot, and I’ve got fifteen here.”
“Perfect,” I say, transferring the remaining thirty dollars from my pants to his and lifting the tray straight out of his hands.
“A boy after my own heart,” exclaims one of the men at the table. “Sure can drink, for a kid.”
The other man is frowning. “I wanted one of those.”
I shrug and swing a leg over the remaining chair at their table, sitting down so I’m straddling the back of it. I place the tray on the center of the table and say, “Knock yourself out, man. It’s not like it’s even my money that paid for it.”
“Whose was it?” the drinker asks, punctuating his question by taking one of the shots.
“Just some guy I blew in the bathroom,” I say. That remark earns a smirk from the blond woman, but she still says nothing, just takes a long drag off the cigarette pinned between her fingers.
The first shot tastes like regret, and self-loathing, and shame, but the second one tastes like coming home. They’re somehow sickly sweet and a little bit sour at the same time—Kamikazes, I think. I slip the empty test tube back onto the rack, toss back another, and another, and another. By my fifth, the man who isn’t drinking reaches out and grips my wrist. “You sure you can handle drinking that much, kid?”
“I’m not a kid, and yes,” I say shortly.
Ignoring his friend, the drinker extends a hand to shake mine. “It’s mighty generous of you to share your drinks with us. My name’s Charlie. This is Mike, and that’s Stohler.”
“Pleasure to meet you all,” I say. I take another shot, swallow, pause, and add, “My name’s Garen. Garen Anderson.”
By now, I can really feel the coke, and it feels absolutely delicious. All I want is to stay in this chair, talking to these people, and drinking, and I can’t think of any reason not to, so I do. Mike tells me a little more about the club, and the owners, and the shot boys, and the area, and Charlie launches into a story about his day. I flirt shamelessly with both of them, and within ten minutes—twenty minutes? More?—they’re both practically melting every time I open my mouth. Everything I say seems to amuse them, or fascinate them, or give them boners, I don’t know, and I’m worried that I’m starting to come down from the coke, but I’m even more worried because why did I ever stop? Everything about this feels flawless.
Eventually, though, Charlie and Mike both excuse themselves to the bathroom—most likely to talk about me and debate the chances of at least one of them going home with me—and I find myself alone at the table with Stohler. She still hasn’t spoken, but now, around a mouthful of smoke, she says, “So, Garen.” My name rolls off her tongue in what might be sarcasm. I wonder if she thinks it’s a fake name. “You must have had one hell of a rough day at the office to show up and drink like that.”
I shrug. I wonder if those guys with the coke are still in the bathroom. “There is no office. Just school.”
“Where do you go to school?” she asks.
“Lakewood High School. It’s about three towns over,” I say. Her eyebrows shoot towards her hairline, so I shrug again. “I’m a senior. Supposed to be a freshman in college, actually, but I was expelled last spring, so I’m repeating my senior year now. I’m eighteen. It’s legal for me to be here.”
“Yeah, it is legal,” she says slowly. I watch as she stubs out her cigarette in the ashtray on the table, and she watches me watch her. For a very long moment, I feel as though she’s just sitting there, undressing me with her eyes in a completely nonsexual way. It’s like she’s digging into my brain and reading all my worst thoughts, and she must be, because eventually, she says, “Tell me what happened to you.”
I force a shrug; my muscles feel stupid, and it takes a little more effort than it should. “It was just a bad day.”
“I don’t mean today,” she says, lighting one cigarette that she hands to me, then lighting another for herself. “I mean, tell me what happened to you to make you look so utterly fucked about your entire life.”
I laugh. “That’s going to be a long story.”
“What, like you’ve got somewhere else to be?” I really, really don’t. The two guys come back at that moment and move to sit down, but Stohler snaps her fingers at them and flicks her wrist. “I’m sorry, we’re having a discussion here. Thank you for your company this evening. I’ll see you around.”
I’ve never seen anyone but me or Jamie dismiss people so casually. They must be used to it, however, because they slink away, scowling but unsurprised. Not entirely sure whether I’m talking to her or myself, I say, “You should be nicer to your friends.”
“They’re not my friends. They’re just some idiots I know. I don’t… really do the friend thing. Not well, anyway.” She sucks on the end of her cigarette. “You must not, either, or you’d be with them now, instead of sitting here drinking with strangers.”
Choosing my words as carefully as I can, I say, “I have friends. But they don’t know that I’m here, because they don’t really like me drinking. I’m supposed to be hanging out with them now, but… whatever. I don’t know. I’m going to head out, I’ll just go sleep in my Testarossa.”
I manage to make it out of the club and halfway down the block to the lot where I’m parked before I realize that I’m being followed. Turning around feels like it would be incredibly hard right now, so instead, I lean against a building and wait for whoever’s stalking me to just…… I don’t know. Catch up and kill me?
“You’re an idiot,” the girl, Stohler, says by way of greeting. I just stare blankly back at her. She rolls her eyes and hooks an arm through mine, pulling me away from the wall. “Come on. You said you drive a Testarossa? No way am I letting some shitfaced high schooler near a Ferrari. I live five minutes from here, you can sleep on my couch.”
She’s a total stranger, but it’s not like it matters. I’ve let weirder people take me home before. I slump against her side and let her guide me down the street.
Zero days sober
The alarm on my phone goes off at six thirty, as always. For the first time since rehab, I wake up in a room I don’t recognize. It only takes a breath for the hangover to hit me full-force, followed immediately by the realization of everything that transpired the night before.
Oh fuck.
“Rise and shine!” chirps a voice from about twenty feet away. I blink around—fuck, this room is so bright. Some girl with dark bobbed hair is drinking tea and smiling sunnily at me from a nearby kitchen table.
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. I clear my throat and try again, “Is this your place?” My voice is hoarse, which I guess is what I get for letting strangers fuck my throat in public restrooms. The girl nods. I cough again. “Do I know you?”
“Nope. My name’s Angie. One of my roommates brought you back last night,” she says.
“Do I know your roommate?” I ask. There’s a vague blur of a woman in my head, but I can’t remember much beyond that. Some blond hair, maybe. Cigarettes and a short dress.
The girl shrugs. “I don’t know. I hope so? Sara, Meagan, and I are always telling Lindsey not to bring randoms back. Like, she doesn’t really have friends, so the guys she brings back are hardly ever here a second time. Pretty sure she just lets them do her and then never talks to them again.”
She’s giving me a pointed look, so I bury my face under a throw pillow and say, “I like men, so I doubt I came back here to do your roommate. And I don’t know anyone named Lindsey, so uh… I really have no idea why I’m here.”
“You’re here because your car was way too awesome for me to let you wrap it around a tree in a drunk driving accident,” says a second girl, walking out of a room to my left and sweeping her long blond waves up into a messy ponytail. The tiny black dress and stripper heels she was wearing last night have been replaced with denim shorts, flip-flops, and a Poison t-shirt. She hitches her chin at me and says, “Hey, kid. You remember my name?”
“Stohler,” I say, only remembering the name as it rolls off my tongue. “Lindsey Stohler, apparently. Yeah. Thanks for letting me crash here.”
“No problem. What time do you have school?”
I check the time on my phone. Six thirty-five. “In like, an hour and half.”
“I’ll walk you back to your car. But first, go shower. You smell like a fucking brewery. I’ll try to find a t-shirt that’ll fit you.”
The odds of that working out are slim; out of her heels, she’s five nine or so, and maybe a hundred and twenty pounds. Rather than argue, I roll off the couch and slowly drag myself upright. God, my head. “Holy shit, I’m so hungover. Do you care if I go jam my fingers down my throat in your bathroom so I can get some of this fucking booze out of my system?”
She’s silent for a beat too long before she says, “Knock yourself out. Bathroom’s through there.”
I stagger through the door she has indicated. A shower won’t really help—the dirtiest parts of me are all inside, anyway—but it might give me time to figure out what I’m going to do. While I’m waiting for the water to heat up, I kneel down in front of the toilet and stick two fingers as far down my throat as I can manage. What I really need is to get what’s left of the vodka and triple sec out of my stomach so I’ll stop feeling so foul, but my lack of a gag reflex is definitely working against me right now. It’s only through a very purposeful combination of pressing my middle finger to the very back of my tongue and remembering the horrible events of last night that I manage to make myself vomit and yes, an empty stomach does give me a slightly clearer head. Grimacing, I flush the toilet and climb into the shower to scrub myself raw.
I’m not sure how long I spend in there, but it must be a while. There are like, six thousand different bottles of shampoo, body wash, and face wash, and what the fuck is “invigorating apricot scrub”? What part of your body could you possibly want to scrub to the point where it feels invigorated? Even after washing my hair, face, and body, I’m still not ready to face the world, so I settle for sitting down in the tub and watching my fingers turn progressively more prune-like. Eventually, though, when my skin is burning red from the heat of the water and I can hear Stohler and her roommate bitching at each other in the living room, I turn the water off and step out to dry myself.
When I step out into the living room wearing just my jeans, Angie stops sniping at Stohler and blinks at my chest. Unfazed, Stohler tosses me a still-folded thrift store Sex Pistols shirt. I pull it on, locate my boots by the door, and follow her out off the building. The sunlight is blinding enough that my stomach starts to roll again, but there’s nothing left in my body to throw up, so I settle for whining, loudly and at length. Stohler watches in unimpressed silence from behind a pair of white Wayfarers. Only once we have made it back to the lot where my car is parked does she twirl the end of her ponytail around her fingers and say, “You know, you never did get around to telling me what had you so fucked up last night.”
“Kamikazes and cocaine. That’s what had me fucked up last night,” I say grimly. She doesn’t say anything as I fish my keys out of my pocket and unlock my car door, but when I climb into it and look up at her, I realize her eyebrows are ever so slightly raised. I raise mine back. “What, you actually give a shit?”
“Do I strike you as the sort of woman to ask questions I don’t care about the answers to?” she asks.
I dig my aviators out of the cupholder and put them on. It doesn’t do that much to block out the sun, but it helps a little. After a moment, I sigh and say, “I wasn’t kidding when I said it was a long story. And I also wasn’t kidding when I said I’ve got to get to school.”
Stohler isn’t looking at me any longer; her brows are drawn together and her face is pointing towards the ground, like human contact is more than she’s really prepared for at this time of morning. She says, “You could tell me about it another time, then. We could get drinks or something.”
“Uh,” I say, “are you trying to ask me out?”
The revolted expression on her face is actually kind of offensive, but not nearly as offensive as the part where she says, “Don’t be disgusting.” I snort, and she adds, “Look, all I’m saying is that a normal eighteen-year-old wouldn’t have spent a Monday night in a nightclub, sucking off ‘some guy’ for money to buy shots, and leaving with a chick he’s never met before. You’re obviously a few cards short, man, and you’re going to have more luck explaining that to a twenty-two-year-old with some actual life experience than you will trying to make any of your high school buddies understand. So, if you have shit you need to figure out, if you want some help, whatever. Offer stands.”
I’ve been eighteen for almost six months now; I haven’t spent a single day of it being normal. I haven’t even tried, and now hardly seems like the time to start. Not when I’m so hungover I feel like dying, and not when I still don’t know how I’m going to handle this day. I reach over and pluck her phone out of the pocket of her shorts, open the contacts list, and add my number in. I hesitate at the name, then finally type, garen (drunk high schooler). She tucks the phone back into her pocket when I’m done, wiggles her fingers in a very brief wave, and saunters back out of the lot without another word.
I turn my attention to my own phone, and the three new texts—all from Alex—and two missed calls—one from Alex, one from Dad.
Alex, texting, quarter after eleven. you still going 2 come by tonight?
Alex, texting, eleven forty. you alive?
Alex, calling, eleven fifty.
Alex, texting, one thirty. seriously hope your bitch mood just made you change your mind about hanging, bc if youre lying in a ravine somewhere, im going 2 feel so guilty.
Dad, calling, ten minutes ago, presumably while I was showering, probably to make sure I still planned to get to school on time.
I silence my phone and bury it deep in my backpack. There’s just enough time for me to get back to the house and make it to school before homeroom. I want to believe that I’m going home for the Trial Law notebook I forgot to bring in yesterday, but I’m not good at lying to myself. By the time I pull into the driveway, I’m nervous, and by the time I let myself back into the house, I’m shaking. To stall, to delay the inevitable, I jog down to the basement to retrieve the notebook from my bed and my jacket from the desk chair.
I have no valid reason to go into my closet and dig through the few still unpacked boxes of shit I removed from the old house after rehab. There’s no excuse for it, none that makes sense. Logically, I am completely aware of the fact that what I’m doing is wrong, but when my hand closes around the cool stainless steel of my old flask, it doesn’t feel wrong.
Back upstairs, I let myself into Dad’s study, kneel down on the floor, and pick the lock on his liquor cabinet with a paper clip from the desk. That makes me feel guiltier than anything—Dad has no idea that I can pick locks. He has no idea that locking up the very few bottles left in the house does nothing to stop me from drinking. Up until now, the only thing stopping me from drinking was me. Now, that seems irrelevant.
There are only three bottles—a half-empty bottle of Tanqueray gin, an almost empty bottle of Johnnie Walker Double Black scotch, and a very full bottle of Bacardi 151 over-proof rum. The 151 is actually mine, not his; I haven’t had it in ages, not since I was at Patton, because it’s not exactly the type of thing one drinks while moping around and writing depressing love songs about an ex. It burns like hell when you swallow it, and it gets you very drunk, very quickly. Carefully, I curl my fingers around the opening of the flask as a makeshift funnel and pour the 151 in up to the top. Once the screw-top has been replaced, the flask is the perfect size and shape to be tucked nicely into the inner pocket of my leather jacket. I should return the bottle to the cabinet—fuck, I shouldn’t have taken it out in the first place—but instead, I tuck it under my arm, lock the cabinet, and return to the car, stashing the bottle on the floor on the passenger’s side.
It’s okay, I tell myself over and over on the drive to school. It’s okay. I haven’t had anything to drink yet today. It’s okay. Today, I’m sober.
Except I’m not. I’m not sober, because to me, there are two kinds of addicts: those who are on the wagon and those who are off, and right now, I’m rolling around beneath the wheels. There are still some decent parking spaces left in the lot at school, and I’ve got five minutes until homeroom. A lot of drinking can happen in five minutes. I take the flask out of my pocket and unscrew the lid.
I take a sip.
“Hello?”
“I’m in New Haven right now. Come out and play.”
There’s a vague sound of something shifting on the other end of the phone—probably books, then probably a body stretching out in bed—before Ben says, “Why are you in New Haven?”
“Just got off the train at Union Station, I was visiting James in New York,” I say, switching my phone to speakerphone and dropping it on the dashboard so that I can peel out of my parking space. It’s about a minute and a half until the clock hits one, and I am not about to pay for another hour of parking. The garage attendant makes a big deal out of scowling down at the clock, then at my ticket. I ignore him in favor of saying to Ben, “Figured I’d see if you were free before I made the drive back to Lakewood. Do you want to grab lunch?”
“Kinda just ate. Alex asked me to make lasagna last night, and we’ve got a ton of leftovers. Come over and have some of them. You eat like a fucking football player, so that should take care of about half of what’s in my fridge.”
Ben’s lasagna—the same recipe his mom uses at her catering business—is the best food in the entire world, and I would cut the throat of anyone who dared to disagree. The first time I stayed at his house for dinner last October, I took one bite and said, without thinking, “This lasagna is come-in-your-pants delicious.” Mr. McCutcheon had choked, Ben had stabbed me under the table, and all of his little sisters had wanted to know what that meant. I’m still kind of surprised that they ever let me back again, let alone allowed me to babysit the girls with Ben a few times.
Even though Ben can’t see it over the phone, I make a brief jerking-off pantomime to show my approval of this meal idea. The garage attendant shoots me a bewildered look, and I sneer at him, take my change, and pull up to the traffic light. “Alright, I’ll be there in like, two minutes. Is Alex there? ‘Cause if not, I’m stealing his space in your lot, you know I fucking hate parking on the street.”
“He’s here, but you can have my spot. My dad needed to borrow my car to pick up some donations to the store today, so as long as you’re gone by five when he gets back with it, you won’t have to park on the street.”
“Thanks, man. You’re a rockstar,” I say, and he laughs. It’s how he used to tell me I was awesome when we first met—more often than not, the announcement was followed immediately by sex, because apparently that’s all it takes to get me going. I hang up the phone and make the short drive to his building. The lot behind it is almost full, but there’s a free space next to Alex’s car. I pull into it, lock my car, and head for the front door. A woman is exiting the building just as I step around the corner, so I don’t bother to call up for permission to enter. A few floors up, the apartment door is similarly unlocked, so I let myself in.
Ben’s not in the kitchen or the living room, but Alex is set up in front of the television, playing Xbox. He barely glances up at me, but does take a second to say, “Hey, G. Didn’t know you were coming over.”
“I’m a total whore for Ben’s cooking, and he said you guys had leftovers. I was in town anyway, so I figured I’d do the martyr thing, come help you guys free up some fridge space. He in his room?” I ask, not bothering to wait for a response before I shuffle down the hall to Ben’s room. His door is slightly ajar, so I nudge it the rest of the way open with my hip. He is sprawled out on his bed, frowning down at a worn paperback and wearing his dark red reading glasses. He always looks so serious when he reads—I feel a surge of affection for the kid, which I demonstrate by crawling onto his bed with him and pressing soft kisses to his jawline. He doesn’t much react, except with a vague hum of acknowledgment. Unsatisfied with the attention I’m getting, I burrow under his arm and curl up against his side, peering at the book. “‘--the great delight that each of them had in using the other’s body.’ Sounds like my kind of book. So, you’re paying Yale how much per semester to go read erotica for credit?”
“It’s neither erotica, nor for credit. Alex is supposed to be reading this for school, and I figured he’s going to get me to proofread his paper eventually anyway, so why not refresh my memory? It’s been a few years since I’ve read it. Also, most of the book is about God.”
“God and sex?” I say.
“Sort of,” he admits. “Also, food. And illness.”
I jab a finger into his side. “Speaking of food…”
“Uh, am I your slave? Pretty sure you know where the kitchen is,” he grumbles, but he lets me haul him off the bed and joins me out to the kitchen. He ducks out from under my arm to open the fridge, tosses a tupperware container of lasagna into the microwave, and begins to heat it up. His glasses are still perched on his nose, even though he’s no longer reading; I pluck them off, fold the arms back, and slip them into the pocket of his hoodie before folding him back into my arms. He rolls his eyes, but still tucks his hands into the back pocket of my jeans as he says, “You know, you were a lot less grabby before you got clean.”
“I know. My therapist says the fact that I can show affection for people without snorting cocaine off of their naked bodies or getting my dick out means that I’m evolving,” I tell him proudly. Another eyeroll. I add, “Also, shut up, I’m a free spirit. Is my food done yet?” In answer, he reaches over and pops open the microwave door. The smell of the sauce hits me instantly, and I groan, “Oh my god, Ben. Seriously, I think I just got a little bit hard.”
“I’m sure my mom would be thrilled to hear that her recipes have such an effect on you,” Ben says dryly.
“She totally would, your mom thinks I’m so hot,” I say, dodging the swing he takes at me. “But honestly, it’s a shame you and I gave up on each other and both went after McCall, because this lasagna? This one right here? Makes me want to marry you. I mean, you cook me delicious Italian meals from scratch, you understand that sex is so much better when it leaves you with a few bruises, and you once drove ten hours to drag my drug-addled body to rehab. If that doesn’t make you husband material, I don’t know what would.”
I grab a fork out of the cutlery drawer and take a bite out of the lasagna, still in the tupperware. Ben, who has taken a plate out of the cupboard and is now just awkwardly hovering next to me with it, says, “Uh, do you plan to stop eating long enough to actually use a dish?”
I blink at him. “No? You’d just bitch at me for getting an extra dish dirty, and I’m not planning to hang around and help you load the dishwasher, so I figured this would make the whole process less irritating for both of us.”
“Garen, you didn’t say why you were in New Haven anyway,” Alex says, and I trudge back into the living room.
“I was just over at the train station, just got in. I was in New York, visiting Jamie.”
That earns me a glance. “Yeah? How is he?”
I flop down next to him on the couch, kicking my feet up onto the coffee table and digging into my container of lasagna—though Ben protests both with a growl of, “Seriously, Anderson? Are you a goddamn savage?”—as I shrug and say, “He’s good. Well, he started off good, and then he fucked some hipster chick at the club we went to, so then he was great.”
“He fucked a chick while you guys were out?” Ben says, now seated comfortably in his homework armchair and absorbed in his book again. “Wasn’t that… I don’t know. Weird?”
I snort. “Dude, it’s not like I watched. I was out back, nailing the chick’s boyfriend.” That earns another eyeroll. Annoying Ben with my lack of morals is always kind of funny to me, so I add, “Anyway, by that point, I had already had Jamie earlier in the evening. I figured it was time to share.”
Alex stills just long enough to get killed by a zombie onscreen. The level offers to start over, but Al switches it off and sets the controller down on the table. He scratches the back of his neck a bit awkwardly, then turns to me and says, “You and James still hook up?”
“Um,” I say, because that sounds a lot better than, yeah, dude, all the friggin’ time. I can only assume that he’s thinking about his own half-hearted attempts to drunkenly seduce Ben every few months. It’s… kind of pathetic, honestly. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad, if Ben didn’t still think Alex was straight. Or if Alex hadn’t reluctantly admitted to me last spring that he has feelings for Ben. Or if he hadn’t been enough of a fucking idiot to phrase it as, So, I guess I sort of like Ben. Or whatever. God, stop looking at me like that. And because I’m an asshole, but also because I try to be a good friend and help my buddies out when they’re too lame to make their own moves, I smile widely at him and say, “Best friend sex is always pretty great, ‘cause the other dude already knows all your turn-ons, even if he doesn’t realize it. For example, back when I was at Patton, I had no idea I would be into roleplay, until Jamie pointed out that I’ve had a crush on one of my teachers almost every year since I was like, ten. He put on a suit and his reading glasses and gave me detention, which involved significantly more oral sex than any actual detention I’ve ever gotten. It was really fucking hot. Maybe you and Ben should try that.”
“Student-teacher roleplay?” Ben says, not looking up from his book.
I have to resist the urge to go over and cuff him upside the head. “The best friend sex thing.”
“I’d kind of rather just do the roleplay part,” Ben says. When my only response is to glare at him, he finally looks up, exasperated, and says, “What am I supposed to say? ‘Yeah, you’re right, I should have sex with my straight best friend?’ ‘Hey, Al, put it in me?’”
I look over at Alex, mainly to see if he looks a little bit titillated by the offer, but he’s still just looking at me with something close to hesitation in his eyes. He obviously wants to say something, so I make a vague spit it out gesture. He coughs. “Do you guys hook up a lot?”
“Who, me and this sarcastic piece of shit?” I say, jerking my thumb towards Ben. “Not since last October. Well, December, I guess, if we’re going to count making out as—”
“Not you and Ben,” Alex interrupts. “You and uh, James. Do you guys hook up often?”
I shrug once more. “I mean, it’s all relative. It’s not like we fucked last night or anything, I just gave him head. Other than that and one handjob after I got kicked out, we haven’t done anything since I left Patton. So, recently, no, we haven’t been hooking up often. But before I moved here, it was like… a couple times a week, unless one of us was exclusive with somebody—”
“Define ‘a couple,’” Alex cuts across me again, and now I’m starting to get annoyed, because how is this his business? “Do you mean once or twice? Or—”
“No, I mean that if I wasn’t practicing with my band, he wasn’t at lacrosse practice, and we were both in our dorm room at the same time, odds are really good that I was in him. Why do you care?” I say sharply.
His response is a very blunt, “I don’t,” followed immediately by straight-up silence. I glance over at Ben, who is dutifully reading, clearly unwilling to participate in this sudden and confusing bitch fit. I look back at Alex. The way he’s looking at me is making me feel a little uncomfortable, so I break the tension by forcing a forkful of lasagna into his mouth. He rolls his eyes and bats me away, but swallows it anyway. Mouth empty once more, he mutters, “It’s like you’re five, man.”
“Nah, I’m way cooler now than I was when I was five.”
Ben snorts. “I can’t even picture you as a little kid, to be honest. I’m just seeing you as you are now, only two and half feet tall, without the lip ring, and wearing way smaller combat boots.”
I laugh along with him and Alex, but there’s a pinch of embarrassment in my stomach. Sometimes, I forget that my parents are the only people in my life who actually know what a loser I was when I was a kid. It’s not like any of my friends realize that the things that make me Garen now—my recklessness, my impatience, my inability to sit still, my unreasonably active sex drive, my penchant for singing at random moments, my addictions, my flaws—are all the same things that used to make me some mostly-friendless dork in Ohio. They’ve all been fortunate enough to miss the “before,” but they’re all so familiar with the “after.” Me, after I lost my virginity, and formed an alt rock band, and started getting high—freshman year. Me, after I got pretty into drinking, and got better at pulling pranks without getting caught, and got my ass kicked enough times to get good at fighting—sophomore year. Me, after I got my semi-signature, spiked and ironed haircut, and bought the Testarossa, and gave up on normal dating—junior year. Me, showing up in Lakewood, seducing my own stepbrother, setting school property on fire, rocking out at coffee house open mic nights, partying like a rockstar, and burning out, hard and fast, violent and pretty.
The problem, I guess, is that I don’t know who I’m supposed to be, if I’m not the Garen they know, the one who’s all about sex, drugs, and rock and roll. I don’t know what’s left of me.
92 days sober
Monday’s late evening rehearsal is so much better than the read-through, up until it’s not. Once we’ve all gathered together in the auditorium, Nate does his best to get us to shut up—Ms. Markland seems to be our leader in title only, because she’s nowhere to be found, which means absolutely no one is bothering to give a shit what Nate has to say. He tries to silence us for almost two full minutes, getting progressively pissier, until I get bored of watching him pout. I let my head loll back and say, very loudly to the ceiling, “Can you all just shut the fuck up for five minutes so Holliday can talk? Jesus Christ. No wonder I hated this place enough to just stop showing up last year.”
The silence is broken only by a laugh that someone tries to disguise with a cough. I glance over my shoulder, even though I already know who I’m going to see grinning at me. Travis is seated a few rows back with a handful of the other people who have agreed to do stage crew. He shoots me something akin to a smirk, but then his eyes are flickering off to the side, like someone else is trying to get his attention. I turn in time to see Joss lowering her hand from a small wave, then look back to see Travis biting back a smile. I slump down in my seat and look at Nate, who is watching me with thankful eyes. I scowl and say, “You know, a desire to hear my own voice wasn’t the only reason I said that. Are you going to fucking talk to us, or are you just going to stand there all evening?”
“Oh. Yeah, I’m going to, um… thanks,” he says, like that makes any goddamn sense. He takes a deep breath, then addresses the group at large, “So, as you all know, today is the first day of our consistent rehearsals. I want to make these next few week as productive as possible, so here’s what we’re going to do. For the next three weeks, we’re going to split into two groups. All of the cast members who are playing named characters will be doing script work on Mondays and Wednesdays, and music on Tuesdays and Thursdays. People who are in the chorus will be doing music on every day except Thursdays, when you’ll be helping the crew with set construction and stuff. After this first month, we’re going to start doing full scene rehearsals and choreography. Is everybody clear on that?”
There’s a general murmur of assent; like a good military schoolboy, I salute him. He dismisses us to work in smaller group, or pairs, or whatever. I should probably find Christine, the girl I’ve got most of my scenes with, but I assume that she’ll be working with Joss, since their characters—Dani and Nikki—are supposed to be best friends, or whatever.
I’ve barely had time to fish my script out of my bag when Nate pops up in front of me, saying, a little too eagerly, “Do you want help running your lines?”
“Uh,” I say, trying to find a more humane way of saying back the fuck off. “I think I’m actually going to just find someplace quiet to read through everything by myself, if that’s cool? I wanna try like, getting in the headspace of my character.”
He smiles, all white teeth and dimples. “How method of you.”
“It is,” I agree, because I’m not sure what else to say. Rather than continue to engage in conversation, I duck backstage to find someplace to hide. It’s quiet here; I can barely hear my castmates’ muffled voices through the thick velvet curtain. It’s nice. Behind the second curtain, a huge scaffold is set up, presumably to work on painting the background. I curl my hands over the side of it and give it a testing shake to make sure it will support my weight. It doesn’t move, so I climb up it. The top level makes for a perfect little reading nest. I curl my legs up under myself and prop my script open on my lap. The truth is, I’ve barely bothered to read through my lines so far. I’ve highlighted them all, I’ve glanced at most of my big scenes, and I’ve downloaded both of the songs I’m singing lead on to my iPod—a gender-switched “There Are Worse Things I Could Do,” and a completely unchanged and now much more offensive “Sandra Dee”—but that’s kind of it. There are still weeks left until I need to even get rid of my script, so why start freaking out over it now? But whatever. I took the part, I might as well read through it when my director tells me to.
“Do you mind if I ask you something personal?”
For a second, I think that the question is directed towards me. I look around, only to see that the speaker is Joss, standing in the right wing and slowly circling the rumpled pile of canvas that we’ve been told to spread out before any set painting. I open my mouth to respond, but the sound catches in my throat when I see Travis—my Travis, Travis McCall—stepping away from the shadow of the curtain. He sits down on the wooden bench and swings one leg over it so he’s straddling it. “Yeah, go ahead.”
Joss sits down across from him, but the bench is really only built for one person. Her knees are knocking against his. What the fuck, where is her concept of personal space? The edges of my script are slicing tiny papercuts into my palms because I am gripping it too tightly. I set it down on the scaffolding next to me, smooth my palms across my thighs, and try not to move enough to make my presence known.
“How do you know you’re really gay?” Joss asks.
Travis laughs. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you and I have been going to the same school for years now, and I never saw you show any interest in another guy until last year. Obviously you dated Garen in secret, and everybody knows you went to prom with what’s-his-name. Ben?” Travis nods once. Joss shrugs, a half-smile playing at the corner of her mouth, as though that makes up for the fact that she’s being really rude right now. “Of course, it’s your life, so you’d know better than anyone else what you are. But, like… Gabe says you’re gay. Garen says you’re gay. Everybody says you’re gay. But I’ve never heard you say you’re gay. So, I guess what I’m asking is… are you?”
For a very long moment, Travis just blinks at her, though perhaps not in the offended way he should be. He’s blinking at her in that slow, thoughtful sort of way he has about him, the same as when he’s choosing the wording of his response to an open-ended question on a study guide. Finally, he says, “I can’t remember anyone asking me that without already assuming they knew the real answer. Look… Garen was the first person I ever fell in love with. He’s always going to be that, no matter how much of a pain in the ass he might be now.”
My heart constricts painfully.
He continues, “Garen and I only really dated for about two months, until he left for New York. Ben and I dated for four—it wasn’t just prom, it was a legitimate relationship, and I loved him. So, I don’t think you’re going to be too surprised when I say that I slept with both of them, multiple times. And hey, maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t think that falling in love and having sex with other guys is something that straight people are known for. I like guys, Joss.”
“I know that,” she says, laughing. She has a great smile; that makes things so much worse. “I’m not trying to say you’re straight, not at all. Of course you like guys. I’m just wondering if maybe you like girls, too.”
No, I am bellowing at him in my head, willing him to say the words aloud. No, no, no. He does not like girls, too. He likes boys. He’s gay, completely, unequivocally gay. He isn’t interested, so stop it, stop it, stop it. Leave him alone. But Travis isn’t saying any of those things out loud. He isn’t saying anything at all, he’s just staring at Joss, smile gone. I’m shaking so hard that I’m worried the scaffolding is about to collapse underneath me.
Joss says, “Do you think I’m pretty?”
It feels like a trick question, because she is. I don’t want her to be, but she’s pretty, anyone can see that, even a guy who isn’t interested in women. And Travis isn’t a liar, so she already knows what she’s about to hear.
“Yes,” he says. His voice cracks.
I know that Joss is going to kiss him before she actually does it, and I think he knows, too. Still, I can’t convince myself to look away, can’t even blink until she has leaned forward and brushed her lips against his. He doesn’t kiss back, but he doesn’t pull away. His eyes are closed, and his eyebrows have drawn together, as though he’s in pain, or he’s confused.
Please pull away from her. Please stop doing this to me.
Joss is the one to break the kiss. I’m not expecting that. Neither is Travis; when she leans back, he follows her almost involuntarily, and has to catch himself by bracing one hand on the bench between them. His eyes are still closed. From my place in the scaffolding above them, I can barely hear her when she whispers, “I hope that was okay. Ever since we started talking last week, I’ve just thought you seemed like a really great guy. I thought maybe you were interested, but didn’t know how to bring it up because everybody thinks you’re gay. If I’ve been misreading everything, you can tell me, and I’ll—”
Travis hooks his hands under her bent knees and drags her across the bench towards him so that she is seated on his lap, her thighs on either side of his hips. This kiss is so much more frenzied, so much more desperate than the last, with her arms twined around his neck, and his hands shifting against her waist. I have only ever seen Travis kiss one person, other than myself, but at least seeing him kiss Ben was bearable. At least those kisses were brief, or chaste, or—more often than not—a wordless thank-you for Ben dragging me back from my latest attempt to escape myself. At least I never had to see Travis dip a hand under the back of Ben’s shirt to palm at the small of his back, like he’s doing to Joss right now. I never had to watch Ben knot his fingers in Travis’ hair and tug it hard enough to make Travis’ breathing hitch.
If I have to keep watching this, I’m going to be sick. Moving as quickly but silently as possible, I stuff my rolled-up script into my back pocket, stand, and make my way to the other end of the scaffolding. Once I’m sure I’m out of sight, I climb down and cross the stage, nearly stumbling over my own boots as I cut through the left wing. Just outside of the stage door, I collide with Nate, who visibly brightens. “Hi, Garen. Do you have any questions about the script?”
“No, Nate, the script is perfect,” I say, flashing him a brief and incredibly forced smile. He glows. I have to clear my throat before I can speak again. “Listen, I’m not really feeling well. I know I’m supposed to be staying here a while longer, running lines with people, whatever. Do you mind if I cut out early instead? I promise I’ll stay late tomorrow.”
“O-Oh. Yeah, that’s fine. Um, if you stay late tomorrow, you might end up just running your lines with me, instead of Christine. But I’d be happy to hang back, spend some more time with you. I mean, so you’re sure you have everything under—”
“That’s fine,” I cut him off. I don’t have time to deal with his painfully obvious crush on me, or whatever ideas he’s suddenly entertaining about us cozying up together over a script. He looks a little sheepish, clearly realizing his enthusiasm is misplaced, so I offer him another smile and beg off with another complaint about not feeling well. Snatching my backpack off the seat I left it on, I barrel out into the hallway, already pulling out my cell phone and selecting the first safe number in my contacts list.
Alex picks up on the last ring before voicemail. “Hey, I can’t talk long. I’m supposed to be in class, just stepped into the hall.”
“What time do you get out?” I ask.
“Not until ten thirty. It’s my once-a-week, three-hour political science class. Why, what’s up?”
“I’m suddenly having an incredibly shitty day, and I need something to take my mind off things. Can I come over after your class?” I ask. I pull the phone away from my ear to check the clock on it— nine thirty. An hour. I can put up with an hour.
Alex says, “Yeah, that’s totally fine. But right after class, I have a chapter from the textbook that I need to photocopy in the library, because I’m too cheap to buy my own textbook. I’ve just been using the one on reserve in the library. I probably won’t get back to the apartment until eleven, but Ben’s there now. I think he got out of class at six? Just head on over, I doubt he’s doing anything.”
I have to practically bite back a gasp of relief. When I can speak, I say, “Thanks. Seriously, Alex, thank you.”
“No problem,” he says slowly. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie, “I’ll see you in a few hours, I’m leaving rehearsal now.””
Once outside, I lock myself in the Testarossa, turn the radio up as high as it will go, and peel out of the parking lot, gunning it out of Lakewood. At my first red light, I text my dad to say, I’m heading to Alex’s now, might end up staying over. Don’t wait up. See you later. My high school is only half an hour from downtown New Haven, maybe ten minutes more with traffic. With Ben already parked and Alex coming home in a few hours, there’s nowhere behind the building for me to park, and I’m still wary about parking an eighty thousand dollar Ferrari at a meter, so I pay ten bucks to park in a private lot three blocks over. It’s still only a few minutes after ten. I dig a semi-crushed pack of cigarettes out of my backpack and light one as I set off down the street in the direction of their building.
The image of Travis and Joss and their awful, frantic kissing is still burned into my mind. It makes no sense. Why would he suddenly decide he wants Joss, of all people? Why would he kiss a girl? She’s right, he never explicitly told me he was gay, but he never told me he was bisexual, either. I was there. I remember how disinterested he was in Blaire Kennedy, especially when she tried to kiss him at their pathetic ring dance last fall. Even after I left, he didn’t go off and find a girlfriend. He found Ben, he found a guy, not a girl. Why is he suddenly interested in Josslyn?
Halfway down the block, the door to a pizza parlor swings open and three girls in sky-high heels tumble out. One of them—a brunette in a glittery dress—almost eats it, but her friend—a blond in shorts and some weird, sparkly top—hauls her upright at last minute, hissing, “Jesus, Amanda, keep your shit on lock. We’re not going to get in if they can tell we’re drunk already.”
“It’s fine, ‘s none of their business,” the brunette, Amanda, slurs. I can’t stop an eyeroll. Even at the worst part of my addictions, I could at least stay upright. But Amanda keeps talking, props herself up on the blond’s shoulder and says, “Besides, everybody knows New Haven clubs totally serve underage people. It’s fine!”
Christ.
Before I’m quite aware of why I’m doing what I’m doing, I jog a few steps closer and say, “Excuse me. Ladies, can I ask you a question?”
The third girl, the second brunette, seems to be the only sober one. She gives me a once-over, smiles, and says, “Of course. What’s up?”
“Well, I’m not really from around here,” I say, flashing her my most bashful smile. She melts. “I couldn’t help but overhear your friend just now. Do the clubs around here really not card people?”
“Oh, they definitely card people to get in,” she says, shrugging. “They check IDs at the door to make sure you’re over eighteen, and if you’re over twenty-one, you get a stamp or a wristband, depending on the place. But once you’re actually in the door, the bartenders barely care at all, and the shot servers care even less. My boyfriend, Steve? His roommate dragged us all to this crazy gay bar one time, and I straight up told one of the shot boys that I’m only nineteen, but he was like, ‘‘So? I’m not your mom, it’s not my job to tell you what to do.’ If you go to the right places, you can drink as much as you want, and as long as you’re not passing out or throwing up, nobody cares how old you are.”
How did I not know about this? How is it possible that I’ve spent almost a month coming to visit Alex and Ben in their apartment here, but I’ve never once felt the aching temptation that’s rolling in my gut now? I force a smile, give the girls my thanks, and edge past them, setting off down the street once more. My cigarette has burned away to ash now; I smash it against my boot sole. Only two blocks between me and my friends’ apartment now. It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.
I turn a corner and skid to a stop. Halfway down the block—the official halfway point between my car and Alex’s apartment—an imposing black metal door is propped open and draped with a rainbow flag. Dance music is thudding violently out from within the club, and a few people are lined up outside, having their IDs checked by a large man with a bushy mustache. That must be it, the club the girl mentioned; it’s not like there can really be that many gay clubs in a city this size. It’s not New York, or anything.
This is the type of thing that Ryan is constantly warning us about in our meetings. This is the kind of temptation that seems bearable, that seems easy enough to get through, until we’re in the thick of it. Until it’s too late to escape. But I can’t not know. I can’’t not at least check it out. Even with all of my better instincts screaming at me to keep walking until I get to Ben’s, I dig into my pocket, pull out my driver’s license, and join the end of the line to get into the club. The bouncer checks my ID, scribbles a large X across each of my hands, and says, “Ten bucks cover.” I pass him a bill, he waves me into the building.
The club is almost pitch-black, lit only by the glow of strobe lights and beer signs above the bar. God, the bar. There must be at least a hundred bottles against the back wall, and now I feel like I can’t breathe. Against the far wall, a door is open, and beyond it, I can see what seems to be a smoking courtyard. I edge through the club—surprisingly crowded for ten o’clock on a Monday night—and out into the courtyard. Thirty or so people are scattered about, drinking, smoking, laughing. A few of the guys give me vaguely appraising looks, one actually touches my wrist and murmurs a soft, “How are you?” I shoulder past him and slump against a bare stretch of brick wall.
This was so stupid. I have no idea what I’m doing here, but I know this isn’t healthy. I know I should be anywhere else. I extract another cigarette from my pack and move to dig my Zippo out of my front pocket, but someone flicks a Bic in front of me. I lean into it, take one long drag from my cigarette, then glance at the man now pocketing the lighter. He’s older than a lot of the other people here, but not old old. Mid-thirties, maybe. He’s fit, but his smile is kind of creepy. He extends a hand. “Hello, beautiful. I’m Scott.”
“Garen,” I say.
He seems much more intrigued by that than necessary. “That’s a great name. Is it Irish?”
“Yeah,” I say, even though it’s actually Armenian. In an ideal world, he would realize I’m not interested and go away. In this world, however, he slips a hand into his pocket and removes a ten dollar bill. In a surprising show of balls for such an average-looking guy, he takes a step closer and folds the bill over the top of my jeans, his fingers lingering over my belt buckle. He moves even closer to murmur, “Can I buy you a drink, Garen?”
Oh, Jesus. Yes, yes, you can buy me all the drinks. But I’m a better man than that. I am ninety days sober; I’m not going to fuck that up because some random guy in a club wants to get in my pants. I stub out the cigarette and say, “Sorry, I’m only eighteen.”
“I won’t tell,” Scott says, shrugging.
“Alright, then, sorry, I don’t drink.” My tone must be enough to dissuade him from the drink idea, but it’s not enough to dissuade him from the hook-up idea. Without any further comment, he ducks down and presses his lips to mine. Whatever. I’ve kissed people I was less interested in for worse reasons than boredom and loneliness, so I stay there, slumped against the bricks and letting him roll his tongue around in my mouth for a few minutes. It’s not doing anything for me, but I’m not surprised. I guess I’m not like Travis; I can’t just let a veritable stranger kiss me and be practically dry-humping them in a few seconds. After a while, though, Scott makes a grab for my crotch, and I knock his hand away.
“If you’re trying to get anything more than a kiss, it’s going to cost you a lot more than that ten you stuffed down my jeans,” I mutter.
It’s meant to be a joke, even if it’s said in monotone, but Scott pulls back enough to give me another appraising look. He reaches back into his pocket and folds a twenty over the ten. I don’t move. A beat, and then he folds a second twenty over the first. I still don’t move, and then he brushes his lips over my earlobe to whisper, “I’m not looking to fuck anybody tonight. But I wouldn’t turn down head, for that.”
I blew Dave in exchange for beatings and a coma.
I blew Seth for a line of cocaine.
How is fifty dollars any worse?
My answering shrug must count as consent, because just inside of a minute later, I’m on my knees in a bathroom stall, watching Scott roll a condom on before he shoves himself into my mouth. It’s not the first time I’ve blown a stranger, and I doubt it will be the last, but right now, even with this guy not bothering to stifle his groans as he fucks my throat, all I can think about is Travis. Did he come to his senses and take back the kiss? Or is he still kissing Joss right now? Has he taken her home, is he touching her, is he going to fuck her, is he going to fall in love with her and forget all about me and leave me here, in New Haven, blowing strangers for money? Fuck that. If he can move on, if he can fool around with some stranger without a single thought to how it might impact me, I can do the same thing.
Or, at the very least, I can make sure that this man gets his money’s worth.
I nudge Scott back against the stall door and pin his hips in place. Even after sucking Jamie on Saturday, I’m a little out of practice with giving head. By the time I relax my throat enough to swallow down his entire length, he’s already babbling above my head. One hand fisted in my hair, he mutters, “That’s right, just like that. God, you’re so fucking sexy.”
And it’s pathetic, but this piece of shit, this sleazy, disgusting man who pays barely-legal boys for sex in public restrooms—he’s the first guy besides Jamie who has called me sexy since I ended things with Travis. Seth was content to call me a cheap piece of ass, a filthy, drug-addicted slut. Dave didn’t call me much of anything, not once he realized how eager I was to get back together with someone who would hurt me the way I needed. What’s his name—Patrick, from the bar in New York, didn’t have to say a word, he just needed to pass his girlfriend along to Jamie first. And this guy may be paying me, he may be a stranger, but at least he wants me right now.
With one last grunt, Scott empties himself into the condom. Before he even has time to remove it, I stand, brush the grime off the knees of my jeans, and leave the stall. I take a few quick swallows of water from the sink, trying to get the taste of latex off my tongue; I don’t acknowledge Scott as he washes his hands next to me, or when he leaves the bathroom. For several long minutes, all I do is stand at the sink, my hands braced on the side, my eyes locked on my reflection.
Then, from behind me, I hear hushed voices in another of the stalls, then a loud sniff. I freeze. One of the people makes a soft comment to the other, there’s a break for chuckling, and then another sniff. I can’t do this, not now. I can’t be here, I can’t do what I just did, I can’t have that in the stall right behind me and not--
I spin around and knock very gently on the stall door. One of the guys inside immediately shushes the other, loudly and unnecessarily. Like I can’t hear them? Like his attempts to silence his buddy did anything other than draw more attention to them? But the bathroom is still empty except for us, so I say, quietly, “How much for a bump?””
“We don’t know what you’re talking about,” one of the men says, affecting a shrill, obviously fake accent, for reasons I can’t figure out. His friend giggles madly. The man adds, “There’s no one in here! Sorry!”
“I’m not an idiot, I’m not a club employee, and I’m not a cop,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut. “I just need some blow.”
“Honey, it sounds like you already just got some blow,” says the man, dropping the accent. He cracks the stall door, peers out at me, then grabs my arm and drags me in. There are two men—one’s a ginger, and the other’s a short Puerto Rican, both closer to my age than Scott was. The Puerto Rican gives me a once-over. “Five bucks a bump, ten for a line.”
“How ‘bout I give you a twenty instead, and you make it a long line?” I say. He blows me a kiss and plucks one of the twenties from the waistband of my jeans. I hold my hand out flat, palm facing down, and allow the ginger to tap a decent amount of cocaine from a small plastic bag. Using my driver’s license, I cut the coke into a line that stretches from the base of my little finger diagonally across to the base knuckle of my thumb.
“Cheers!” the Puerto Rican says brightly. The last thing I need right now is for half my nose to feel fine and the other half to be numb, like I’m some sort of fucking stroke victim, so I snort the line in two halves, first into my left nostril, then the right. And I know I shouldn’t be able to feel it yet, I know it takes about a minute to start to feel the full buzz, but I swear, the second it’s in me, I’m gone.
“Oh, fuck,” I gasp, closing my eyes again and falling back against the side of the stall.
“Easy, honey,” says the Puerto Rican, clearly amused. “You new to this, or something?”
“No,” I whisper. “I just haven’t had any since before I went into rehab last June.”
Neither of the men seems to know how to react to that, and that’s fine, because I don’t care what their reactions are. I let myself back out of the stall and pause to check my nose in the mirror, just to make sure there’s no powder left on my face before I leave. Just outside the door to the bathroom, a shot boy, wearing nothing but a pair of hotpants and a pair of Chucks, saunters past me. On one hand, he balances a tray carrying a rack of shots in test tubes.
When it rains, it pours. Right now, it looks like it’s time to splash around in the puddles.
I follow the shot boy back out into the courtyard, because really, what’s the point of pretending that this night can be salvaged? What’s the point of pretending sobriety is even an option for me anymore? There are a few iron garden tables set up, each surrounded by a couple of chairs. The shot boy pauses next to one of the tables where three people—two dark-haired men and a woman with long blond hair—are sitting, and asks them, “Do you guys want shots?”
Before they can respond, I sling an arm around his shoulders and ask, “How much for the entire tray?”
He laughs. “Two bucks a shot, and I’ve got fifteen here.”
“Perfect,” I say, transferring the remaining thirty dollars from my pants to his and lifting the tray straight out of his hands.
“A boy after my own heart,” exclaims one of the men at the table. “Sure can drink, for a kid.”
The other man is frowning. “I wanted one of those.”
I shrug and swing a leg over the remaining chair at their table, sitting down so I’m straddling the back of it. I place the tray on the center of the table and say, “Knock yourself out, man. It’s not like it’s even my money that paid for it.”
“Whose was it?” the drinker asks, punctuating his question by taking one of the shots.
“Just some guy I blew in the bathroom,” I say. That remark earns a smirk from the blond woman, but she still says nothing, just takes a long drag off the cigarette pinned between her fingers.
The first shot tastes like regret, and self-loathing, and shame, but the second one tastes like coming home. They’re somehow sickly sweet and a little bit sour at the same time—Kamikazes, I think. I slip the empty test tube back onto the rack, toss back another, and another, and another. By my fifth, the man who isn’t drinking reaches out and grips my wrist. “You sure you can handle drinking that much, kid?”
“I’m not a kid, and yes,” I say shortly.
Ignoring his friend, the drinker extends a hand to shake mine. “It’s mighty generous of you to share your drinks with us. My name’s Charlie. This is Mike, and that’s Stohler.”
“Pleasure to meet you all,” I say. I take another shot, swallow, pause, and add, “My name’s Garen. Garen Anderson.”
By now, I can really feel the coke, and it feels absolutely delicious. All I want is to stay in this chair, talking to these people, and drinking, and I can’t think of any reason not to, so I do. Mike tells me a little more about the club, and the owners, and the shot boys, and the area, and Charlie launches into a story about his day. I flirt shamelessly with both of them, and within ten minutes—twenty minutes? More?—they’re both practically melting every time I open my mouth. Everything I say seems to amuse them, or fascinate them, or give them boners, I don’t know, and I’m worried that I’m starting to come down from the coke, but I’m even more worried because why did I ever stop? Everything about this feels flawless.
Eventually, though, Charlie and Mike both excuse themselves to the bathroom—most likely to talk about me and debate the chances of at least one of them going home with me—and I find myself alone at the table with Stohler. She still hasn’t spoken, but now, around a mouthful of smoke, she says, “So, Garen.” My name rolls off her tongue in what might be sarcasm. I wonder if she thinks it’s a fake name. “You must have had one hell of a rough day at the office to show up and drink like that.”
I shrug. I wonder if those guys with the coke are still in the bathroom. “There is no office. Just school.”
“Where do you go to school?” she asks.
“Lakewood High School. It’s about three towns over,” I say. Her eyebrows shoot towards her hairline, so I shrug again. “I’m a senior. Supposed to be a freshman in college, actually, but I was expelled last spring, so I’m repeating my senior year now. I’m eighteen. It’s legal for me to be here.”
“Yeah, it is legal,” she says slowly. I watch as she stubs out her cigarette in the ashtray on the table, and she watches me watch her. For a very long moment, I feel as though she’s just sitting there, undressing me with her eyes in a completely nonsexual way. It’s like she’s digging into my brain and reading all my worst thoughts, and she must be, because eventually, she says, “Tell me what happened to you.”
I force a shrug; my muscles feel stupid, and it takes a little more effort than it should. “It was just a bad day.”
“I don’t mean today,” she says, lighting one cigarette that she hands to me, then lighting another for herself. “I mean, tell me what happened to you to make you look so utterly fucked about your entire life.”
I laugh. “That’s going to be a long story.”
“What, like you’ve got somewhere else to be?” I really, really don’t. The two guys come back at that moment and move to sit down, but Stohler snaps her fingers at them and flicks her wrist. “I’m sorry, we’re having a discussion here. Thank you for your company this evening. I’ll see you around.”
I’ve never seen anyone but me or Jamie dismiss people so casually. They must be used to it, however, because they slink away, scowling but unsurprised. Not entirely sure whether I’m talking to her or myself, I say, “You should be nicer to your friends.”
“They’re not my friends. They’re just some idiots I know. I don’t… really do the friend thing. Not well, anyway.” She sucks on the end of her cigarette. “You must not, either, or you’d be with them now, instead of sitting here drinking with strangers.”
Choosing my words as carefully as I can, I say, “I have friends. But they don’t know that I’m here, because they don’t really like me drinking. I’m supposed to be hanging out with them now, but… whatever. I don’t know. I’m going to head out, I’ll just go sleep in my Testarossa.”
I manage to make it out of the club and halfway down the block to the lot where I’m parked before I realize that I’m being followed. Turning around feels like it would be incredibly hard right now, so instead, I lean against a building and wait for whoever’s stalking me to just…… I don’t know. Catch up and kill me?
“You’re an idiot,” the girl, Stohler, says by way of greeting. I just stare blankly back at her. She rolls her eyes and hooks an arm through mine, pulling me away from the wall. “Come on. You said you drive a Testarossa? No way am I letting some shitfaced high schooler near a Ferrari. I live five minutes from here, you can sleep on my couch.”
She’s a total stranger, but it’s not like it matters. I’ve let weirder people take me home before. I slump against her side and let her guide me down the street.
Zero days sober
The alarm on my phone goes off at six thirty, as always. For the first time since rehab, I wake up in a room I don’t recognize. It only takes a breath for the hangover to hit me full-force, followed immediately by the realization of everything that transpired the night before.
Oh fuck.
“Rise and shine!” chirps a voice from about twenty feet away. I blink around—fuck, this room is so bright. Some girl with dark bobbed hair is drinking tea and smiling sunnily at me from a nearby kitchen table.
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. I clear my throat and try again, “Is this your place?” My voice is hoarse, which I guess is what I get for letting strangers fuck my throat in public restrooms. The girl nods. I cough again. “Do I know you?”
“Nope. My name’s Angie. One of my roommates brought you back last night,” she says.
“Do I know your roommate?” I ask. There’s a vague blur of a woman in my head, but I can’t remember much beyond that. Some blond hair, maybe. Cigarettes and a short dress.
The girl shrugs. “I don’t know. I hope so? Sara, Meagan, and I are always telling Lindsey not to bring randoms back. Like, she doesn’t really have friends, so the guys she brings back are hardly ever here a second time. Pretty sure she just lets them do her and then never talks to them again.”
She’s giving me a pointed look, so I bury my face under a throw pillow and say, “I like men, so I doubt I came back here to do your roommate. And I don’t know anyone named Lindsey, so uh… I really have no idea why I’m here.”
“You’re here because your car was way too awesome for me to let you wrap it around a tree in a drunk driving accident,” says a second girl, walking out of a room to my left and sweeping her long blond waves up into a messy ponytail. The tiny black dress and stripper heels she was wearing last night have been replaced with denim shorts, flip-flops, and a Poison t-shirt. She hitches her chin at me and says, “Hey, kid. You remember my name?”
“Stohler,” I say, only remembering the name as it rolls off my tongue. “Lindsey Stohler, apparently. Yeah. Thanks for letting me crash here.”
“No problem. What time do you have school?”
I check the time on my phone. Six thirty-five. “In like, an hour and half.”
“I’ll walk you back to your car. But first, go shower. You smell like a fucking brewery. I’ll try to find a t-shirt that’ll fit you.”
The odds of that working out are slim; out of her heels, she’s five nine or so, and maybe a hundred and twenty pounds. Rather than argue, I roll off the couch and slowly drag myself upright. God, my head. “Holy shit, I’m so hungover. Do you care if I go jam my fingers down my throat in your bathroom so I can get some of this fucking booze out of my system?”
She’s silent for a beat too long before she says, “Knock yourself out. Bathroom’s through there.”
I stagger through the door she has indicated. A shower won’t really help—the dirtiest parts of me are all inside, anyway—but it might give me time to figure out what I’m going to do. While I’m waiting for the water to heat up, I kneel down in front of the toilet and stick two fingers as far down my throat as I can manage. What I really need is to get what’s left of the vodka and triple sec out of my stomach so I’ll stop feeling so foul, but my lack of a gag reflex is definitely working against me right now. It’s only through a very purposeful combination of pressing my middle finger to the very back of my tongue and remembering the horrible events of last night that I manage to make myself vomit and yes, an empty stomach does give me a slightly clearer head. Grimacing, I flush the toilet and climb into the shower to scrub myself raw.
I’m not sure how long I spend in there, but it must be a while. There are like, six thousand different bottles of shampoo, body wash, and face wash, and what the fuck is “invigorating apricot scrub”? What part of your body could you possibly want to scrub to the point where it feels invigorated? Even after washing my hair, face, and body, I’m still not ready to face the world, so I settle for sitting down in the tub and watching my fingers turn progressively more prune-like. Eventually, though, when my skin is burning red from the heat of the water and I can hear Stohler and her roommate bitching at each other in the living room, I turn the water off and step out to dry myself.
When I step out into the living room wearing just my jeans, Angie stops sniping at Stohler and blinks at my chest. Unfazed, Stohler tosses me a still-folded thrift store Sex Pistols shirt. I pull it on, locate my boots by the door, and follow her out off the building. The sunlight is blinding enough that my stomach starts to roll again, but there’s nothing left in my body to throw up, so I settle for whining, loudly and at length. Stohler watches in unimpressed silence from behind a pair of white Wayfarers. Only once we have made it back to the lot where my car is parked does she twirl the end of her ponytail around her fingers and say, “You know, you never did get around to telling me what had you so fucked up last night.”
“Kamikazes and cocaine. That’s what had me fucked up last night,” I say grimly. She doesn’t say anything as I fish my keys out of my pocket and unlock my car door, but when I climb into it and look up at her, I realize her eyebrows are ever so slightly raised. I raise mine back. “What, you actually give a shit?”
“Do I strike you as the sort of woman to ask questions I don’t care about the answers to?” she asks.
I dig my aviators out of the cupholder and put them on. It doesn’t do that much to block out the sun, but it helps a little. After a moment, I sigh and say, “I wasn’t kidding when I said it was a long story. And I also wasn’t kidding when I said I’ve got to get to school.”
Stohler isn’t looking at me any longer; her brows are drawn together and her face is pointing towards the ground, like human contact is more than she’s really prepared for at this time of morning. She says, “You could tell me about it another time, then. We could get drinks or something.”
“Uh,” I say, “are you trying to ask me out?”
The revolted expression on her face is actually kind of offensive, but not nearly as offensive as the part where she says, “Don’t be disgusting.” I snort, and she adds, “Look, all I’m saying is that a normal eighteen-year-old wouldn’t have spent a Monday night in a nightclub, sucking off ‘some guy’ for money to buy shots, and leaving with a chick he’s never met before. You’re obviously a few cards short, man, and you’re going to have more luck explaining that to a twenty-two-year-old with some actual life experience than you will trying to make any of your high school buddies understand. So, if you have shit you need to figure out, if you want some help, whatever. Offer stands.”
I’ve been eighteen for almost six months now; I haven’t spent a single day of it being normal. I haven’t even tried, and now hardly seems like the time to start. Not when I’m so hungover I feel like dying, and not when I still don’t know how I’m going to handle this day. I reach over and pluck her phone out of the pocket of her shorts, open the contacts list, and add my number in. I hesitate at the name, then finally type, garen (drunk high schooler). She tucks the phone back into her pocket when I’m done, wiggles her fingers in a very brief wave, and saunters back out of the lot without another word.
I turn my attention to my own phone, and the three new texts—all from Alex—and two missed calls—one from Alex, one from Dad.
Alex, texting, quarter after eleven. you still going 2 come by tonight?
Alex, texting, eleven forty. you alive?
Alex, calling, eleven fifty.
Alex, texting, one thirty. seriously hope your bitch mood just made you change your mind about hanging, bc if youre lying in a ravine somewhere, im going 2 feel so guilty.
Dad, calling, ten minutes ago, presumably while I was showering, probably to make sure I still planned to get to school on time.
I silence my phone and bury it deep in my backpack. There’s just enough time for me to get back to the house and make it to school before homeroom. I want to believe that I’m going home for the Trial Law notebook I forgot to bring in yesterday, but I’m not good at lying to myself. By the time I pull into the driveway, I’m nervous, and by the time I let myself back into the house, I’m shaking. To stall, to delay the inevitable, I jog down to the basement to retrieve the notebook from my bed and my jacket from the desk chair.
I have no valid reason to go into my closet and dig through the few still unpacked boxes of shit I removed from the old house after rehab. There’s no excuse for it, none that makes sense. Logically, I am completely aware of the fact that what I’m doing is wrong, but when my hand closes around the cool stainless steel of my old flask, it doesn’t feel wrong.
Back upstairs, I let myself into Dad’s study, kneel down on the floor, and pick the lock on his liquor cabinet with a paper clip from the desk. That makes me feel guiltier than anything—Dad has no idea that I can pick locks. He has no idea that locking up the very few bottles left in the house does nothing to stop me from drinking. Up until now, the only thing stopping me from drinking was me. Now, that seems irrelevant.
There are only three bottles—a half-empty bottle of Tanqueray gin, an almost empty bottle of Johnnie Walker Double Black scotch, and a very full bottle of Bacardi 151 over-proof rum. The 151 is actually mine, not his; I haven’t had it in ages, not since I was at Patton, because it’s not exactly the type of thing one drinks while moping around and writing depressing love songs about an ex. It burns like hell when you swallow it, and it gets you very drunk, very quickly. Carefully, I curl my fingers around the opening of the flask as a makeshift funnel and pour the 151 in up to the top. Once the screw-top has been replaced, the flask is the perfect size and shape to be tucked nicely into the inner pocket of my leather jacket. I should return the bottle to the cabinet—fuck, I shouldn’t have taken it out in the first place—but instead, I tuck it under my arm, lock the cabinet, and return to the car, stashing the bottle on the floor on the passenger’s side.
It’s okay, I tell myself over and over on the drive to school. It’s okay. I haven’t had anything to drink yet today. It’s okay. Today, I’m sober.
Except I’m not. I’m not sober, because to me, there are two kinds of addicts: those who are on the wagon and those who are off, and right now, I’m rolling around beneath the wheels. There are still some decent parking spaces left in the lot at school, and I’ve got five minutes until homeroom. A lot of drinking can happen in five minutes. I take the flask out of my pocket and unscrew the lid.
I take a sip.