Nine Years Ago
Aka Ground Zero for Gwen’s Worst Terrible Fuck-up
Gwen
Dictators and loan sharks needed to rethink their torture methods. Sure, waterboarding and sleep deprivation could break a man. Pulling out fingernails and smashing kneecaps were reliable interrogation techniques. But if you really wanted to make someone suffer, to reach into their chests and yank out their proverbial hearts, simply force them to scroll through Facebook.
All seemed innocent at first. I sat on my too-hard chair and stared at my laptop, ignoring the Hello Kitty stickers affixed by the previous owner. The usual images floated by:
Fake smile.
Fake smile.
Kissy face.
Cat playing piano.
Drunk shirtless dude.
My attention darted between my laptop’s flipping snapshots and my silent Blackberry, a cup of Jägermeister poised at my lips. Jägermeister was the butthole of birthday drinks. It tasted like cough syrup and bad decisions. It was a reminder of the bile-marinated blackout that would forever remain unspoken. An event that would not be repeated tonight.
Yet here I was, drinking Jäger, because underage beggars couldn’t be choosers, especially at 10 p.m. on my nineteenth birthday, while alone in my apartment, wondering why my best friend hadn’t texted me. The fact that we hadn’t spoken in over a year should have been a clue.
I sipped the Jäger and grimaced.
Fake smile.
Faker smile.
Pouty face.
Cutest baby koala on the planet.
Drunk frat boy…in a diaper.
And how did Facebook know which bra I was wearing? I peeked into the front of my gray V-neck and back at the sidebar advertisement. That was seriously creepy. And depressing. The black lace looked miles better on the model than on my less-endowed 34Bs, but the sight had me imagining my breasts and my former best friend’s large hands, our naked bodies, and a whole lot of heat.
A needy moan slipped past my lips.
Since the man in question had forgotten my birthday and had probably blocked my number, that particular scenario was as likely as me wearing pink nail polish. Not that I deserved a guy like August Cruz.
I poured another shot into my Badass Bitch mug and did the thing I pretended I wasn’t going to do: I clicked on August’s timeline.
A new profile photo filled my computer screen, and I bit my lip. The most pathetic sigh deflated my posture. His wavy dark hair was shorter these days, clipped at the sides and messily styled. His glasses were different—thicker frames than he used to wear, obscuring the gold flecks in his hazel eyes. He seemed to have bulked up, too. Unless his Lawn Enforcement Officer T-shirt had shrunk.
His clothing choice exacerbated my tipsy melancholy.
Had he worn that shirt because I’d given it to him? Did it remind him of me nipping at his heels and tossing clippings at his face as he’d cut our neighborhood lawns? Odds are it was nothing more than a comfortable relic—a T-shirt that would wind up in the trash one day, forgotten and cast away. Like me. Unless he’d consciously chosen to post the image, hoping I’d see it.
My next sigh was more heartsick than wistful.
I’d been down this unrequited-love road before. I’d walked it so often a permanent path had been forged behind my stinging eyes. I missed how August’s rumbling laugh would infect me with giggles. I missed the way he’d dribble a soccer ball around me in an athletic blur. How he’d sit behind me, arms and legs around my torso, teaching me to play guitar.
I missed the only person who could soothe me when my mother’s anger had burned through my lonely house.
These thoughts weren’t new, but his profile photo and that T-shirt jostled them, a violent shove that shook my foundation. A strange awareness overtook me. He must have chosen that image on purpose, knowing I’d see it and think of us. He must have launched that sign through cyberspace so I’d catch it. It seemed obvious now—Jägermeister obvious, but whatever: August must miss me as much as I missed him.
I had to reach out and tell him I understood him and his subliminal message, the way only I could. Considering his stupid girlfriend, Kayla Morgan, was evil incarnate and the reason everything with August had gone to shit, she probably treated him like crap. I should have singed her blond hair in chem lab when I’d had the chance. Instead I’d let her vicious words infect my mind, poisoning all thoughts of August.
We’d been friends back then, Kayla and me. At least I thought we’d been. You drag him down, she’d told me. You’re too needy. He pities you.
Her words had hit their mark, feeding my insecurity. Fear of being a charity case had caused me to curl in on myself. Since I didn’t do things half-assed, I shoved August away with the quietest silent treatment known to man…and Kayla, my supposed friend, gave him all the noise I’d sucked from his world.
She was still on his profile page. Still his girlfriend. I snarled at her picture filling my computer screen and grabbed my phone before my Jäger courage wore off.
Heart pounding in my throat, I pulled up August’s name and rushed off a text. My fingers trembled as I typed, I’m sorry.
Who is this?
His quick reply almost had me launching my cell. My pulse went haywire, my hands too shaky to reply. But this was good. This was right. Of course he replied promptly. He wore the T-shirt! Fate was finally on our side.
Although he’d only been ten minutes away the past year, studying at SFSU while I killed myself cracking the books at San Francisco’s City College, he’d felt so far. Not tonight. Not now.
I took a breath, then two more. I blinked away my Jäger fog and steadied my hands. Hardy har har, I wrote.
No. Seriously, August replied just as quickly. The only Gwen I know hasn’t spoken to me in a year and a half.
His words were a knife in my chest, and the same wave of remorse I’d battled since I’d cut August from my life crashed over me. This wasn’t the time to cower, though, the way I had the past year. This was the time to take charge of my life, beginning with an apology.
My thumbs went to work. I’m sorry I was a bitch our last year of high school.
Which time?
That knife twisted deeper.
Every time. All the time.
God, I wished high school had been the raging party promised in classic eighties movies. Instead it had consisted of me sinking into a jealous despair as I’d battled my mother’s dictatorship and had struggled to get into college. I’d worked two jobs. Student loan applications had dogged me. All the while, my neighbor and best friend had coasted through life, then and now.
August’s mother loved him. He had a father he actually knew and siblings to bond with, including an identical twin who had his back. Grades came easy to him. His soccer scholarship meant paying for college wasn’t a stress. He played a mean guitar and had a crowd of hangers-on—friends who fed on his cool factor like pilot fish catching scraps from a powerful shark.
August had always had everything. I’d had nothing in high school but him.
Now I didn’t even have that.
You ignored me, he shot back. Stopped returning my calls and texts.
Infection set into my festering wound.
I know. I’m the worst person.
Not good enough. You don’t get off with a weak apology. What you did fucking hurt.
A heart transplant would be needed now. Or a heart amputation. Was that even a thing? Could a person live without her heart? Remorse fisted my rotting organ.
I knew I’d hurt August—I’d destroyed myself in the process—but hearing it firsthand had the burn in my eyes turning liquid.
He deserved some answers. I was jealous. Your life kept getting better, and mine got harder. I felt like I was slipping into your shadow. I was resentful.
What kind of bullshit is that? I never treated you as less. You were the most important person in my life, and you walked away like I meant nothing.
A tear leaked out, but I dashed it away. I wasn’t a crier. I never let my emotions overrun me. Unless August was involved. He was also right: my actions may have made sense back then, but they had been a load of bullshit. The notion of dragging him down with my depressing life and crappy situation had seemed worse than shutting him out. It had been the wrong choice.
But it wasn’t why I’d kept those invisible bricks stacked between us.
My fingers moved before I could stop them, before I could take a breath and collect myself and decide on the smart thing to say.
It was also because you started dating Kayla.
I stared at my sent message and smacked my forehead with the heel of my hand. What the hell is wrong with me? There was no ctrl-alt-deleting that horrifying confession. My stomach twisted, courtesy of the Jäger and my stupid fingers.
Kayla Morgan was still his girlfriend. Facebook reminded me of that painful fact daily. And I just kind of admitted I’d had the hots for him.
August didn’t post much, but Kayla loved tagging him at every opportunity: selfies with her arm around his waist, candids of him studying or sleeping, captioned with things like: I tuckered him out. I would then “caption” my rude gestures with colorful expletives, all shouted at the screen. (Proof of Facebook’s torture potential.) My roommate, Clean Your Damn Area Claire, would make a throaty sound and roll her eyes, then tell me to clean my damn area.
I stared at my silent phone, bouncing my heel, chewing my lip, wishing I could reverse time and suck that message back into my traitorous fingers.
His eventual reply didn’t help: What does Kayla have to do with this?
Now he wanted me to bleed for him, eviscerate the guts of my hidden affections. All I managed was a partial truth.
I was jealous of her too. Because of her, we spent less time together. It wasn’t rational. I’m sorry and I miss you.
I should have been more honest, admitted the depths of my feelings for him back then. My feelings for him now. Regret knotted my noodley insides as I waited for his reply. I contemplated moving to Mars or the jungles of Africa, a place where Facebook and stupid crushes wouldn’t derail my life. My phone vibrated with August’s reply.
You should never have dated Jared. Things would be very different now.
Holy hell.
Did that mean he’d wanted me in high school, too? Had we both read each other wrong? Jared and his leather jacket had been a distraction and nothing else, even though he’d barely kept me from fantasizing about August. The effort had been so dismal I’d broken up with Jared during prom.
Could I have spent that time kissing August’s perfect lips instead of inhaling Jared’s Axe Body Spray?
I typed a frantic reply, then deleted each letter. This was big. Huge. Like “winning all the blue jelly beans in a blue jelly bean counting competition” huge.
I’d been in Intro to Psychology with August’s twin brother, Finch, all semester, staring at him with unhealthy longing. Aside from sharing August’s dark hair, ridiculous bone structure, and gold-flecked hazel eyes, my belly had never flipped around him. The hairs on my neck had never shivered. That hadn’t stopped me from ogling Finch, pretending and wishing he were August—the only man I’d ever truly wanted.
Up until one minute ago, I was sure my August ship had sailed, any chance with him destroyed by my childish behavior, but he was staring at his phone now, somewhere in San Francisco, not far from me, waiting on my reply.
This was do or die. This was the shot I never took.
This was my perfect birthday wish come true.
Holding my breath, I wrote out a careful reply, ensuring no typos waylaid my intentions. Brutal honesty was what this called for. Jäger honesty.
I dated Jared because you hooked up with Kayla. I had feelings for you back then and couldn’t be around you guys.
I reread my reply. It didn’t say how I still had feelings for him. Massive, crushing feelings. But it was more than I’d ever admitted. I swallowed hard and sent my heart through cyberspace.
One second passed. Two lumbered by. Five, ten, fifteen seconds dragged.
Heart pummeling my chest, I shot to my feet and paced. My eyes darted wildly, unable to focus on the guitar neck protruding from under my bed or my overflowing laundry basket or my King Kong Green Day poster. I felt like a science experiment, all vibrating molecules and firing synapses, a cataclysmic event away from full meltdown.
No message answered me. Not a one. The air in my lungs turned to glue. If I had a paper bag, I’d breathe into it.
Unsure what to do, I plunked down on my chair and scrolled through Facebook, a futile attempt to distract myself. It was either that or fill my bathtub with Jäger and go for a swim. The flipping images blurred, one annoying smiling face after another, until one particular face had my mouse stilling and my eyes bugging.
Kayla. Kayla tagging August in one of her flirty posts.
I wanted to slap my laptop shut and forget I’d ever sent that text or opened this Pandora’s Box of awful, but I couldn’t stop from leaning closer and studying the image. The glue in my lungs hardened into cement. I blinked several times, but Kayla still filled the screen. Her hand faced me, a band on her wedding finger.
The comment above read: Guess who got a promise ring?
Dazed and confused (not in the good way), I pushed into The Barking Owl. The student bar was jam-packed, sweaty bodies abundant, heat and pop tunes stuffing the pulsating room. An elbow jabbed me. Someone used my shoulders to keep from falling. Even in the oppressive space, I was relieved to be away from my computer and treasonous phone.
The second Kayla’s post had sunk in, I’d hidden my Blackberry. There’d been no need to read whatever reply August would send. The sweet guy he was, he’d for sure let me down gently, and I’d marinate in my embarrassment, followed by a therapy session with my pals Ben & Jerry.
Better to cry on Jack Daniels’ shoulder than poor Ben’s.
“Gwen!” A waving hand caught my eye. When I noticed the hand was attached to Finch, I cursed the birthday gods for making this the suckiest birthday in the history of sucky birthdays.
My mother’s curt phone call this morning had been as warm as a polar bear’s ass. I used to get a yearly birthday card from my aunt, but those had vanished when I’d turned twelve. My grandparents pretended I didn’t exist, and I’d just confessed my love to a boy who’d already given his girlfriend a promise ring. A freaking promise ring. Like it was 1950.
Now I had to spend the night looking at his identical twin.
A Jäger-bath and Ben & Jerry’s chaser sounded better and better, but that involved actual effort.
Grumbling, I maneuvered toward Finch. Not an easy feat. A foot from my goal, some oaf in a Warriors jersey stumbled and dumped half his beer over my boobs.
“What the hell?” I attempted to shove him off, but the giant barely budged.
“Sorry about your shirt.” His sleazy smirk suggested he wasn’t particularly sorry.
I pinched the front of my sodden V-neck, the thin fabric fighting me as I peeled it off my chest. I could now add wet T-shirt contestant to this year’s birthday of awesome. “Next time you wanna waste your beer, pour it over your head.”
His lewd smirk graduated to vulgar. “It’s not a waste if I get to suck it off you.”
College students sure were classy.
Rolling my eyes, I flipped him the bird and squeezed toward Finch’s spot at the bar. Considering most students crammed into the overheated room were underage, the San Francisco fake ID racket must have been thriving. Tonight mine was a godsend.
Finch squeezed my hip and raised his voice over the music. “Glad you made it.”
I peered at him, unsure why he seemed to be on his own. “Did we have plans?”
“You didn’t get my text?”
If it had been sent after I’d humiliated myself with his brother, his message would be buried with that damning evidence. “I haven’t checked my phone in a bit.”
“Then I guess this is fate, and I get to buy you a birthday drink.”
I tried to smile at his sweet effort. When we were kids, he’d raised hell with August and me, but as we’d gotten older, August would often tell him to get lost. Finch would sulk, but I’d been too focused on his brother to insist he tag along. Alone time with August had been a valuable commodity.
The past year and a half, though, after having cut August from my life, Finch had been more present. The two of us were at the same school now. He’d make an extra effort to check in on me, inviting me to lunch, the library. He and August seemed to have drifted since high school, but my childish silent treatment meant I couldn’t ask August why, and there was an unspoken rule between Finch and me: August was a classified subject. Any mention of him or his name would disqualify our friendship.
A friendship I’d begun to count on. Finch even remembered my birthday.
“What can I get you?” he asked.
“Shot of Jäger.”
He cringed. “Who the hell drinks Jäger?”
“I do, apparently.” Because Jäger was the butthole of birthday drinks, and today was a butthole of a birthday. “I should order a double.”
His gaze dropped briefly to my wet T-shirt, to the now-visible black bra that had looked miles better on the Facebook model. He leaned closer. “Are you drunk, Gwen Hamilton?”
I met him the rest of the way, our noses an inch apart. “Not wasted enough.”
The people and music and laughter swirled around us, so loud and distracting that for a second I was sure it was August’s Roman nose nearly touching mine, his lips within biting distance. His scruffy jaw. His firm chest. But there was no scar on Finch’s chin. August’s scar had been acquired the night we’d snuck into the abandoned Wheeler home. Finch didn’t have an untamable lick of hair that always shot heavenward or callused fingers from endless guitar sessions. He hadn’t written songs for me while lying in the grass and staring at the sky.
But Finch was good for a laugh.
“You’re lucky you found me.” He pretended to tighten an invisible necktie. “We may have grown up neighbors, but I don’t think you know I have a PhD in intoxication.”
I rubbed my palms together in eager anticipation. “Do tell, Dr. Cruz.”
“Well, if you’re aiming for sad wasted, I’d suggest we start you off with tequila shots, followed by a keg of beer. If it’s giddy wasted you’re after, Long Island Iced Tea should do the trick.”
“I was thinking more pissed-off wasted.” Insane wasted. Furious wasted.
If I hadn’t been so pathetically insecure during high school, I could be getting giddy wasted with August, instead of shooting the shit with his brother. The horrible choice to cut August off was a wake-up call if I’d ever heard one. Never again would I let a missed opportunity slip by. I wouldn’t coast through life, cowering at challenges, afraid to rock the boat. I would scare myself. I would push my boundaries. I would make life my bitch.
Finch nodded sagely. “If pissed-off wasted is your mission, then stick with the nasty Jäger.”
I almost did just that, but drinking more would dull this painful ache. I deserved to suffer every jab and twinge, each unforgiving pang. This was my fault. I should have admitted my feelings to August years ago.
Instead of walking the easy road of inebriation and oblivion, I ordered a Red Bull.
An insane amount of sugar-laced caffeine later, I stood in the crowded bar feeling more alone than when I’d been at home. The string of Red Bulls had done their job. I was painfully sober, and my revved brain kept reliving every different decision that could have resulted in a different outcome. Not this crappy outcome.
I was angry at myself. I was angry at August. And Finch was here for the entire show, doing his Finch thing, teasing my surly scowl and telling god-awful knock-knock jokes until I cracked a smile. Some song about booties blared. Two chicks acted out the lyrics, putting on a show for the bar. August barely glanced at them.
Dammit. Finch. Finch, Finch, Finch.
I kept doing that—thinking, wishing he was his brother.
Finch and his easy grin were facing me, like they had been all night. His chest rubbed my arm as he yelled in my ear about his summer backpacking plans, his voice battling against the loud tunes. I nodded automatically, barely hearing him.
Warriors jersey dude, who hadn’t passed out yet, danced suggestively while ogling the bootie girls. The giant waste of space tripped into me again, sending my clutched Red Bull to the ground. Finch glared at him. Frustrated, I bent down to retrieve the fallen can being kicked to-and-fro like a pinball. Finch had the same instinct. At the same time.
Our heads smacked together.
“Fuck.” I pressed my palm to my forehead.
“I’m not sure it’ll help with the headache, but we could try.”
We could…what-the-what?
Finch and I were crouched inches from a sticky floor covered in spilled beer and pretzel bits, a forest of legs surrounding our shoulders, and he was eyeing me like he wanted a closer inspection of my black bra.
What the hell?
I was strung out on Red Bull, my heart pounding a mile a minute, and my vision turned hazy. Blurred with sadness. I found myself craving more contact. Touch. Comfort in someone’s arms. No matter how hard I looked at Finch, he didn’t become August—the only person I wanted to fill that role. Did it matter?
Finch was nice, fun. He was the only one with me on my birthday, and he wasn’t hurting in the handsome department, clearly. If August didn’t want me, why not have fun with his twin?
Because August might find out and be upset, my unhelpful conscience whispered.
If August had really pined for me in high school, the way he’d sort of admitted, he’d have confided in Finch back then, when they’d been close. He might be pissed if Finch and I hooked up. But August had a girlfriend with a promise ring. A life that didn’t involve me.
My decisions weren’t his concern.
Tired of my lame wallowing, I grinned at Finch, returning his flirtations. I turned my brain to silent as we walked to my apartment. I moved on autopilot as I fitted my key into the door and dragged Finch inside. I closed my eyes when our shirts hit the floor, his bare chest pressed to mine.
His lips searched for purchase. “So long,” he murmured. “I’ve wanted you so long.”
My belly cramped at those needy words. Passionate words. Words I longed to whisper to August. I’ve wanted you so long. He wasn’t here, though, and I was lonely. So, so lonely. Finch was undressing me, showering me with kisses. I tried pretending it was another man’s mouth on my skin. August. My August. If I couldn’t have the man I wanted on my birthday, I would steal a moment of abandon from his twin. Pretend. Dream. Live the lie.
It was a wasted effort.
The sex was mechanical, motions gone through, our bodies fitting together, my mind somewhere else. My faked orgasm sped the whole affair along. Finch, however, whispered endearments, hips relentless in pursuit of his pleasure. I was glad when it was over. And sad. Guilt returned as Finch kissed me gently and went to deal with the condom.
Did he have a thing for me? Had he been crushing on me the whole time I’d been crushing on his brother? Did August know? It was likely why Finch had been so attentive this year, and here I was, only wanting a mindless night. God, what a mess.
Letting him down after this would be another painful blow.
A knock at the door cut through my worry, and I groaned. Last thing I wanted was a witness to this sham, but Clean Your Damn Area Claire must have forgotten her key again. That emo girl would lose her black fingernails if they weren’t attached.
Tossing on an oversized tee, I stood and breathed through the fog of bad decisions this night had become. I couldn’t even blame the Jäger.
Unable to swallow past the lump in my throat, I hurried to the door and yanked it open.
I nearly passed out.
August Cruz was in my doorway, at my apartment, a crazed look in his stunning hazel eyes. “Happy birthday,” he said, a slight pant to his words, as though he’d run here.
Then he kissed me. Callused fingers gripping my jaw, he crushed his lips to mine, devouring me like I was air in an airless world. This wasn’t mechanical. This wasn’t pretend. This was the love of my life twirling his tongue around mine sensually, moving his lips and body the same way he played guitar: with animal abandon.
It was too good. He was too good. And I let it all go on too long. I somehow managed to push him away. “You gave her a promise ring,” was the first thing I said.
Not, I slept with your brother. Not, your brother is in the next room.
My brain cells had vacated the building.
He winced. “You saw that post?” Before I could answer, he breathed harder, talking over himself. “I’d bought that ring for your birthday, and she assumed it was for her.”
He tugged at the back of his dark hair. “It’s just, I’ve been thinking about you nonstop lately. Not sure why now—maybe it was your birthday coming up or the school year ending—but I knew I needed to set things right with you. I’d decided to end things with Kayla tonight. I got your address from your mother and planned to face you, then you sent me that text. And it was like…the whole thing kind of floored me.”
Creases sank into his furrowed brow. “I’m sorry I lashed out at first. I wasn’t expecting for all that shit to resurface. But I think it’s good, you know? That we cleared the air. Now we can finally do this, be together. Because this thing with us?” He prowled closer and lifted the ring in question. “It’s always been you, Gwen. No one holds a candle to you.”
That’s when Finch walked into the living area, nothing on but his boxers.
That’s when I realized the extent of my Worst Terrible Fuck-up.