I WISH WE WERE STILL ON THE BEACH.
When we’re on the beach or out on the boat during the day, I have fun. I don’t have to drink to soak up the sun or paddleboard or read or talk to the girls. But when the sun goes down and we all invade Duval Street, the intoxication levels increase as my patience decreases. Alcohol intensifies everything, so half of my sisters are loud and crazy and the others are blubbering messes. I was finally able to talk Skyler down after being ambushed by a stupid reporter earlier today, but now, Jess is the new patient in my office.
“You can’t tell anyone,” she slurs for the seventh time, her elbows propped on the bar at Sloppy Joe’s as she lifts her rum and Coke to her lips. Her lips pucker a bit as she sips it down. “He could lose his job.”
“I won’t say anything. I promise. But I still don’t understand why you’re so upset.”
Jess has been going on and on for the past hour about Jarrett, her ex-teacher-turned-not-boyfriend. She was dancing with the girls earlier, but eventually made her way over to the bar where I set up camp, and it was like she was coming to the confessional. She unleashed all of her anxiety in about two full breaths.
“I’m upset because I like him,” she draws out her words, as if I should already know this is a huge issue.
“And? Isn’t that the point?”
She shakes her head, chocolate eyes on the stirrer in her drink as the bass from the live band thumps through the bar. “I just have a feeling I’m setting myself up to get hurt. Remember how I got my nickname?”
I make a face, thinking back to our freshmen year when Jess told every single guy she hooked up with that she loved him. She used to fall hard and fast and with abandon. She wasn’t afraid of being hurt, she wasn’t afraid of them not loving her back, she wasn’t afraid of anything. I guess the same could be said about her now — about not being afraid — but the truth is, I think her tough, I-don’t-give-a-shit attitude is a mask over the fear she developed the moment she became known as J-Love.
“I think Jarrett is different. I mean, I haven’t really had the chance to get to know him, but I do know you. And it’s been years since you’ve had feelings for a guy. Maybe it’s okay to let them happen. Maybe there’s a reason.”
“Maybe,” she says softly, hiccupping.
I laugh. “Give me this.” Pulling her half-empty glass from her hands, I nod toward where Skyler and Cassie are dancing in front of the large stage in the middle of the bar. “Go dance and have fun. Relax. It’s Spring Break. You can figure everything out with Jarrett when we get back.”
Jess smiles, her eyes glossy, hair wild. “Mmkay.” With that, she slides off her barstool and stumbles over to the dance floor, throwing her hands up and shouting something I can’t quite make out as soon as she reaches our group.
I watch them all dancing and laughing, stirring the remains of Jess’ drink on the bar. Skyler starts moonwalking when the band plays the first notes of Smooth Criminal and Ashlei pops off her snapback, tipping it over and holding it out to the crowd like she’s taking tips for the performance. I can’t help but smile.
In a little while, I’ll get up and go dance with them. I enjoy dancing, whether drunk or not. Right now, though, I’d rather sit and watch Clinton and Shawna grinding on each other, because torturing myself is apparently a favorite pastime of mine.
I don’t know why seeing them together upsets me. Is it because I have feelings for Clinton? I chew on that thought, assessing my heart rate and stomach knots.
No, I don’t think that’s it.
I mean, I care for him, but I never wanted to date him. I never expected us to be more than a friendly date that night at semi-formal. Still, seeing his hands tangled in Shawna’s purple locks and her lips on his neck makes me feel… something.
Jealous?
Angry?
Sad?
All of the above?
As I’m ticking through the possibilities in my mind, Clinton’s eyes lift to mine and I’m caught staring. I snap my attention back to Jess’ drink and lift it to my lips, sucking down the smallest sip, just enough to look like I wasn’t being a creep without making me want to drink the rest.
But Clinton stops dancing, kissing Shawna’s temple and leaving her with Skyler before crossing the room to me.
Shit.
“Thought you weren’t drinking,” his voice booms as he reaches the bar, his eyes on the bartender instead of me. He nods his head once to the short, dark-haired pixie with tattoos and she gets to work on two drinks that I assume he’s been ordering all night — one for him, one for Shawna.
“I’m not.” He glances at the drink in my hand from the corner of his eye, brow cocked. “It’s Jess’. I’m just holding it.”
“Ah.”
I stir the drink faster, nervous, before dropping my hands into my lap and clasping them tight. “Having fun?”
“Yep. You would be, too, if you’d loosen up a little bit.”
I wince. “I’m having fun.”
“Clearly,” he scoffs. Sliding a twenty toward the bartender, he takes the drinks from her hands and shakes his head when she asks if he wants change. “Come on. Take this drink and come dance with us. It’s Spring Break, Ex.”
“Isn’t that Shawna’s drink?”
“She still has one,” he says, holding one of the mixed drinks toward me. It’s clear, something with Sprite, I imagine. “Here.”
I bite my lip, wondering if maybe he’s right. I can have a few drinks and be okay, right? But when my eyes flick to his and a flash of smaller, younger eyes assaults me, I squeeze my own tight.
Would our baby have had his eyes?
His nose?
His skin?
And I realize that maybe that’s why I feel something when I see him with Shawna – because he is supposed to be a father. My child’s father.
The child I killed.
I shake my head, hands clasping tighter. “Thanks, Bear, but I’m okay.”
For a moment he watches me, jaw set. He turns just a fraction like he’s going to let it go, but then he whips back around. “This is fucking ridiculous, Erin. We hooked up, okay? We had sex. It’s not the end of the world and I’m not going to tell anyone. And, whether you stay sober as a judge or get shitfaced tonight, I’m never going to sleep with you again, okay? So stop looking at me like you have to worry about ending up in my bed tonight.” His words slam into me like a Mack truck and my mouth pops open as he scowls, rolling his eyes. “Get over yourself.”
My nose burns, but I stand before the sensation can reach my eyes. Pulling my purse over my shoulder, I straighten, chest to his. “Fuck you, Bear.”
With that, I turn on my heel and push through the crowd of drunk college students to the street. I don’t slow down, I don’t apologize, and I don’t look back at him or anyone else who might have seen the exchange.
I’m done.
LESS THAN AN HOUR LATER, I’m tossing my bag into the back of a Cadillac Escalade sent by my father. I told him I was terribly sick and I needed to get back to campus and he called out a driver from the airport without another question. After shooting a text to Skyler with the same bogus excuse, I let the driver help me into the backseat and sigh as he shuts the door behind me.
Sinking into the cool leather seats, I cross my arms tight over my chest, not even bothering to brush away the few strands of hair falling into my eyes. My chest feels like it’s being squeezed by a boa constrictor and no matter how I focus on my breathing, I can’t steady it out. Clinton’s words slap me over and over again, the anger behind them washing over me in treacherous waves.
I should have told him.
He doesn’t understand because I never did. I never will.
Clinton thinks I’m upset that we hooked up, that I’m ashamed or scared or embarrassed by it to the point that I refuse to drink again. He doesn’t know that I’m terrified of letting another drop of alcohol hit my system because it could mean losing a part of myself again. It could mean having an amazing night with a great guy without being smart enough to use protection. It could mean one night of fun in exchange for one day of anguish, my back sticky on a paper-covered bed, my feet propped up on cold, unforgiving stirrups.
My heart races, the emotion I’ve been fighting so hard to keep down threatening to break the surface. Hands fumbling, I rip my phone from my Michael Kors purse and dial his number before I can stop myself. My knee bounces as the phone rings over and over, sending me closer to voicemail.
But then, he answers.
“Hello?”
I stop breathing, stop shaking, stop everything. Eyes wide, I clutch the phone tighter at the sound of his voice.
“Hello? Anyone there?”
Now that I have him on the phone, I don’t even know what to say. All I know is that Kip Jackson was the only boy to ever make me feel truly loved. Even though it was years ago, he’s the only person I want to call when life gets too hard to handle. But I haven’t talked to him since that summer, the one when we fell in love and then I chased him away just as quickly.
There’s a shift on the other end and then the line goes dead with a soft, quiet click. I let the cool device drop into my lap, bringing one trembling hand to my lips. And then, I stop fighting. Taking one last breath, I let the pressure rumbling through my chest and up into my throat break through. Loud, ugly, and painful, as so often hidden hurt is, I allow it to consume me.
I finally let myself cry.