Thirty-two

“This is the part where you say ‘I told you so.’” I wipe at my eyes with the Kleenex Doreen always has waiting on the end table. “Go ahead.”

“That’s not what I’m thinking, and it shouldn’t be what you’re thinking either.”

“Why not?” My eyes actually ache from crying. I don’t think I’ve stopped weeping since I broke down driving past Shreveport yesterday afternoon. “The most fucked-up sexual arrangement ever has now blown up in my face. Not like a grenade, like an atomic bomb. You saw it coming.”

Doreen shakes her head. “Not this.”

All last night, I kept staring at my phone, waiting for it to chime with a text from Jonah. I didn’t expect an apology, much less an explanation. But I can’t stop wondering what he’s thinking.

Jonah may have left my life, but his shadow will linger for a long time.

“Someone finally learned the whole truth,” I whisper. “And he hated me for it.”

“You don’t know that he hated you. You only know that Jonah had to stop.”

“Why else would he stop?”

“You tell me.” Doreen gives me one of her looks, which means it’s time to dig deep.

And I remember Jonah’s words: You turned me into the last thing I ever wanted to be.

I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. “Whatever darkness that’s within Jonah—whatever fuels that fantasy for him—he doesn’t want to turn that on someone who’s actually been hurt.”

“Jonah spoke harshly. He shouldn’t have done that. But he gets to have limits too.”

She’s said this to me before, but about Geordie, when he absolutely could not play along with my fantasy. Those two men have drawn their boundaries about a thousand miles apart, but they’re both within their rights.

Still. “Jonah was angry. He was furious. I froze up just the way I did when I was a little kid and Mom would start screaming.”

“Did you feel threatened?”

“Not physically. It just . . . hurt so much. Jonah had stood up for me, and finally, finally Chloe knows Anthony’s full of shit, and it could have been one of the best days I’d ever had. Instead everything fell apart.”

Doreen nods. “Let’s focus on the good part of the day for a bit. Somebody finally believed you. Somebody finally put the blame where it belongs, on Anthony. How does it feel?”

Beneath all my sorrow, all my anger, that tiny light still glows. “Unbelievable. Like—like the whole world turned upside down.”

“In a good way?”

“Yeah.” Whenever I think about returning home for Thanksgiving, or Christmas, I feel apprehensive, but it’s not the dread that has consumed me for years. Anthony will never have as much power over me again, even if Jonah’s not at my side. I saw him humbled; I saw him humiliated. That memory will feed me for a long time to come.

“What about your father?” Doreen says.

I have to laugh. “Apparently he already talked one of his golf buddies into sneaking him some jambalaya. He hasn’t changed.”

“Do you wish that he would?”

“I try not to wish for the impossible.”

And yet I can’t stop wishing I could roll back time, wind it back on a spool until I reached yesterday morning. Maybe I couldn’t change anything, but at least this time I’d understand exactly what went wrong.

Even understanding wouldn’t be enough.

•   •   •

Later that day, as I sit in my office manually inputting grades, my phone buzzes with a text. Electricity crackles along my skin, and I have no idea whether the sudden flush of energy comes from anger or hope.

But when I look at the screen, I see it’s only an invitation from Shay to come over and watch Netflix with her tonight or tomorrow. And how was your romantic weekend in the woods?

I never even told my closest friends about Dad’s heart failure. Major omission. So I send out a few texts, then spend the rest of the afternoon answering frantic questions from Carmen, Arturo, and Shay. I tell Kip, too, and within minutes a caramel macchiato has appeared on my desk as if by magic.

“Caffeine doesn’t solve everything,” I say to him, even as I accept it with a smile.

Kip sighs. “A macchiato can only solve your problems if you let it, sweetie.”

The one person I don’t hear from is Geordie. He’s incredibly busy at the moment—papers are always due at the end of the semester, and LLM papers are to undergraduate papers as World War II is to the invasion of Grenada. Still, for something like this, I would expect him to text at least. Geordie was the only guy I’ve ever been with who won my mother over; he launched a full-scale charm offensive on my parents, to such good effect that they sent him a birthday card two months after we broke up. So Geordie would be worried not only about me, but also about my dad.

Sometimes cell phone reception sucks in the library, I remind myself. Plus he might have shut off his phone to be sure he’d be productive.

Which isn’t a bad idea. I snap off the phone, and just like that, I’m not waiting for Jonah any longer. It should feel triumphant, or at least decisive. Instead it only feels sad.

That evening I go to the studio. Some artists find it difficult to work when they’re upset, but sometimes that kind of emotional energy fuels me. Don’t knock sublimation until you’ve tried it.

So I sit there, Bettye LaVette on the radio and chambray shirt rolled to my elbows, preparing to ink my latest plate. But just as I’m about to get started, I notice an indentation in the plate. Once it was just a nick in the wax, but now it’s a reservoir for ink, a blotch waiting to happen.

Some prints look good—even better—with a bit of random “noise.” Not this one. I swear under my breath and prepare to study the plate closer. Sometimes you can fix something like this; sometimes you have to start over.

Although there are several different etching techniques, and I’ve experimented with most of them, every method of etching involves the same fundamental process. You always start with a metal plate; you coat that plate with a waxy, acid-resistant material; you carve the design or picture you want to make into the wax, all the way down to the metal; and then you pour the acid. The acid bites into the metal, cutting your lines into it permanently. Then, when you ink the plate, you reveal a pattern you can print over and over—each piece of art identical and yet genuine, never faded by repetition.

But when you make a mistake, the error lives on and on. The ink catches it every time. No matter how many more prints you make, the blot will always be there, replicated a hundredfold.

Sometimes I think my life is the metal plate. Anthony carved the lines into me. But my toxic relationship with my family—and now the way Jonah turned on me—that’s the acid.

And the same stains, the same errors, repeat themselves every time.

Disquieted, I step away from my work. A minute’s break might be a good idea. I go to the water cooler and get a drink in a tiny paper cup, then recall that I haven’t turned my phone back on since midafternoon. Might as well see what’s going on.

As it powers up, I tell myself, You will not expect a text from Jonah. You won’t. It’s not happening.

This proves to be true. He didn’t text me, but Geordie did. Five times.

OMG Viv I’m so sorry is your dad okay?

Carmen says he’s all right but jesus you must be freaked out want to meet up for a drink bet you could use one

Hey I’m at Freddy’s Place if you feel like coming out

Theiyre beng total shitheads Viv fuck this place

If you know the owner of this phone, can you come pick him up? He is not allowed to remain on the premises.—Management

The time stamp on that last one is only ten minutes ago. I groan and grab my purse.

Most people think of Freddy’s Place as “the one next to the Mexican restaurant that turned out to be a front for the largest drug-running enterprise in town.” (No offense to Freddy’s, which is awesome. But when they busted the Mexican restaurant, it was pretty big news.) The food at Freddy’s is good, but when I come here, it’s usually for a drink or dessert after a movie, sometimes both. I love their courtyard, strung with lights, filled with laughter, and always visited by a few dogs dozing under their masters’ tables.

The person I’ve come here with most often is Geordie, and as I see him slumped on the porch, I wonder if we’ll ever be allowed on the premises again.

“Viv!” Geordie holds both hands in the air, like he just scored a winning soccer goal. “I told you she’d come!”

The manager standing next to him, arms crossed, scowls even more deeply. “You know this one?”

“Yeah, sure thing.” Oh, my God, Geordie’s so drunk. It’s not like I haven’t seen him messed up before, but it’s weird to see him this trashed this early in the day, especially when he’s out on his own. “I’ll take him home. Has he paid his tab?”

Geordie laughs. “O’ course I paid! Whadya think I am, luv?”

That much Scots accent means bad news. “Sorry,” I mutter to the manager as I scoop one of Geordie’s arms around my shoulders.

The guy shrugs. “He can’t keep doing this. That’s all I can say.”

“What do you mean, ‘keep doing this’?”

This wins me a disbelieving snort. “He shows up here at least once a week. We told him a while ago we weren’t going to allow him to drive away—so most of the time he takes taxis. Today he drove here, though, and I can’t allow him to leave. We could get sued for millions if he had a crash, and frankly, it’s just a matter of time.”

“I’m not tryin’ to drive!” Geordie bellows. “If you’d let me order some more food I’d be fine.”

The manager doesn’t even glance at him. “If he ever comes here alone again, we won’t even serve him. Maybe remind him of that tomorrow. That way he might actually remember it.”

With that, the manager walks away, leaving me standing there with Geordie’s weight heavy against my side. He smells like rum. “Thanks, Viv,” he murmurs, giving me his goofiest, most endearing smile.

“Just get in the car.” I can see his Fiat in the parking lot. Tomorrow morning someone will have to bring him back here to pick it up; probably that’s going to be me.

As I head toward his apartment complex, Geordie says, “He’s exaggeratin’, you know he is. Two times I’ve been there. Maybe three.”

“But you were going to drive like this, Geordie. You can’t do that.”

“I didn’t want to drive like this. I wanted to eat and wait another couple of hours! I’d’ve been fine then, y’know I would.”

Maybe he would have been. Maybe the manager was in a shitty mood. And Geordie’s always partied hard without it screwing up his life.

Yet I can’t help thinking over the last few times I’ve hung out with Geordie. He drank heavily every single time. Halloween, he even lost consciousness at Arturo and Shay’s. We’re not eighteen-year-olds experimenting with alcohol for the first time; Geordie is thirty. He should be past that by now.

“You Americans.” Geordie leans back in my passenger seat. The city lights flicker behind his handsome profile. “You’re Puritans, every one of ye. In Scotland, they’d call me a teetotaler.”

I went to Edinburgh one summer when I was eighteen, on one of those “if it’s Friday it must be Belgium” lightning tours of Europe. Plus I watched the fishermen at that inn where Jonah and I stayed on the Isle of Skye. Geordie’s not lying about the way they drink. Every pub fills at five P.M. with Scots from all walks of life. Over there, the day isn’t complete without a pint or two.

You’re overthinking this, I tell myself. This is basically a cultural difference. Besides, Geordie’s been working so hard on his LLM. You know the pressure he’s under. Why shouldn’t he knock back with a drink once in a while? So he got carried away one time. It happens.

I’ve said things like this to myself before. But tonight is the first time I realize what I sound like.

I sound like my mom. I sound like Chloe.

I sound like someone working very hard to deny the truth.

We get to Geordie’s apartment complex. As I put the car in park, he says, “Thanks, luv. Sure you won’t come up? Oh, no, that’s right, it’s all Jonah now, isn’t it?”

Jonah’s name feels like a lash against my skin. Yet I stay focused. “Geordie?”

“Yeah?”

I take a deep breath. “You drink too much.”

He laughs. “I told you—”

“I know what you told me. But you’ve been drinking harder the past few months than you ever did before. You’ve been drinking alone—and not, like, a glass of wine with dinner. Drinking hard.”

Geordie groans. “Ah, Christ, the morality police.”

“Listen to me,” I plead. “Geordie, we may not be in love anymore, but you know I still love you as a friend. I care about you, and I want good things for you, always. So I have to say this.”

“Say what?”

Telling the truth is terrifying. It’s a leap off a cliff. I’m going to hit the ground hard. All I can hope is that afterward, Geordie will think over what I’ve said and listen.

So I look him in the eyes as I say, “You have a drinking problem.”

I expect him to laugh at me. Instead Geordie only stares. He’s not used to my being that blunt; that makes two of us. Only now am I finally learning how to be honest even when it’s hard.

“Please,” I say more softly. “You’re the most incredible person. You can have a wonderful life and do so much good in the world. Don’t let this own you. Stop and think about what’s happening. Get some help. And know that I’m behind you no matter what.”

A long moment of silence passes, one in which I imagine him laughing at me, or cursing me. He does neither, only sighs deeply as he buries his face in his hand. “Christ, Viv.”

“I wouldn’t say this if I didn’t love you.” Only as the words come out of my mouth does it hit me that the truth can be a gift of love. That no other gift can possibly compare.

But Geordie simply steps out of the car and slams it behind him. He trudges into the apartment complex without ever looking back.

Even our greatest gifts sometimes come too late.