CHAPTER 9
There’s a semitruck sitting on my head. Not literally, but with the intense pressure of the hangover inside my skull, there could be. Maybe there’s an entire highway in there? What’s worse is my fingers can’t find the button on my phone alarm to stop the incessant buzz, which is making my headache fifty times worse.
Whah. Whah. Whah.
I smack the snooze button and it dies in a slow whine. My hand slides away, but I don’t have the energy to return it to my side. It hangs off the bed as I groan in agonizing pain. My neck is stiff, and my pillow’s wet from drool.
A shower would help but there’s no hot water, an inconsequential fact I forget until I’m standing in the tub naked and reaching for a hot water knob that doesn’t exist. I work on plan B—hyping myself to take a cold shower. I blow out several quick breaths and turn the knob. I scream when icy pellets rain from the showerhead, stabbing my skin. Far-reaching goosebumps rise to the size of mountains, and I whimper as I scramble to soap myself down.
Advil and the two glasses of water ease some of the intensity of the headache. Looking back with a little clarity, I remember finishing off the bottle of Chianti by myself. That accounts for my courage... or insanity. However I look at it, last night was a failure on many unfortunate levels. I flinch when Evan’s rejection shines forefront in my mind. I squeeze my eyes shut to dispel the memory, but the edginess I can’t shake is embarrassment. I’m living in it like a second skin.
I set up the coffee maker. Too tired to return for it, I settle my head in a bed of tangled arms, slumped over the cool kitchen counter until it brews. The coffee maker switches off, and I transfer the pot to the stove. I pour in a cup of cream, dump in almost the same amount of sugar, and stir everything with a spatula.
With my potholders tucked under my arm, I carry the coffee pot to living room and set it on a tile coaster. I click a cell snapshot of the arrangement and send it to Aggie.
ME: I’ll never, EVA make fun of u about this again. Ur a genius.
As I sit back and wait for the coffee to cool, my eyelids droop heavy and close. But the relief is temporary. They snap open when my cell buzzes, bringing me back to life.
AGGIE: Damn straight. Now open ur door.
Before I can make it off the couch, Aggie lets herself in.
“You have a key?” I ask and fall back into the cushions, half relieved about not moving, but half worried about her having access to everything. I may return home to an apartment filled with rainbow propaganda.
“Don’t you have one of mine?” She sets her things down.
“How would I? You never gave me one. I never gave you one.” My forehead creases.
“What kind of bestie would I be if I didn’t break into your apartment every now and then?”
I bobble my head, considering the genius of the coffee pot. A copy of her apartment key would have come in handy last night while she was out. It might have saved me. I inspect her, contemplating her eccentric genius and find something unexpected.
“You’re glowing or something,” I say as she sprawls across the chair opposite me.
“If you’re wondering if I did the deed, the answer is...” She’s a flutter of jiggling body parts. She pauses, holding me in suspense.
“Just tell me.” I toss a pillow over my face waiting for the details of her conquest, while I have to wallow in the failure of mine. I can’t take it anymore. And what’s worse, I’ll have to text Lou and ask him to play along with my epic lie. He’s going to kill me. I groan.
“I did not,” she admits.
Eyes widened, I peek from beneath my pillow. She’s settled into the loveseat sipping my coffee pot. She places it back on the table.
“All those theatrics for nothing?”
“Adam and I were having fun. It got complex. He went off on a nerd tangent. Amy from accounting dumped a gallon of iced cherry Kool-Aid on me. You know, one of those Hurricane drinks? Anyway, it was right before we hijacked the Architectural Tour Boat, crashed it into the Downward Dawgs hotdog stand, and were arrested. Long story.” She wiggles her fingers, the tips blackened with fingerprint ink. A mischievous grin dances on her face.
“You’re happy because you have a rap sheet now?”
“Phfft. I’ve had one of those for years. I’m happy because I met Paul.” She continues, “He’s gorgeous and charming, and he has a white horse that he dresses like a unicorn. Sort of. And there’s a strong possibility we may never see each other again.”
She sighs and pinches her shoulders to her ears with glee, “It was a brief and beautiful love affair.”
I clutch the pillow to my chest and belt out a hysterical giggle until my gut hurts. I curl into the pain and hold my midsection. Tears stream down my cheeks, blurring my vision. The movement makes my hangover pound, so I grab my head and rub the skull-splitting pain. But the longer I laugh, the more the tension releases until it’s gone.
“I didn’t even tell you the good part,” she protests.
“Oh man,” I rein in the laughter and wipe the tears away. I needed that. “I should have come with you.”
“Didn’t you do your normal woe-is-me-sucky-non-happy-hour and then run for five hours?”
“How do you know me so well?”
“I just imagine the most boring thing in the world and that’s usually what you’re doing.”
My lips twist. I could tell Aggie everything, but I’m too ashamed to confess my launch into possible awesomeness and my quick descent into epic crash and burn. Besides, I’d prefer to hear the details of her night than relive the horrors of mine. I reposition on the couch, moving closer.
She relays her story while sharing photos on her phone. In true Aggie fashion, it’s no less than amazing. By the time she’s finished her epic tale, I believe with my entire heart she and Paul belong together. At least that’s what I tell her. I’m a little more of a cynic than that, but why kill her buzz? She’s happy and over weasel-boy Brad with one crazy night. Maybe there’s something to finding a new guy to replace the old one?
She kicks her feet onto the love sofa, relaxing into the cushions. Her attention swings around the room. “I should bring some stuff over to decorate. Your apartment needs some color. Some happy.”
“Or you could stay at your place and admire your crazy stuff from there.”
“But you don’t even have a TV.” She spouts off all the reality shows she’s missing, including the current season of some “psychic, secret lover, wilderness tree house” survival show she’s obsessed with.
I don’t admit the reason I don’t have a TV. With my amnesia, watching is overwhelming. I avoid the news. Hearing of any violence sends me into a panic attack. Watching abstract commercials flash from one scene to the next leaves me with a thousand questions, from wondering why watermelon is pink to why Kanye West thinks he’s so awesome. Some things make sense while others don’t. Thankfully I remembered words, their meanings, and procedural activates, like driving or cleaning laundry.
Recovering has been more than remembering my life. It’s been about sorting out and making sense of almost everything else too. During my recovery, I spent a large part of my time with various tutors and therapists who helped get me back into college so I could return to a normal existence—whatever that is.
That being said, I’ve learned a lot from watching movies and TV shows on Netflix on my iPad. Depending on how you look at it, they saved me or gave me a false view of the world. It’s easier to follow a simple story from beginning to end where I can piece together some semblance of meaning. Still, I stick to romance and comedy. That’s all I can handle.
Aggie would be shocked to learn her Princess of Darkness needs to laugh at a comedy or sink into a romance rather than watch The Walking Dead. I’ve had enough of that on my own.
We nap on the couch for a few hours. After we wake, Aggie heads home. I rise with the bizarre and overwhelming urge to shop. Or maybe I know exactly why I need to shop but can’t come to terms with the reason.
Evan still hasn’t fixed my hot water handle when I return home with an armful of shopping bags. It pains me more on Monday when I take another freezing shower for work.
I select some of my new purchases: a trim crimson dress suit and black heels with red soles. This morning I style my hair in loose waves down my back and apply makeup. When I look in the mirror, I barely recognize myself. The last time I wore bright colors or makeup? I can’t recall.
And there’s the information I want to ignore. The reason I’m doing this in the first place. I needed to reassure myself after Saturday night’s rejection. I need to feel better even it’s only physically. But a more troublesome part wants to make Evan regret his dismissal. I’m reasonable enough to understand this is a childish response, but I’m stuck on the idea of revenge.
You look ridiculous. I sigh and twist in front of the mirror. My mind picks at the roundness of my hips, the thickness of my thighs, the way the suit sticks too tight to the curve of my butt, and cautions I’ll be fighting the tangles in my hair all day. No matter what I do, I’ll still be the same mess beneath the lipgloss and painted fingernails. I sigh at my stupidity.
Giving in to the negative whispers, I unbutton my jacket and shimmy out of it. I hang it while mentally making plans to return all impulse purchases tonight. The suits, the shoes, the lingerie. What was I thinking?
When I remove my normal Monday suit from the closet, my cell chirps. I pick it up from my dresser and read the message.
LINDEN: Where r u? Meeting moved 2 8:30.
I freeze at the information and then glance at the clock. I yelp. It’s 8:15 a.m. For the sake of my job I forgo the self-pity, snatch the jacket back from the hanger, and race for the front door. No time to change.
At the bottom of the stairs I’m dressed again. I dart through the lobby, pulse racing, and out the building’s front door and into the blaring sunshine. The chilled morning air smacks me in the face, and I burrow into my jacket before shuffling down the front stoop.
Evan’s leaning over a long garden planter on hands and knees. He’s tugging out the dying summer flowers, replacing them with purple and orange mums for the fall. There’s dark potting soil everywhere.
I ignore him and tiptoe across the crunching dirt to reach the curb. I raise my arm, frantic to wave down a taxi. It’s the only way I’ll arrive at work on time.
“Morning, sunshine,” Evan says.
I sink at his greeting. I look over at him even though I don’t want to. He shifts from kneeling and sits on the ground, one arm draped over a raised knee. He peers at me with squinting eyes. The fringe of his dark lashes press together. The golden sun hits his face, highlighting a patch of smudged dirt on his cheek.
I hoped he would leave me alone in my shame, but it wouldn’t be Evan if he did. Instead, he’s giving me extra attention. He doesn’t bother hiding his longing gaze. It catches my ankles first, pauses at the SpongeBob Band-Aid I left there, perhaps on purpose, and meanders up my legs. I’m wearing a new pair of what Aggie would call fuck-me heels, which I also may have originally worn on purpose. But now? I want to step into the street to move as far away from him as possible. Instead of giving in to self-consciousness, I roll my shoulders back, lift myself higher, and take a deep breath.
“Morning, Evan.” I remain cheery. If I pretend nothing happened the other night, that I’m not affected by him, that I haven’t spent the better part of the weekend thinking about his body pressed against mine, maybe my exterior facade will reflect the outrageous lie.
When two taxis pass with fares I wave a little harder, desperate for someone to rescue me. Impatient, I shift from one foot to another.
“Did you buy that sexy new outfit for me?”
My eyes widen. I return the zing, unwilling to let him win whatever this game is between us. I refuse to step down or lose.
“No new outfit needed. I’m naturally sexy.” On the inside I cringe. What the hell am I doing?
“Snappier than usual too. Special occasion?”
I’ll continue this charade of confidence to put him in his place, to affirm I’m splendid, despite every inner voice screaming to stop. The actress releases. The mask of happiness takes over. “Oh it’s because I love crisp days.” I pop my shoulder and grasp at the straps of my handbag.
“Why’s that?”
“I love the chilly wind whipping underneath my skirt when I’m pantiless.”
As his jaw drops, I step off the curb to meet a stopped taxi and open the back door. Before I leave, I turn my backside to him and say, “No panty lines, see?”
I don’t wait for his response. Instead, I swing my hips into the backseat, slip my feet inside, and slam the back passenger door. Shocked at my own fearlessness, I mutter the address to the driver. He sets his meter and takes off.
Eyes glazing over, I replay our conversation in my head. An unexpected snap of a frenzied laugh escapes my lips, and I cover my mouth with my hand when the driver curiously glances back through the rearview mirror.
With pure enjoyment I watch the world pass but only see Evan’s shocked expression behind my eyes. I took control. I put him in his place. And for the first time since after, I’m discovering how much fun it is to flirt, and I think I like it.