by Sierra Hill
I groan, realizing with every breath and tiny movement that I no longer have the constitution or stamina of a twenty-two-year-old. I’m trapped in the body of a thirty-year-old man who forgets what a night of excess and too much Irish whiskey can do to him.
Gingerly rolling to my side, being careful to avoid any sudden movement, I can feel that slow sludge of my hangover seeping through me at every point along the way – my head laden with thick vines, hands sticky from the whiskey residue oozing out of my pores and perspiration, and my mouth a moss-covered pond of thick muck.
My palm presses into the mattress, and I push my body into an upright position, waiting for the telltale signs of hangover nausea to bubble up from the depths of my stomach. Sitting a moment at the edge of the bed gives me the confidence to rise to a standing position, and I immediately regret the decision.
“Oh, fuck,” I groan, the contents of my stomach climbing up my esophagus and prepping to evacuate unless I sit back down and stop the world from turning.
My butt lands back down on the bed. I flop to my side, burying my head in the pillow. From this angle, I see my phone and keys on my bedside table beside a glass of water and some pain relief tablets.
Not remembering a thing after leaving my hook up’s apartment, I don’t know if I was even in a state of mind to pour myself water or not. Did I do that on my own? Something in the recesses of my mind triggers awareness as to someone else being here with me.
Soft moans. Soft voice. Stroking my hair. Telling me it’s okay.
The image dissipates from my brain when I peel my lids open again and glance down at my body, seeing that I’m only in a pair of gray briefs. A moment of dread churns through me, because now I remember someone being with me, and I move too fast, spinning my head to peer over my shoulder to confirm.
But I’m alone, and it appears no one else spent the night with me. So it must’ve been my imagination that conjured a woman to my bedroom.
The problem, however, is that the entire night has been blacked out from my memory. To be honest, it’s more than a little disconcerting. I’ve only ever been this level of blackout drunk once before—the day we laid my baby sister to rest.
I’d gone out last night to commemorate Mel’s birthday, and to get away from the quiet somberness of my apartment. I remember sitting at the bar after maybe my second shot when, out of nowhere, a woman sat down next to me and put the moves on me.
I wasn’t there to get laid. And the more disinterested I acted, the more the woman persisted. And then I saw Sutton. The sea of people parted momentarily, and when I looked up from my drink, my eyes landed on her. She looked devastatingly beautiful and sexy-as-fuck in a sparkly blue dress that showed off every curve of her body.
I’d planned on going to talk to her. Ask her to dance. Anything, but after another round of whiskey the woman ordered, Sutton disappeared, no longer in my line of sight. So, I’d said, “fuck it” and went home with the woman. Did I even get her name? Hell, if I can remember.
Everything else is a hazy clump like a dream that you wake from, catching only fleeting glimpses and images in your head, unable to process everything to make a complete picture.
But somewhere in my foggy brain, I remember seeing Sutton. And it wasn’t just at the bar. Was she here?
With a foggy brain, a spasming stomach, and a head full of regret, I finally make my way to the bathroom, relieving myself and jumping in the shower for what I hope will clear away the stench of the whiskey remnants clinging to my skin.
After an hour, or maybe more, seeing as how slow I’m slogging through basic tasks, I’m finally showered and dressed, with coffee brewing in the kitchen as I munch on a piece of dry toast. I open the cupboard to extract a coffee cup, and out of the corner of my eye, I notice a note near a pile of stacked mail on my table.
Curious what it is, because I certainly hadn’t put it there, I place the cup down and pick up the folded piece of paper. My name is scrawled in a swirly, frilly script on the outer flap.
Unfolding it, I read it, then reread it, having to grab the back of the kitchen chair to keep myself from falling over.
Dear Miles,
I hope you are feeling better this morning. You were zonked out when I left you in bed. I want you to know how much last night meant to me. And I hope you’re not mad about what I told you and that I didn’t tell you sooner.
Anyway, thanks for understanding. You know where to find me.
Fondly,
Sutton
Expecting to be foggy-headed and unable to concentrate after a night of heavy boozing is a no brainer. But even after reading Sutton’s note several times, I’m still lost as to what she is talking about.
First, what did we do together that meant so much to her? Shit, did we fuck? And if we did, how do I not remember that? And what was it she told me that I would’ve been mad about?
Speed walking as fast as I can back to my bedroom, I search for any signs that we may have had sex. I search on the floor, under the bed, and in my bathroom trash bin and find no evidence of a condom. This isn’t a foolproof way of confirming that sex didn’t happen, but I’ve always been a stickler for wrapping the goods.
You were drunk out of your mind.
I flip the bird to my conscience and slide down to my butt, my back against the bedframe, holding the note in front of me as if it’ll suddenly explain everything, even though it’s the fourth time I’ve read it.
According to my quick assessment, I don’t think I had sex with Sutton. That thought brings both relief and a strange sense of letdown, hitting my stomach like a lead balloon.
Regardless, the note also refers to her telling me something. Something that might have upset me. What did she tell me that she hadn’t before?
Confusion adds to the constant throb in my hangover addled head, and there are too many thoughts spinning in my brain. I need to find Sutton and figure out what the hell is going on. Because try as I might, I don’t remember anything that may have transpired between us last night after I returned home.
And while I may remember none of it, it’s clear something happened. And if I want to find out, I will have to extract it from the only other person who might know.
With my mind made up, I finish my coffee, check a few emails, and head over to the apartment next door.
To the woman who seems to be taking up residence in my daily thoughts and interactions. Who has grabbed hold of something buried deep inside me and shaken it loose, so I’m now unraveling piece-by-piece.
And it feels like Sutton’s the only one who can stitch me back together.
14
Sutton
“Have you thought about writing a letter to Ask Ida to get her opinion on what you should do?”
I look up from the boxes of clothing that I’m sorting through to find Lucy standing in the doorway, her hand at her crooked hip, pinning me with a pointed look as she snacks on a carrot. We’ve been recounting the strange encounters I’ve had recently with Miles, all the bizarre behaviors he’s exhibited, and how I finally told him about Mel last night right before he kissed me.
“Ask Ida?” I ask, giving her a quizzical glance as I continue to unfold a pile of new blouses from the storeroom. “You mean the advice column in the paper where she doles out advice to readers about their crazy life problems?”
Lucy smiles and gives a rapid nod. “Si. I read it all the time and Ida always gives practical and realistic suggestions, and they usually make me laugh. She’s hilarious and tells it like it is. I’ve wanted to write in several times on how to handle my surly teenager.”
I laugh as Lucy rolls her eyes in exasperation over her daughter, Maria.
Returning my attention to the remaining bags of clothing in the box, I consider her suggestion about writing to the advice columnist about my troubles with Miles.
“I don’t know. . . I’d worry I’d be identified. That would make matters even worse between Miles and me.”
I chew on my lip
, sitting back on my heels to consider the possibility of writing my tale of woe to a newspaper columnist to share all my embarrassing moments with Miles. What would I even include in that letter? Would I share everything about our past and history, adding that he’s now kissed me twice and each time he’s been drunk as a skunk? It makes me sound pathetic and lame.
Lucy kneels down next to me, picking up the box cutter and slicing open another box, this one filled with leather purses and other accessories. Each one of these items will have to be inventoried, by yours truly. I’ll iron any wrinkly fabrics before merchandising them out on the shop floor. It’s definitely not one of my favorite tasks, but at least I get paid for doing the mind-numbing work. The only problem is it leaves me a ton of time to think about Miles.
“No, you could remain anonymous and change names and the story up a little. Why don’t you tell me about the trouble with this neighbor of yours? Maybe I can help you.”
My shoulders sag with all the emotion and anxiety I’ve felt the last two days since the night Miles kissed me.
“Lucy, you have no idea. Everything about this situation makes me feel like a fool. Like a puppy dog chasing after him, desperate for his attention. The only time he’s ever paid me any attention is when he’s been wasted. The first time was seven years ago, the day of Melodie’s funeral. And the other night, it was actually Mel’s birthday.”
I cover my face with my hands to hide my shame. Just hearing the story alone makes me sound like an idiot. The man doesn’t see me as a potential girlfriend or a woman he wants to date. My presence when he’s been blitzed out of his mind is merely a convenience when he’s desperate.
Lucy makes a tsking noise, clucking her tongue, and reaches over to tug my hands free. My palms drop to the tops of my thighs as I open my eyes to see one of her gentle, motherly smiles etched across her mouth, and I can’t help but return the smile.
“Sutton, I don’t know Miles, but I know the only fool in this scenario is him if he passes you up. You are a beautiful, bright, and genuine young woman who has so much to offer some deserving man. But that is just my opinion. You should definitely write to Ask Ida. She will know what you should do.”
Later that evening, after walking Blackie and heating up some spaghetti and meatballs from a frozen dinner, I pull up the Ask Ida website on my laptop. Scrolling through pages of previously answered letters, I chuckle out loud at some outrageously funny stories people have sent in and the hilarious responses from Ida. One is from a reader named Stuck-Up Suit in Manhattan. That one is a kind of sweet love story.
Reading a few more letters to get an idea of what details I should include; I open up the “Contact” page on the website and begin typing.
Dear Ida,
I have a problem. I’m in love with my childhood best friend’s older brother, who also now happens to be my neighbor. It’s a long story, but the problem is that he barely knows I exist, even though he’s kissed me twice in the last seven years. But after each kiss, he’s promptly forgotten me. Literally forgotten. He doesn’t remember our kisses or even who I am to him. And he certainly doesn’t know how I feel about him.
In fact, he’s sort of a big shot financial guy and isn’t at all like the boy I knew. I know he’s grieving over a tremendous loss in his life, and I want more than anything to help him get through it. But I fear it would only hurt me in the long run.
What do I do? Stay away from him or pour my heart out in hopes he’ll remember?
–The Forgotten Fool
I stare at the blinking cursor rereading the letter, doing a quick check for typos or grammatical errors before I send it out into the unknown. With a confidence that I don’t particularly feel, I confirm the note doesn’t offer too many identifying details and press the Send button.
The sound of a door closing down the hallway has me holding my breath and stiffening in my seat. Is that Miles? Where’s he been?
It’s a Sunday evening, and a glance at the clock on the wall shows it’s after ten p.m. I wonder how he’s feeling. Was he hung over? Did he get sick last night after I’d left?
Guilt seizes in my belly, gnawing and chewing at my insides like an angry monster, as the memory of me sneaking out of his apartment to return to my guestroom alone haunts me. What I’d really wanted to do was curl up beside Miles and sleep next to him all night.
Yet I chose not to, out of self-preservation more than anything. I just couldn’t stay in his bed because I’d end up fussing over him to make sure he was okay as his drunken stupor wore off. And then I’d probably lose all my sensibilities and end up having sex with him.
And that would’ve been stupid.
The one thing I know to be true about this strange pull I have with Miles is that when he wants to — when that steely, big shot veneer is lifted — he can be effortlessly charming and so damn sweet.
I remember after he and Melodie’s mom died, and their stepdad took off, their grandmother moved in with them. Miles was around sixteen at the time, in high school, and he immediately took over as the man of the house. He got the job as a lifeguard in the summer and stocked the grocery store shelves during the school year, working hard to provide for his family.
I never knew hardship like that when I was a kid. My parents were lower-middle class, my dad working at the local fishery, and my mom was an elementary school teacher. As an only child, I never went without anything, albeit we didn’t live in the lap of luxury or own multiple cars or anything extravagant. But it was a good home.
Nothing like the home Miles and Mel grew up in. But that didn’t stop Miles from always helping others, all while working hard to get himself out of our small town. He achieved in everything he did and got a scholarship to an Ivy League school.
Although I know it was what was best for Miles and his future, it seemed to be the end of the Melodie I’d grown up with. Because as we entered our last year of middle school, that’s when our friendship ended.
Over the next few years, I made so many mistakes with avoidable outcomes, that I wish I could go back and change them.
If only that Magic Eightball we’d played with when we were kids could have given us different options, and we’d taken different paths to prevent the inevitable consequences that led us to where we ended up.
An end to a friendship.
A death of a beautiful sweet girl.
And the irrevocable change in a boy as he grew into the man I know today.
15
The Past—Sutton
“Oh my God, Sut. Take this sex quiz with me. You won’t believe what boys like girls to do!”
I peer up from the Harry Potter book I’ve been reading, more than a little shocked and wide-eyed to see Mel across the kitchen table, pointing down at a Cosmopolitan magazine in front of her. A magazine far too mature for the likes of us.
I still like reading about the whirlwind romance between Selena Gomez and Justin Bieber. I think they’ll totally go the distance and get married someday, but Mel thinks Biebs will break her heart.
I do a quick glance around the room to make sure we’re not overheard by anyone, but Melodie’s grandmother is out at the store, and Miles just got home from work and jumped in the shower before dinner. One of the primary reasons I’ve been staying around longer at Mel’s every day is so I can get a chance to see Miles.
And when he came home a few minutes ago from his lifeguard job, he was tan, dripping with sweat and was so dang hot I could barely speak. I kept my head down in my book for the majority of the time he was in the kitchen, grabbing a soda and snacks. He’d asked Mel how her day was and where Granny was, and that was that.
But I imagine if he returned right now and overheard us having a conversation about sex, I would die of embarrassment.
“Mel, shhh,” I reprimand with my finger over my lips to quiet her down. “You shouldn’t talk about those things. Especially if your brother might accidentally overhear.”
She lets out a cackle of a laugh. “Are you for rea
l right now? Just last week, I caught Miles down in the basement, getting busy with Jessie D’Marco. He couldn’t care less if we’re talking about S. E. X.”
Then she seems to rethink her statement, her expression going from know-it-all to contrite. “Well, he has said he’d kill any boy that tries it with me, though. I guess he has very different opinions on talking versus doing.”
Over the years, Mel and I have had conversations about everything under the sun. From how long it takes Princess Leia from Star Wars to do her hair. To discussing the crazy antics of the Wizards of Waverly Place and how I wanted to meet Selena someday. She’s my idol.
Or how we’d try to do our best Hannah Montana southern drawl impression when we talked and played pretend. Or whether aliens on other planets really existed, a topic of serious debate after we’d watched the movie, Signs.
We had great times together, always. Until recently, my friendship with Melodie had been rock solid, and we’d stayed safely in the PG-rated zone. While I wasn’t a Miss Goodie-Two-Shoes, I was baptized Catholic. This past fall, I’d begun attending weekly catechism classes, receiving loads of religious education and doctrine related to The Bible, God’s word, and how we as children of God should behave and save ourselves for marriage.
And sex before marriage was most definitely not on the good behavior list.
But over this past summer, I’d begun seeing distinct changes in Melodie. When she was alone with me, she was her same old self. But when we were out in public together, she’d walk and talk differently. Wear tighter and skimpier clothes. And would even curse using the F-word, which she’d never used before.
The day she said it, we’d been sitting on the stoop in front of the library, talking with Lizzie Barrington and Brittany Feldman, and I nearly choked on my Cherry Vanilla ICEE I’d just bought from the 7-Eleven down the street. My jaw dropped at her profanity and use of the F-bomb, incredulous that she said it out loud and in public, no less!
