by P. Dangelico
“I guess he just got what he wanted.” His gaze returns to me, taking in every detail of my face. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You know that, right?”
I fall deeper, faster, harder.
“I have to say this…” I suck in a deep breath, summon all the strength I can scrape together. “I know you feel responsible. But Brian was in danger every day he lived on the streets. Every day he used.”
His face morphs into intractable determination. “I insisted he wear those sneakers. I was actually worried he would sell them for smack,” he says with force and shakes his head. So much self-inflicted blame. “They killed him. He kept his promise to me and he died because of it.”
“Reagan…it’s not your fault.” He looks away. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
His eyes lock back onto mine. There’s a sharpness in them I don’t like. “The same reason you never talk about your mother and grandmother dying. The reason you don’t discuss that you think you’ll get it too.”
His words hit like a hammer. “That’s really mean of you.”
Remorse and shame blanket his face. “Let’s get out.” He jumps out of the pool and offers me his hand. The conversation is as good as over.
Chapter 29
Alice
February comes quickly. My birthday rolls around but I don’t mention it to Reagan. In light of what’s happened it seems stupid and selfish. What’s to celebrate when Brian will never have another?
“We’re going to the Avalon tonight. Marcus Schulz is DJing,” Zoe tells me in no uncertain terms and by the look on her face it’s going to be a hard-fought argument.
I pause the Game of Thrones rerun I was absently watching and turn in my seat on the couch to take in Blake’s sympathetic expression and Zoe’s determined one. “I don’t think I’m feeling like celebrating.”
Zoe sits on the couch next to me. “Look, I get it. It’s fucking sad as shit what happened. But this is your day. It’s not often you turn twenty-one, and damnit, you, we need to celebrate that.”
One night of respite from the sadness does sound tempting.
“What about Reagan? What do I say to him? Sorry you’re in a deep state of depression, but I’m going to a club with my friends.”
“Basically,” Zoe answers without an ounce of remorse.
“Just tell him that your friends insist on taking you out for your birthday,” Blake cuts in after scowling at Zoe. “Which is the truth.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek, deliberating what to do. One night out does sound fun. “Okay,” I murmur.
An hour later, I call Reagan and detect the raspy note of the sleep in his voice. “Hello?”
“Rea?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you make it to class today?”
I await his answer with a knot in my gut, already anticipating what the answer will be. He’s barely been out of the house all month. And if he keeps that up, he’ll fail every one of his classes.
“Uhh, nah. I’m just so tired.”
“I know, babe,” I sympathize, my voice breaking. I don’t know how to help him and it’s killing me. “I wanted to tell you that the girls are taking me out tonight and I won’t be able to come over.”
“Out? Why?” He sounds genuinely confused.
“It’s my birthday,” I gently remind him. “The thirteenth of February.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah.”
“Shit. I’m sorry, babe. Happy birthday.”
“It’s okay. I know you have a lot on your mind.”
“Where are you guys going?”
“The Avalon. Zoe made plans.”
There’s a long pause, after which, he says, “You guys have fun. Happy birthday.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I croak, tears burning my eyes.
“Alice…”
“Yeah.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“This club is dope as fuck!” Zoe walks inside shouting, arms raised, her ass swaying in the short white dress she’s wearing.
Dora, Blake, and I nod and smile at the doorman, trailing after her as if she were the Pied Piper of fun. The first floor is the lounge area. It’s decorated beautifully in lush velvet, rich dark wood, and crystal chandeliers.
At one of the VIP booths we spot a major movie star and his model girlfriend. At another are two actors I recognize from television. On the far end of the bar sits a rock legend talking to a girl a third his age.
The place is packed with beautiful people. Most of the women and some of the men could grace the covers of fashion magazines. All of them seeking attention.
“What are you guys drinking?” Zoe shouts over the din of the packed bar.
“How are you buying? You’re not twenty-one yet,” I remind her when she starts waving her black Amex.
She smirks. “Oh, Alice. You’re funny. Not intentionally of course. I’ve had a fake ID since I was sixteen.”
Dora’s eyes bug out. “I’ll have a Diet Coke, please.”
Zoe rolls her eyes. “Why am I not surprised.”
“Z, c’mon, cut them some slack tonight,” Blake chides.
“One shot and then we dance. But you all are having one shot tonight. You too, Red. No excuses. I don’t want to hear about your perfect parents disapproving.”
“Fine,” Dora mutters, Zoe squeals, and we all cover our ears.
Like a pro, Zoe flirts shamelessly with the ridiculously good-looking bartender while she orders. “Four Red-Headed Sluts, please.” She hands one to each one of us and raises her glass. “To Alice. Happy twenty-first birthday and to many more.”
We bring our glasses together and toast. “And to friendship,” I add. Everything that’s happened only reminds me how precious each minute is, each person that’s in my life. “I don’t know how I would’ve survived this year without you guys. I just want you to know how much I love you.”
Zoe’s eyes run over with tears. Blake smiles through hers. And Dora wipes her damp cheeks. We all down our shots and Dora comes up sputtering and choking.
“What the heck was in that?” she rasps.
“A good time,” is Zoe’s quick response. “Let’s dance!”
We make our way to the top floor where the EDM music pumps loudly and the bodies are all smashed up against each other on the dance floor.
Marc Schulz comes on to DJ and the crowd goes wild. A few hour later we’re all soaked in sweat and laughing and having a good time. It feels so good just to lose myself in the moment, the music, the good company of my friends. I’d forgotten how gratifying it can be. A couple of guys have already tried to join our little party of four and have been sent packing.
I feel a hand grip my hip from behind and react without thought, elbowing the stranger in the gut before he can press his body against mine.
“Easy. It’s me,” Rea murmurs in my ear, gripping my arm to shield himself.
He came. He’s miraculously here. He made the effort to get out of bed.
This is the sign I’ve been waiting for, that he’s on his way up from bottom. An overwhelming sense of relief washes over me. Like being out in the cold for so long that a small blanket feels like salvation.
Wrapping both arms around me, he places his face in the curve of my neck and his mouth on the damp skin of my throat. His groin presses into my butt and the unmistakable feel of an erection growing under the zipper makes me lean back in to him.
He’s lost weight. I can feel it in his thighs and biceps. In the way my fingers fall into the grooves between his ribs. I’d guess around a good fifteen pounds and he didn’t have any to spare.
We haven’t had any sex lately either. Depression is an equal-opportunity thief that steals all your desires: to move, to eat, to talk, to have sex…to live.
Anchoring me to his body, he moves his hips slowly in tandem with mine like he means to tonight. I feel the rasp of his tongue as he licks me, the gentle nip of my earl
obe. His hands on me possessive and teasing at the same time.
I never thought sex could be this…sensual. I thought it only existed in the minds of women, in the fantasy of the romance novels I occasionally read. Not in real life. Not in my life.
In his arms, I turn to face him and stare up into his beautiful face, illuminated by the blue and purple florescent strobe lights, his expression serious as he studies me.
“I love you…do I tell you enough?”
I’m nodding as tears well in my eyes. “Yeah, you do.”
“Good.” He exhales. I can feel his chest expanding against mine. “I…” His face breaks wide open, pain written in the grooves of his pinched-together eyebrows. “I don’t ever want you to doubt it.”
He brushes the wet strands of hair away from my lips and kisses me. The kind of kiss that demands sex, not the kind that’s meant to comfort. Fueled by a million volatile emotions, it gets out of hand fast.
His hips, anchored to mine, sway to a stop. He pulls back and looks beyond me. “I’m taking the birthday girl home, ladies.”
Although Zoe eyeballs him with naked disapproval, she manages to stay quiet on the matter. I breathe out a sigh of relief. That could’ve gone either way. “Can you do me a favor and drive Dallas home?” Reagan asks.
“He’s here!” Dora exclaims out of nowhere. I’m not sure if she sounds excited or worried. Judging by her expression, I settle on worried.
All heads turn to find Dallas at the bar, waiting to be served. Smiling at us, he runs a hand through his blond curls and waves with four fingers, which makes me laugh.
“That’s asking a lot,” Zoe remarks with a pout.
“I’ll owe you,” Reagan tells her with a smile.
“Yes. You will.”
A few minutes later, we’re driving out of the parking lot and headed back to Malibu. As soon as Reagan parks the Jeep in the driveway, he makes good on his silent promise, takes my face in his capable hands, and kisses me like he’s out to prove something.
I jump him, wrapping my legs around his waist, and let him carry me inside to his bedroom where he undresses me slowly. And once he’s done and I’m lying back naked on his bed, he stands before me and undresses himself slowly, watching me with undivided attention, like he’s committing this moment to eternal memory.
He pushes inside of me looking into my eyes. I don’t know what spurred this change in him tonight and I’m not about to question it. He’s present, here with me, for the first time since Brian died. I’m just grateful to have him back.
Changing the angle, he drives his hips harder against mine. Two thrusts and I’m coming. A few more and he shouts his release.
Shortly after, he falls asleep holding me tightly. In the meantime, I send up a prayer of gratitude. I’ve never really prayed before, but I figure it’s never too late to start.
The next morning, I wake up with a renewed sense of hope nipping at my heels. It follows me around everywhere. In the shower where I wash my hair with Reagan’s department-store-brand shampoo while whistling a happy tune. Into the kitchen where I make us two omelets.
“I’m starving. What smells so good?” he asks in a husky voice.
“You’re always starving,” I remark from the doorway, holding his dish.
Not lately, crosses my mind. I take it as another indication that his mood is improving.
Lifting his head off the pillow, he aims a sleepy smile at me that I’m sure the fertility god invented because that smile makes me want to get undressed and ride him for the rest of the morning.
But I can’t, I remind myself. I have an eight thirty class, and later in the afternoon, the interview for the James Cameron internship. Besides, we have all weekend to make up for lost time.
Walking into the room, I hand him a plate and fork. “What time is your first class today?” I ask him while he digs into the omelet.
Glancing up with the fork halfway to his mouth, he says, “Not till later. Take the Jeep to school.”
Thank God. He’s let me drive before––that’s not why I’m grateful. It’s because frankly I’m a little sore from all the action last night. Reagan woke me at dawn for a very vigorous round two and walking all those hills does not sound appealing at the moment.
“Good plan.” Leaning down, I take his face in my hands, and tip it up to plant a kiss on his lips. “Love you.”
“Love you too.” I’m practically out the door when I hear, “Thanks for feeding me, Jersey.”
My morning classes go by quickly. By the time I glance at my shiny new iPhone again, it’s already one o’clock and I haven’t heard from Reagan.
Maybe he slept through his class again? Maybe Brock or Cole gave him a ride? Either way, it doesn’t sit right that he hasn’t texted me. At the very least, to inquire when I can meet him to return the Jeep.
Dora promised to drive me to the interview in Santa Monica at four so it’s important I return the car before then. I get back to the dorm and change into my black knee length-sleeveless dress and flats, watching the phone with a growing sense of dread. It’s three by the time I’m done putting on mascara and blush. Bile swirls nervously in my gut and it has nothing to do with the upcoming interview.
I call him and it goes straight to voicemail. Which means he turned off his phone. For a fleeting moment, the thought that he would harm himself does cross my mind. After last night, however, I quickly cast the thought aside. Reagan has never been able to hide his emotions from me and I would’ve noticed something as critical as him sinking even lower. Still, I’m not an expert and the thought circulates some more.
I call four more times and leave increasingly angry and worried voicemails. By three thirty, I’m worked up in a frenzy and text Dora that she doesn’t have to drive me to the interview. I’ll go to Reagan’s, and after making sure he’s alive and in one piece, I’ll make him drive me as punishment.
As I’m pulling out of campus, the thought strikes me to call Dallas. He may be home and can check on him.
“Hey, Alice,” Dallas answers on the first ring. He sounds subdued and Dallas is not often, if ever, subdued. Another bad sign. At this point my heart is practically jumping out of my chest and my hands tremble on the steering wheel.
“Is he there? Is he okay?” Anxiety makes me forsake manners and everything else.
A scary long pause happens before Dallas speaks again. “He’s gone.”
Gone? “What the fuck does that mean! Is he alive?” I scream into the phone. Somehow the car takes me on autopilot down Reagan’s street.
“Yeah, sorry. I mean he left. He texted me an hour ago that he was leaving and not coming back…to get rid of his stuff.”
I pull into the driveway and jump out. Brock is already there, holding the front door open. “Alice,” he says in a sober tone. “Alice, wait.”
I run past him without a word and march down the hallway to Reagan’s bedroom.
Dallas is inside, staring into the walk-in closet. He turns when he hears me, his expression the epitome of discomfort with a side of sympathy. I step inside the empty closet with my heart galloping inside my chest, the simple act of breathing nearly impossible.
“I’m sorry, Jersey.” Dallas’s voice reaches me from the doorway. The nick name is salt on an open wound. It stings like a bitch.
“Do you have any idea where he could have gone?” My voice sounds disembodied. I barely recognize it.
He shakes his head and tips his chin at the envelope on the nightstand. Rushing over, I tear it open and pull the yellow legal paper out.
alice.
i’m sorry. i just can’t do this anymore. the jeep is yours. i bought it myself so don’t worry about my parents.
don’t wait for me.
love, r
That’s it? That’s how he leaves it? I don’t even warrant an explanation other than don’t wait for me?
A bout of rage surfaces with enough force to shove all the hurt I’m feeling out of the way. Then I recall the look
on his face while we were on the dance floor, the utter anguish in his eyes that he couldn’t keep hidden from me as hard as he tried, and the anger quells instantly. Behind, it leaves a sickly, weak-kneed tremble.
I pull my iPhone out of my back pocket and type.
Me: Wherever you go. Whatever you’re feeling. Whenever you’re lost. Know this. Feel this. My arms are around you, holding you. I love you.
The text goes unanswered. The kernel of hope I’m hanging on to vanishes. My heart gets shattered.
Chapter 30
Four months later
Alice
What is he doing? Oh dear God. Dallas is on the dance floor and I’m pretty sure he’s attempting to recreate the Jennifer Grey/Patrick Swayze lift from Dirty Dancing with Brock––and Brock is not having it. A burst of laughter crawls up my throat when Brock stops him with a straight-arm block.
The music turned nerve-shredding half an hour ago. It’s 11 p.m. already, the graduation party well underway. I don’t even mind being the only person still at our table. I prefer it actually, less chance for small talk and forced smiles.
Crossing my legs, I adjust the short flared skirt of the white Herve Leger dress Zoe forced me to wear. Its square neckline and cap sleeves flatters my less than generous breasts and skinny arms. I’m pretty sure it was wishful thinking on Zoe’s part that Reagan would show up and we’d have some ridiculous OTT Hollywood ending. Which is not happening.
I haven’t seen or heard from him in four months, since he left, and that is not changing tonight.
On the dance floor, the guys are making asses of themselves. They are so wasted. They look like they’re having a blast, though. The shenanigans draw a reluctant smile out of me. Some of them will be leaving in the next few weeks for a new start. Might as well enjoy it while it lasts.
As for me, I have another internship lined up for the summer. No, it’s not with James Cameron’s production company. I never did make it to the interview all those months ago. And in the end, it all worked out for the best.
