by Dani Irons
“Let me?” I say, incredulous. Chloe’s eyes pop from the scenery she’s pretending to study over to us, sensing confrontation. Wyatt is totally on thin ice and I am very close to leaving him here. Maybe my mom could come pick Chloe and me up or something. I glare at him.
He sighs, letting the argument go. Like he’s replaced his confident mask for a more reserved one. “That’s not what I meant.” His voice is softer, the earlier edge to it now gone. “I meant I’ll take you. We’ll go together. I don’t want you going by yourself. Not that I could stop you.”
The drive over is even more awkward than the entire drive up. All the touching, bumping, breathing. It’s excruciating and as soon as we’re parked in front of Pink Dollars, I practically push Chloe out to escape.
Pink Dollars looks a lot different when it’s open. Well, there’s a different vibe about it, I guess. A female bouncer sits out front of the open door, smoking, and a few people stop, show their IDs and enter the club. I’m nervous about my fake ID. Will the bouncer know me and know that mine is fake? Will she remember me from the stories that surely floated around after my accident? Or maybe the club has gotten a lot stricter about who they let in.
Wyatt goes first and, since his ID is real, she lets him in. Chloe’s next and her ID is equally as fake as mine (probably done by the same person.) The bouncer takes a second, longer, glance, but ultimately waves her in too. It’s my turn. My hand shakes an infinitesimal amount and I’m not sure why I’m so nervous. The worst that could happen is she doesn’t let me in, right? She won’t have me arrested, would she?
She looks at me, barely glances at my ID and nods me inside. My shoulders relax.
I expect the club to be loud and packed, but I remember it’s still early, just after seven. A handful of small wooden tables are spread out on this lower level by the front door and bar. I count a dozen more on the upper level, along with a dance floor and a few pool tables. “I’ll order us some drinks,” Wyatt says, and takes off without bothering to find out what kind we want.
“Okay,” Chloe says as soon as he’s gone. “Putting the awkwardness aside for a minute, tell me how you’re feeling. Are any memories coming back? Does this place give you the creeps or anything?” Some quiet music plays and we pick a table.
Aside from the ghost-town feel of the place, I don’t feel any awkwardness. A few guys are hanging out, laughing and singing and nursing drinks while a large man in drag checks his bottles behind the bar. Other than that, the place is quiet. “No. I was hoping my entire memory would come flooding back when I walked in, but there’s nothing. I mean, this was the very last place I was before I got hit, so there should be something.” I search the wood paneled walls, the furniture, the DJ who stands on his own little platform on the second floor, but nothing feels familiar. This feels like the first time I’ve been here.
“Yeah,” Chloe says, her voice soft and careful. “But I was the last person you talked to before you were hit and seeing me didn’t help you.”
“What I still don’t understand is that, okay, I went into the middle of the road to see if to see if the truck coming down the street was Wyatt—even though I know now he was inside the club—and someone else hit me. So, the person coming down the road wasn’t Wyatt. Fine. It was someone else. But, if I had been paying so much attention to the driver, how could I let myself get hit? Was a car coming from the other way or something?”
Chloe’s mouth is partly open and her eyes are wide, looking around the room. Like she didn’t hear me or she’s getting ready to say something. It’s a long moment before she actually does. “Um. Yeah, I don’t really...” She turns around, like someone has called her name from behind her.
“You don’t really what?” I ask, suddenly suspicious. She’s obviously hiding something.
Wyatt returns with three shots of some kind of brown liquid and three pale beers. I stare at them. I’m not taking the painkillers as much—haven’t had one today—but I’m not sure if I should be drinking at all. The last time I did, I was almost killed.
Wyatt sits, spotting my confused expression. “I thought we could all use some loosening up.”
Chloe nods and downs her shot, then steals mine, avoiding my question. I don’t let her off the hook this time. “Chloe, what is it?” I say it slowly, with all the patience of a saint. “Tell me.”
Wyatt looks at Chloe quizzically, trying to catch up.
She hesitates, opening and closing her mouth, but all that comes out is a heavy sigh.
“I deserve to know,” I say through my teeth, playing with the label on my beer but not taking a drink.
She sighs. “There was this kid.”
“A kid?” I ask flatly, annoyed.
“Yeah. He was riding his bicycle and swerved into the road. You went after him. Pushed him out of the way, onto the sidewalk.” She breaks into a quiet sob. “You froze—it was just a second’s time, or else I would have come after you, I swear—and the car hit you.”
My chest tightens. “So I wasn’t looking for Wyatt?”
“Well, you started off looking down the road, seeing if...he...was coming down the street, but you only actually went into the street because of the boy.”
“Is the boy okay?” I ask hopefully. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“The boy is fine. And he asked me not to tell anyone. He was so scared of getting into trouble because he thought he killed you. I lied because I didn’t think it would matter to you how you were hit. Just that you needed help. I told the boy to go home, that I wouldn’t tell anyone.”
“But it does matter how I got hit! All this time, I thought I was just some drunk chick that wandered stupidly into the street after some guy. Sorry, Wyatt. And now I find out that I may have saved some little boy’s life? This changes things.” My hands fly to the tips of my hair, tugging. My voice has gone all high and loud and a couple of the guys at the bar turn to watch. “I actually do care about people,” I add, more quietly.
“Of course you do.” Wyatt puts his hand over mine and I’m surprised that he’d do that after the awkwardness in the hotel. I pull away, though, because I’m still pissed.
I saved some boy. I think. I’m a good person. This changes so much of how I pictured Old Liv. But now she’s more of a mystery to me than ever.
Wyatt still hasn’t touched his shot. I grab it, fling it down my throat, and feel the satisfying burn. “What?” I say when I come up for air, looking at Wyatt’s incredulous expression. “I definitely need some loosening up.”
* * *
I’m drunk. Chloe tells me I’m doing my drunk snarl, Elvis lip meets bulldog. I don’t get it, but I’m not getting anything at the moment.
The club has begun to fill up but I’ve barely noticed in my drunkenness, and it’s great. Guys are dressed in drag and a few of them do a skit and sing, but I barely notice. My head spins with vodka and anger. I want to get Wyatt alone to ask him why he’d lied, but part of me—even in my drunken state—tells me it’s not a good idea to do when we’re all lit up. Maybe that means I’m not quite drunk enough.
Chloe and I dance. Wyatt watches from the table. I know he cares—it’s all over his expressions and mannerisms. So why is he giving me such a hard time? I shake out my limbs. I shouldn’t worry about this right now, so I’m not going to. Fun is happening and I want to swim in it.
When the song ends and we clear the dance floor, Chloe offers to buy the next round and leaves me with a sullen Wyatt who looks to be far less drunk than I am. I only now notice what he’s wearing, because it’s familiar somehow—a black, long-sleeved shirt, pushed up to the elbows.
A couple of boys behind him are making out. A sense of déjà vu washes over me. “You used to wear He-Man underwear,” I say, surprising myself. I can’t see this memory, exactly, I just know it’s there. It’s the oddest feeling. My brain
twinges in pain.
Wyatt’s face seems to have gained its own gravitational pull. “Olivia...I—” He looks as though he’s about to confess to a murder, but my head is giving me such problems that I don’t care.
“Ugh...headache,” I spew, gripping the sides of my head. I stagger back and forth and Wyatt steadies me with a hand.
“You okay?” he asks, stooping to look up at my half-hidden face.
I shake my head and the movement makes it worse.
“Sit down.” He grabs me by the elbows and sits me on the bench next to the boys who are making out. “I’m gonna get you some water.” And he’s gone.
He’s always disappearing. The Great Disappearing Wyatt.
People should hire him for birthday parties.
A guy approaches me as soon as Wyatt has disappeared in the crowd. He’s short, chubby, his white T-shirt pulling tight across his chest. I think I could see his nipples if I squint, so I do. “Olivia.”
I’m in trouble. Someone has recognized me and they are going to tell someone else and I’m going to be thrown in jail for underage drinking or drinking in a bar that I was drunk in before and had an accident outside of. Surely there’s some kind of law that says I can’t be drunk in a bar that I was nearly killed outside of.
“What’s it to you?” I say. I can feel my lip curling, like that Elvis bulldog Chloe was talking about earlier.
“Wyatt’s...girlfriend?”
I peer up at his face, realizing I keep staring at his nipples. His voice isn’t nice so I’m not going to be nice back. “If you’re taking drink orders, I would like a rum and Coke.”
“It’s all a lie, you know.”
“What is? That fat suit you’re wearing? You’re actually a skinny person in fatty’s clothing?” I know I’m being beyond horrible. But all my pent up anger from the last month has decided to spew out on this poor guy.
“He’s not your boyfriend,” he says, ignoring my terrible comments. “You two are not dating.”
“I think I would know if I was dating someone or not,” I say, waving him off. “I’m not dating you. I’m not dating these two boys.” I point next to me. “But I am definitely dating Wyatt. Well, sort of. Which is none of your business and I’m done talking to you.” I wave him away again, like some pesky fly.
“Ask him,” he persists. “When he comes back over here, you ask him. Ask him about how horrible you were to him growing up, how you used him. How he’s pretend dating you to get back at you. And then tell him his friend Steve-O gave it to you straight. He needs to stop all this and wash his hands of you.”
I close my eyes and shake my head. Steve-O is a stupid name and this guy is even stupider. My head continues to throb, so I lean it back onto the wall behind me. My eyes are still closed and it feels so good that I let myself drift into nothingness. Wyatt’s voice floats up in the darkness, “Are you all right? That guy didn’t upset you, did he?”
Chapter Thirty
Junior Year at UCLA, October
It had been a year since I’d drunkenly showed up at James’s dorm and initiated sex and we were now regular booty calls. Tonight we were doing it in the middle of a Big Brother marathon. It was muted, but I was still secretly watching it. I wonder if James was too.
When he’d come to my room, his eyes were red and his chest heaved and I knew he was on something. I cared but didn’t care. I was still going to sleep with him.
I let him take me doggy style on the floor. On the friggin’ floor. He was rough but I kind of liked it. He grabbed my ass with his meaty hand and slammed into me over and over. I was used to rough sex with James.
He lasted longer than last time, partly because he kept going soft, making me feel not so sexy, but he explained he was just nervous. I don’t know why he would feel nervous. My roommate was away, we’d had the same weekly routine for a year, and I was super wet. I wondered if his “nervousness” had anything to do with why his eyes were so red. We didn’t use a condom, but he came on my back instead of in me and helped me wipe it up with my roommate’s towel. Her name was Ava Pearson and she wouldn’t care that we’d used her towel as long as I put it in the dirty clothes and didn’t tell her what was on it. She was easygoing.
After we dressed, we stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, not looking at each other. I was going to say something like, wanna go get some coffee, even though I knew he’d make an excuse why he couldn’t, when he said, “I have a girlfriend. Megan Mallory. She’s going to be a teacher. I, uh...” he nervously rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “She’s decided to be a virgin till marriage. So, I hope this was okay.”
A girlfriend. That was new. My heart shattered, but I knew if I freaked out, this time with James would be over. Perhaps forever. And even though I felt pathetic and small and kind of like a ho, I kept my freak out in check. I would take James in whatever form I could get him. I loved him. Maybe if I stayed persistent and put in my time, I could have him again in a more permanent sense one day.
Plus, there was no way that James could go out with someone for very long if he’s not getting sex. Despite the pieces of my blown-up heart tearing at my lungs, I forced out a laugh. “Totally okay,” I said. “I’m actually seeing someone myself.” I was surprised by how normal my voice sounded.
James’s face relaxed. “Oh, thank God,” he said. He stood there in the light of my room lamp, sweaty and gorgeous. Like a chiseled statue. I was curled into a ball at his feet like some sex slave. “That’s great. What’s his name?”
It sickened me that he actually sounded sincere. I wanted him to get all jealous and demand for me to break up with him. I spit out the only name I could think of. “Bill. Well, his name’s William, Will. But I call him Bill.” I nodded like that would somehow drive the lie home. “Bill’s kind of a...pet name.”
“Ah,” James says, shifting from one foot to the other. “Gotcha.” He pulled on his clothes in silence and then inched for the door. I still felt like he had the upper hand and I didn’t like that.
“So I’ll see you next Saturday? Super late?”
He smiled finally and my broken heart ached to reach out to him. I saw a shadow of the James I used to know in that smile. “Perfect.” He blushed and my insides exploded.
“See you then,” I said, barely keeping it together. I was dying from the inside out.
Chapter Thirty-One
Now
In the morning, Chloe directs Wyatt to Ava’s house where luckily my Corolla still sits, looking like an abandoned dog at the pound. On any other morning, I would have described the day as beautiful—with the sun shining and warm, but not too hot. Today, though, my head is heavy, like my brain has been turned into wood and the day doesn’t seem as beautiful as it might.
I brought my key down with me—it was in the purse someone found—and stick it into the ignition. The Corolla hums to life and I’m glad a dead battery isn’t something I have to worry about. It also has a half tank of gas, which I hope will get me back to Santa Barbara because I’m officially out of cash and already owe Wyatt and Chloe for the room.
The back of the Corolla is shoved full of bags with clothes spilling out of them, a couple of large boxes, as well as textbooks, a purple-and-black comforter, and an embarrassing amount of shoes. Chloe and Wyatt stand next to me and the driver’s door is open. I turn off the car and sit sideways in the seat, fiddling with the key. “So, where was I going to stay for the summer?” I ask Chloe, gesturing to all the stuff in the back.
“Um...I don’t really think you settled on a plan. Maybe you were still holding out on your parents giving you the money to go to Europe. But I was trying to get you to come home with me.”
It makes sense I’d go down to Santa Barbara for the summer because Chloe and Wyatt were there, but why would I have been so insistent on Europe? Unless Old Liv
was just the kind of girl to leave her best friend and boyfriend behind. I wouldn’t put it past her. “Were you going to come to Europe with me?” I ask Wyatt.
“No. I can’t leave my family for that long.”
I nod, remembering his dad’s gout.
There’s no dorm or apartment or anything else to visit and I’m ready to be done with this excursion and go home and rest my head. But there are still two hours of driving to deal with.
“Well, what now?” I ask them. “I don’t know if I’m in any condition to drive. I think the hangover plus the head injury is making me want to pass out again. Should I just leave the car here until the next time we come up?”
“I feel okay,” Chloe says, putting her hand out for the key. “I’ll take it down if you want.”
“Thanks,” I say, handing it over. I wonder if she’s volunteered to drive because she feels bad about lying to me about the boy or not telling me I wasn’t a virgin. Either way, I’m grateful to her so I offer a small smile.
On the drive home, I want to look out the window at all the people in suits walking to work in the bright-yellow morning sunshine and the skyscrapers and the traffic, but my head hurts and I feel unbalanced and sleepy. Mostly sleepy, but also like part of me has been heavily weighed down.
I can’t pinpoint what’s making me feel like this, but I know it has to do with Wyatt. Every time I look at him, embarrassment and anger float to the top of all other emotions. The almost-sex thing. The I’m-not-really-a-virgin thing. The I-had-sex-at-fifteen thing. Plus, there’s this other, separate feeling that I’ve forgotten something.
Maybe something happened last night that I don’t remember. There is a chunk of time missing. I remember dancing with Chloe...and then nothing. I woke up fully clothed, next to Wyatt in bed, but Chloe—in the bathroom with the shower on so Wyatt couldn’t hear us—told me that I walked out of the club on my own and insisted I sleep in Wyatt’s bed. “To punish him,” I apparently said.
