by Niki Hager
My scream startles Lyle, causing him to belt out a short, high-pitch scream too.
"What the hell, Lyle? Why are you naked?" I've scooted up toward the arm of the sofa now, giving Lyle a death stare.
What is it with these paintball boys and their need to wake me up in the most uncomfortable, and unconventional ways?
"What? What the fuck! Why am I naked?" Lyle jerks up. Frantically looking back and forth around us, he tries in his sleepy state to comprehend what’s going on.
"I'm asking you!" I push Lyle to get him to move further away from me but he doesn't even budge. He is still looking around confused.
"I don't know. I don't remember a goddamn thing." He yawns and then scratches his head.
"What I remember is you going outside and passing out in your car, so when did you even come back in?"
He stands up and grabs his clothes lying in a pile on the floor next to us.
"Ummm … mid toilet paper fight, I think. Yes. I remember walking in after waking up in my car. My keys were taped to my outside windshield, so thanks." He nods at me, and I realize his thanking me was genuine and not sarcastic. "When I walked in, everyone was going nuts on each other with rolls of toilet paper, which was completely awesome, by the way, so I had to get in on it. That's the last thing I remember."
"Where is Rom—?"
As I'm asking it, Roman storms out of a bedroom, in his boxers, looking completely cute and completely hungover.
In a gruff, panicked voice, Roman questions, "Where the hell is Rigbee?" addressing no one in particular.
He turns in our direction and we lock eyes.
"Oh. Okay good, there you are," he says relieved, then stumbles back into the room.
Five. Four. Three. Two.
Roman rushes back out. "Wait, what the … Why the hell is … was Lyle naked?" he corrects himself, now watching Lyle pull his jeans back on.
"We don't know, man. I've been trying to figure it out myself," Lyle tells him, almost in a laugh, and then nervously rubs the back of his neck
"Man, you are my best friend, but I swear to fuck if you so much as …"
"Why are my pants so tough? Did I spill beer on myself last night?" I say to myself out loud and accidentally interrupt them.
I'd noticed while standing up my jeans are more stiff than Lyle's morning wood.
Both boys have stopped talking to look at me. Roman shakes his head, and a huge smile spreads across his face. Recognition then hits Lyle as his eyes widen and then close and he drops his head in shame.
"What? What's going on right now? What am I missing?" I demand.
"I know why Lyle is naked." Roman says, leaving the statement wide open.
"Well, enlighten me?" I urge him, giving him a look like what are you waiting for?
The smile on his face turns sinister. "He's pissed all over himself. And you, by the looks of it."
"I told you already. I must've woke up, realized I'd pissed, and took off my clothes."
"But why take off your clothes?" I ask Lyle, still irritated.
"So I wouldn't chafe, I would assume."
"But did you have to take off all your clothes, and did you have to sleep on the sofa next to me in the first place?"
"I don't know if you noticed, but the room was filled with people, and toilet paper. It's not like I had many options." He throws his arms up in defense. "Also, I don't know if you noticed, but did you see how much I pissed? If it went through my clothes, and then through your clothes, it was a helluva-lot. So, yes, clothes had to come off."
"Gah! You're impossible," I say, shaking my head.
"You're just whining because you're the one wearing my piss-pants."
"I didn't have a choice. They were the only pants I brought," I justify.
"You should've thought the situation through better."
I'm going to strangle him.
"We didn't have to go straight to The Coney without giving me a chance to change!"
"Yes, we did. The lady just about ran us out the door, with the cops on speed dial. And I really needed coffee ASAP."
"Simmer down, you two. Bug, right now might not be the best time, but I wanted to ask you about your classes." Roman looks at me with hesitation. Whatever it is he wants to talk about has him thinking I won't respond well.
"What about?"
"Well—"
My phone rings, cutting him off. I roughly dig through my purse, trying to reach it in time.
"Hello?" I answer. "Hey, Grandpa. Yeah. No, it was good," I reply after he asks me about the party.
"Why is … Are we what? Wait, how do you know that?" He asked about the toilet paper everywhere, then proceeded to ask at what point during the night did we decide to take all of our clothes off.
"Oh, my God." I lower my head and my voice, trying to shield myself from the mortification.
"Rig, the pictures are right here in front of me," Grandpa says through the phone, while trying to hold back a laugh.
"It's not funny, Grandpa! How did you get them?"
"Turns out my cubicle neighbor's son was at your party. He runs a website. A website called "Live Young". Her and I take a gander at it every once in a while. You know, check it out. He's a really good photographer.
"Seriously, Grandpa, get off of his website now," I order him. "And don't let anyone else at your work see it!"
I don't know how many pictures were taken of me with his camera, but I do remember it being a lot.
"Too late," he carefully admits.
"What do you mean, too late?" I reply hesitantly.
"My boss wants to know if you and your friends will throw our Christmas party this year."
A pit forms and plants itself firmly in my stomach as I end the call with Grandpa Joe. How embarrassing. I need to go on the site and find out exactly what is on it.
After thoroughly embarrassing me, laughing at me, and giving me crap just to mess with me, Grandpa went on to tell me how glad he was I am getting out of my shell and making friends. I had to agree with him.
Speaking of friends, I better call Enzo and warn him about the Internet photos. He's in them, too, and with a hoard of random girls. Despite what he's trying to convince himself of, we better hope Marty doesn't like to "Live Young".
"Bug?" Roman says, trying to get my attention again.
"Huh?"
"About your classes." Oh, yeah. "I was thinking about when we get back from spring break, we should probably start focusing more on school. We both graduate this year, but only if we actually pass the semester."
"It's fine, Rome, what are you getting at?" I snap defensively at him.
"I'm just saying you've been partying quite a bit, which is fine and all, but you need to be able to balance life with school. I've noticed you've been skipping sometimes and the shit starts to creep up when it comes to your grades and stuff."
"I'm still passing, Roman."
"I know you're still passing, right now, but it doesn't take much to cross the line. You need to be careful, and start focusing."
"I'm doing the exact same things, at the exact same times, as you are. How is what you're doing any different?"
This conversation took a sharp turn toward the overcritical, and it's beginning to bug me. Maybe it's because I've been kicked out of a certain hotel chain for life, or the hangover, or the piss-pants, or how everyone in my grandpa's office saw me in my underwear, but I'm really not in the mood for any more crap.
"I'm not. But you're lying to yourself, and me, if you think you're doing a decent job of balancing it. You're not used to more time to study, because you never went out. I'm still keeping all As, you're not. It's okay, not everyone is …"
This is going to hurt. He is about to say something he can't take back.
"Don't even finish your sentence," I warn him, lifting a hand to halt the conversation. "You can't corner me out of nowhere. Where is this even coming from? And what about you? You are lying to yourself, and me, so don't be a hypocrite." I find myself pointing
a finger toward his face.
"Oh, yeah? What exactly am I lying about? Really, this should be interesting." He sits back and crosses his hands behind his head like he's about to be amused.
"Your knee." Ha. Take that.
His face falls. A pain resembling a punch to the stomach, stabs at my gut.
"My. Knee. Is. Fine." His words come out slowly and one by one, as he sits back up to regain his former posture.
"No. It's. Not," I lean forward and spit my words at him in the same tone.
"Leave it, Rigbee," he warns.
"See, exactly what I thought. So you have no room to—" I sit back, ready to go on a rampage, when Lyle interrupts.
"Lay off each other! Stop. Enough already, you're making me uncomfortable." He looks and points at me. "Oh, and I did know you were pissed. When we came home to the apartment the one night you made me leave. Despite what you think, I'm not stupid. I just don't like it when you two fight, so I was purposely making light of it. But, the truth is, you two are important to me. I actually care if you are happy, or sad, or fighting. Now let it go so I can drink my coffee and eat my breakfast in peace. Please."
I stare at Lyle with wide round eyes. Who knew? That was by far the deepest and most profoundly real thing I have ever heard Lyle say.
"Okay, man. No problem, eat. We're good," Roman assures him.
Lyle looks at the both of us with skepticism, as if he's deciding whether to believe him or not, and then picks up his fork.
I glance at Roman and whisper. "We're good."
Back to Broke
Blue in The Face- Alkaline Trio
Close- Nick Jonas
Rigbee
Within one fifteen-minute phone call we weren't good anymore.
He asked for space. Space is never good. I don't care how selfish it makes me, I don't want to give him space. It's not fair. Nothing is fair. She died. She's dead, and I'm alive. And he is hurt and confused and taking it out on me. I understand it, really, I do. What I don't understand is why he needs space from me, when I am the person he should be coming to for comfort and consolation.
My phone rang at three in the morning on a night Roman happened to not be sleeping over. Right then I knew something was wrong. I had no idea how wrong, though, and nothing could have prepared me for it.
"Hello?" I answer sleepily. I start using my other hand to rub my eyes awake.
"She's dead," I hear him whisper in a broken and sad voice through the phone speaker. Through my sleep-induced haze I think I've heard him wrong.
He says it again, repeating the words with an eerily flat tone.
"What? Who?" I didn't hear it wrong. I shoot up into a sitting position in my bed, and anxiously wait for his reply.
"Amy. She died tonight. Fucking car accident." I hear a ripple in his voice.
"Are you crying?"
"Yes, I'm fucking crying! She was my high school sweetheart. I was with her longer than anyone!" Ouch.
"I'm so sorry. I don't know what to say."
My mind is bouncing all over the place. I try to sort through it all and calm down as I work to understand the situation and find the right words to say.
"Then don't."
"Roman, I am here for you, but don't be mean to me. Please. Don't shut me out. I want to help."
"Of course, make it about you. She's fucking dead and you make it about you. This isn't about you, believe it or not."
"Roman, calm down. I said I am sorry and I am here for you, so what can I do? What do you want me to do? Can I go to the funeral with you?"
"No. I need to go alone."
"Are you sure? Because I will—"
"No." The word comes out so low and so empty.
"Okay. Then would you like to talk about it. You can come over and we can—"
"No."
"Roman, tell me what to say."
I don't know what I expected him to say next, but what he did say definitely wasn't it.
"Tell me you love me." The hurt is so brutally evident in his voice. It makes me wish I could peel away the pain, piece by broken piece.
I can't tell if he is hoping the words he asked me to say are true or if he's wants to hear a lie.
"I love you." It's the truth regardless.
"I know. I knew. Which is exactly why I need to do this. I have to ask you for some space. I can't think straight right now."
"No. Distance is not what you need at all. You need comfort and support, and most of all to get past it. I want to know about it, about her. I want to know why you are so incredibly affected when you broke up so long ago. What is going on? I mean, I understand you're upset but this is more. I can't imagine having such an extreme level of emotional distress about someone you haven't been with in so long, especially when you are in a new relationship."
"You wouldn't get it; you've never had a relationship before me."
"Maybe not, but I can picture it. Hypothetically—"
"Hypothetically, you don't know shit. So don't start. I need time to think and I don't need you around for it, distracting me."
"But, Roman—"
"I said no, Rigbee."
"Are we … I mean is it … Is this …"
His voice softens. "It's just space. Not breaking up, like what you're trying to ask."
"I guess I would've known if I had ever had a relationship before, wouldn't I?" I took his words, but they did not come out snotty or sarcastic like I'd intended. They sounded sad.
"Maybe you would," he says gently to me. Too gently.
"So when am I going to—" I get cut off.
"Damn it. I don't know yet, Rigbee. I have to go, though."
"I love you, Roman."
"You shouldn't." Then I hear the click, indicating the end of the call, and the end of so much more.
"Thomas was there," Willow tells me.
"Thomas was where?"
After an entire day of lying in bed crying, I decided it was time to do something to take my mind off things. In hindsight, having lunch with Willow was not the best way to do so.
"At the accident. He was driving about a mile back. They were leaving from the same party."
"Oh. Shit."
"Oh, shit, is right," she says while fiddling with her silverware and napkin. "He was first to see the crash and was the one who called the police. He found her under her car. He's so messed up right now. Malik told me he won’t even talk. Like, to anyone."
"I also heard at the party she had just got done telling Thomas how happy she was for Roman. You know, because she heard how he is finally happy and doing good. An amends of sorts."
"Well, he's not doing so good anymore. He's talking, but not to me. He said he needed space," I tell her, as I fight the bubble forming in my throat.
"Ouch."
"Yeah." I sigh. "Did you know him back then? When they were dating?"
"I knew him, but not very well. Just in passing at paintball events and stuff. I did hear about the mess that went down with them in high school though."
"What do you mean? What sort of mess?" I ask, having never heard the story before.
"When they broke up. I'm sure you know." She shrugs it off casually.
"Actually, I don't know much about what happened. He doesn't like to talk about it. All he said was it was mutual. They both decided to …”
"Hold up." She puts her hand up, stopping me right there. "Um, no. It was not mutual. She broke his heart. I might not have known him well, but I do know he was crushed by the whole thing. So much so he almost got kicked off the team."
"Why would he have got kicked off the team?" I wonder to her, confused by what one has to do with the other.
"From what I heard, he didn't care about anything anymore. He stopped performing, they started losing. Simple."
"Huh. I wonder why he didn't want me to know?"
"Maybe he was embarrassed a girl had so much of an effect on him."
"Yeah, maybe. Even now," I admit.
Sympathy falls over h
er face as she echoes, "Yeah, even now."
When I get home from lunch, I decide to try talking to Enzo about the whole thing. He is in a similar situation with Marty so I thought maybe he would have some solid advice. He thought it would be a good idea to go to a small party Lawrence was having Willow had told me about. He thought I could do some beerboarding, which he told me means getting some info on Roman from his friends while they are sufficiently intoxicated. We knew Roman and Thomas wouldn't be there, due to the circumstances, so I agreed.
I knew everyone there and would go as far as to consider them my friends, so I was caught completely off-guard when I started to feel the attack coming on.
I was sitting down by Lawrence and he asked me what I wanted to drink. I panicked. I don't know why, it just happened. I looked around the room, paralyzed with the fear of not being in my comfort zone. I had no control of the situation. I couldn't breathe. Lawrence asked me if I was okay. Enzo heard him from across the room and knew exactly what was happening. He got me up and out of there before the hyperventilating began. He told everyone I had gotten a migraine. It's second nature for him, but he hasn't had to in a while. I haven't had an attack in almost seven months. Not since Roman.
"Here, take them and drink it." Enzo hands me the glass of water he must've poured while I was changing into my yoga pants. He walked in my room without knocking, a worried expression written on his face. One I used to see all the time. In one hand is my bottle of meds. I used to keep them in my purse at all times, but lately I haven't needed them so they were in the medicine cabinet with everything else.
"Thanks," I mutter as I take my bottle.
I open the lid and tilt the container. Two little blue pills slide into my hand. It's something I've done many times. A trivial movement that muscle memory won't let me forget. It's funny how an inconsiderable gesture can have such an impact on your frame of mind. It's as if I've been taken back. Back to the broken girl who panics when people talk to her. Back to square one. I was getting better and now I'm not.
The pills taste bitter on my tongue as they dissolve. The progress I've made throughout the year disintegrates with the pills, and I shatter. Despite the many times I've denied it, I am glass.
