Intoxicated

by Cynthia Dane

  Brian… Brian… hmm.

  Ah, right. The guy I had been working before Drew showed up in the lounge that night. Mediocre Brian. New money Brian. Brian, the guy with enough money to get an after-hours drink in a lounge like that. Mr. I Have A One-Bedroom In the Pearl Brian. The guy looking for the flirty girl-next-door of his adolescent dreams.

  My lips curve into a salacious smile. Sure, it’s been a couple of months since I met the guy, but how much do you wanna bet he wouldn’t mind hearing from little ol’ me right now? Never mind he didn’t try to contact me. Nor did he cross my path again, but… you never know.

  “Hi, Brian! I don’t know if you remember me. It’s Cher, from the lounge a couple of months ago? I’m SO sorry that I never contacted you until now. I ended up breaking my phone two days after we met, and I’m only now getting things back in technological order. Hey, don’t you work in software? I bet you know all about this!”

  Oh, you want to gag reading that? You want to tell me that no man is dumb enough to fall for a woman messaging him two months later, acting like he’d still remember her?

  Bold of you to assume he doesn’t remember me. I’m a hard woman to forget, especially after the impression I left.

  Hmph. It’s always possible he doesn’t remember or care anymore. Maybe he’s met someone better since then. Maybe he’s come to his senses. Maybe he’s moved away and no longer has time for little ol’…

  “Hi, Cher. Of course I remember you. Sorry to hear about your phone problems. I actually work with computer software so don’t know much about apps and such. That’s a different department in my company, haha : )”

  See? Cher Lieberman is back in business. Bet you a hundred bucks I’m attending a public function with him by this time next month.

  Seriously. I’ll bet you a hundred. Prepare to pay up, and never mention Drew again.

  Chapter 29

  DREW

  You know what sucks the most?

  I was fucking in love with her.

  Sure, laugh. Point at me and tell me what a lousy fucker I am. I probably deserve it. After the number of hearts I’ve broken, it was bound to happen to me. Karma, or some such.

  Fuck me. Fuck her. Fuck us. I hate everything.

  This isn’t mere post break-up emo bullshit I’m suffering. This is… depression. God, maybe I am man enough to admit it. Cher not only fucked with my heart, but my head as well. She drove a stake right into one and fried the other. What did it, though? Was it those crazy good looks, the suave smile she laid on me every time I beheld her… or that perfect pussy that grabbed me by the balls every time I fell for her trap?

  I believe all three of them. When a man falls in love, even for the first time, he’s liable to make some seriously bad decisions.

  It’s so clear for me to see now. I loved that hot mess of a woman. She worked me as well as she worked any man, but I saw a side of her not many got to witness, I bet. While I never saw her heart on her sleeve or the empathetic tears of someone who isn’t a raging narcissist, there was information that I was privy to, but nobody else ever heard. She was human in her own way around me. A confident gal who didn’t care if I heard her body’s natural functions or saw the blood of her womanhood. (Okay, so she definitely cared about that, but we got over it, huh?) This was a woman I met again at a freakin’ STD clinic. Nothing was sacred between us. I told her about my friend in college, for fuck’s sake.

  She changed me. Cher is the reason I’m getting out of this stupid line of work and doing something better with my life.

  She’s the reason I’m lying in the dark, drinking myself half to death.

  All right, so I’m not drunk 24/7, but I’m not in a hurry to get out of here, either. There’s nothing for me beyond my Seattle apartment. I used the last of my pride to drive up here, if only to get the hell away from the woman who refuses to admit what she is.

  I don’t… care about that. Maybe I did the wrong thing by telling her – let alone when my cum was dripping out of her – but it had been such a clear-headed thought that it was like every filter on my mouth came flying off and smacked her face.

  Cher isn’t your average woman. Not the one who likes it a little rough every once in a while. I’m convinced it’s the only real way she gets off. Maybe not balls-to-the-wall flesh-slapping sex full of naughty words and hair-pulling, but she definitely needs something naughty to keep her interested in the bedroom. I thought her detachment from slower lovemaking had more to do with neglecting room for dirty things like feelings and less to do with boredom. I’ve never met a woman who hated slow and sensual things so much. Did she realize it? Is the reason she dumped me because she didn’t want to hear those truths?

  I see now how it could be taken the wrong way. Women aren’t supposed to be like that, huh? That’s a message yours truly got loud and clear growing up. Women aren’t supposed to enjoy sex. Are we crazy? Only “fallen” women, as my biological grandmother would put it, like it in any capacity outside of martial relations. Because they’re Jezebels, or something.

  Let’s face it. Jezebel is an amazing name, and one that perfectly suits Cher.

  Do I have regrets? God, yes. I shouldn’t have said what I did, let alone when I did. You’d think I was the guy who got off on hurting women’s feelings. Hey, just because I did it for a semi-living doesn’t mean I enjoyed it. Maybe there was a hint of satisfaction on behalf of the friend I lost, but… fuck it, I’m over that now. Harry is somewhere in Heaven shaking his head over my whole damn life since he left this earth.

  I kinda get it now, though. Why it hurts so much when the worst woman in the world dumps your ass. Especially if you loved her.

  Especially if you loved her.

  What hurts more? The fact that I have loved and lost, or the fact that the woman I love is probably out there right now working on her next target?

  I’m no fool. She doesn’t love me back. Clearly, I hurt her feelings, but any guy with the right dick and arsenal of words could hurt her feelings. She might be plotting her revenge against me right now. That’s part of the reason I came back to Seattle. Get away from the more emotional memories. Get away from her reach.

  Am I going to be one of those guys who sees her around and feels the sting? Or am I special enough that I will fall over in a wave of my own vomit because it hurts so damn much? I’m convinced that most of the other men who think they loved her didn’t really. They didn’t see the parts of her that I did. How could they love her if they didn’t hear her most annoying laugh or see her blood all over their beds? The woman suggested that I’m a disease-riddled assbutt by going to an STD clinic. Do you think your average Joe would still be enamored with her after that? What Cher and I had was… special. Yeah. That’s the word. Special.

  I kinda want to die.

  Okay, okay, back off. I’m not actually suicidal. Please, ignore the empty bottles of whatever I scrounged from my cupboards. Don’t look at the dirty dishes left on my nightstand. Have I showered yet today? I don’t think so. Don’t care. I’m not going anywhere. I did, however, forget to cancel the cleaning lady for the week. She walked in on me feeling sorry for myself and was unable to look me in the eye for the rest of her visit. At least she did my dishes for me. God knows I wasn’t about to.

  I will get over this. I have to.

  I simply don’t know what this actually means for my future.

  Of course, I want to change my profession. Have a few ideas of how to go about that, but how do I dissolve my current business? What do I tell Rothchild? “So, I really pissed her off and made her feel like a disgusting bitch, but I’m not charging for that. I’m closing shop after this one. Thanks for being my last, you prick!” Sigh. I still haven’t told Brent that I plan on perhaps, maybe switching to a matchmaking service for the rich and terribly infamous. It will mean dealing with a bunch of wannabe Chers looking for payday. Maybe that’s the hard part.

  Maybe it’s setting up men for love. You know, when I’m not really feeling it f
or myself.

  On the fifth day, I finally rise from my bed, bedraggled and slightly hungover. I take a shower for the first time in two days. I throw my dirty clothes into the washing machine. I make myself a vegan smoothie in the hopes it will perk up my mood. The only thing I’m allowed to watch on TV is old cartoons. Stuff that I loved when I was a kid. Stuff I had long-loved before I knew someone named Cher.

  SpongeBob is on. Damnit. Didn’t I watch that with her when we were high?

  I turn off the TV and pack an overnight bag. There’s a voicemail from Brent telling me I have a new client. I don’t respond.

  Instead, I get in my truck and head up I5 toward Centralia.

  The sun is bright, the pollen thick, and the trees so green that it’s almost possible to forget Cher for two seconds as I stare at the wonders of nature. My truck glides around turns. My elbow leans against the opened window, one hand on the wheel and the other enjoying the breeze. Horses graze behind fences along the highway. The wildflowers are in full bloom, perhaps their last hoorah before summer heat comes to claim their dried-out souls. They occasionally get fires up here around August and September. I hope it can be spared this year.

  I need these wonders to exist. They’re the only ones that can somewhat clear my mind when I’m desperate to see the most toxic woman on Earth.

  Might as well see another one.

  My grandmother acts as if she’s expected me all along. With a silent wave, I’m invited into her house, where she’s already baked an apple pie and has leftover fried chicken from two nights ago, when she entertained a pair of neighbors for dinner. I slather my grandmother’s special sauce on the chicken and eat it on her back porch, where I gaze at the green hills, purple mountains, and thick, dense woods full of bears, hawks, and deer.

  This is the good shit. Realizing that you’re a small speck of dust in the cosmic stratosphere. Who needs romance and petty heartbreak when there’s a whole universe out there? Blue skies, white, fluffy clouds… some chicken is screaming bloody murder because another chicken got too close and ruffled some feathers, but that’s nature for you.

  I feel you, screaming chicken. I want to scream, too.

  “You gonna tell me what’s wrong?” My grandmother steps onto the porch, her old and worn boots scraping against wood. The screen slams shut behind her. A few birds take off from the nearest tree. Sure, the chicken wasn’t enough to scare them off, but a little old lady marching onto her porch is. What kind of relationship does my grandmother have with wildlife, anyway?

  Right. I’m deflecting.

  “You look like your dog’s died.” Grandma snorts, right side bumped up against the post. She doesn’t smoke anymore, but if she still did, there would be a cigarette in her hand right now. “What the hell happened? You lose a big client or something? That was the only thing that brought the humanity out of your grandfather. That and a pair of perky tits.”

  I shake my head. “Worse than that. Cher broke up with me.”

  “’Bout damn time!”

  My grandmother certainly knows how to make me turn my head. “Thanks.”

  “Girl like that has better ways to spend her time than with the likes of you. That’s a woman who doesn’t need playboys. If there’s anything I know, it’s that you’re a cad.”

  “Again, thanks.”

  “I’m only joshing you, boy.” The porch creaks as she sits down beside me. “Didn’t think you felt so strongly about her.”

  “She came to meet you, didn’t she?”

  “First time something like that ever happened! So, what did you do to piss her off enough to dump you? Don’t tell me you didn’t fuck up.”

  Her faith in me is awe-inspiring, isn’t it? “I insulted her. Accidentally, but…”

  “There ain’t no accidentally when it comes to insulting people. I don’t know what you said, but you probably meant it.”

  Our pause in conversation grants the neighborly quail to run across the yard. Mama quail, papa quail, and five little quailettes sprint in a zigzag pattern from the underbrush to the vegetable garden. Somewhere, my grandma’s chickens know there are trespassers, and they raise hell about it.

  “Would you lot shut the hell up!”

  Grandma’s barely regained her bearings when she looks at me again. Magically, the girls in their pen have stopped screaming. My grandmother has that effect on living creatures. “You don’t want to know what I said to her. But one moment everything’s hunky-dory, and the next… she slaps me and runs off. Blocked me on every device and won’t answer her door.” I only tried once, but I tried. “We’ve had some ups and downs since we met. I think it’s for real this time.”

  She looks askance at me. “Real what? Real breakup, or real love?”

  I hesitantly meet her gaze.

  “I always knew that the only woman who could steal your heart was one who saw straight through your bullcrap. How many girls have you been with? No, don’t tell me. All I need to know is their caliber of character. Ain’t great, I bet.”

  “If you want to go that route, I can easily say that Cher has the worst character of them all.” I’m not lying, depending on your parameters.

  “Bad enough character that you felt the need to insult her?”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Then what the hell was it?”

  For being the easiest person for me to talk to about this, my grandmother is also the roughest. She’s a lot like Cher. See’s straight through my shit and clocks me for who I really am. We can say the same thing about me toward her, though. I see through her shit. I see enough, yet somehow it only makes me love her more.

  But just because she knows you so well, doesn’t mean you can easily subject yourself to her hard truths and harsh criticisms.

  Gradually, as we watch the sun hide behind a few fluffy white clouds, I open up what I dare to my grandma.

  I still don’t tell her about my line of work, but I do tell her that I met Cher under false pretenses. Actually, the same went for her toward me. We were playing games with one another. We built a shaky foundation on a bed of lies. She tried to grift me, and I tried to use her. Somehow, we came to a mutual understanding of what we were doing and how we felt about it. We still had chemistry, though. Crazy enough chemistry that turned into a toxic adhesive. The more I inhaled her, though, the move I fell in love. I guess it didn’t go the other way around.

  “If I hadn’t insulted her then, it would’ve been something else,” I say. “Something would have made us implode. Guess it’s for the best that it happened as early as it did.”

  My grandmother shakes her head. “You’re giving up that easily? You really are your father’s line. Bunch of cowards, you Bentons.”

  “I know when it’s hopeless, Gram. Why would I subject myself to more misery?”

  “Sometimes you have to know true misery before you know true happiness.”

  I mull over those words. Still not convinced she’s right.

  “Maybe you do go after her again. Not right now, though,” Grandma continues. “You’ve gotta prove to her that you’re not the man she thinks you are. You have to be better than the best she’s seen in you yet. You have to make amends for what you said to her, and you’ve gotta keep groveling, if you want her back.”

  That’s the thing, isn’t it? I’m not sure I want Cher back. I tell my grandmother as much, and she laughs like she’s seen the future already.

  “You want her back,” she says. “You wouldn’t be here moping on my back porch for the first time ever if you didn’t want her back.”

  She’s right, huh? I wouldn’t have come running to my grandmother if I didn’t know she’d say exactly what I needed to hear. It’s probably not the best time to decide what I’m going to do. Cher was hurt enough she’ll need a little time to cool off. In the meantime, I’ll figure out what I’m doing. With my life. With ours.

  No, I won’t back down. Not from the only woman who is my true match. At the very least, I won’t die won
dering what if. Perhaps that will finally be the thing to break me from my old, toxic habits.

  That’s a lot of pressure to put on one woman. Or myself.

  But I’ll do it.

  Chapter 30

  CHER

  High above my head flutters colorful flags. The stereo plays luau music that I’ve heard a hundred times before. Tiki torches are alit, and every other bastard in this place is wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt they took out of their closet for this occasion.

  This is where Brian has decided to take me for our sixth date.

  Oh, yes, I’ve been counting. Six dates. Our first date was at one of the mid-scale chain Italian restaurants. Hey, I got oysters in my pasta and didn’t have to pay for it, but the wine left much to be desired. For new money men, though, that’s a safe first date bet. Most women find Italian restaurants utterly romantic. They’re also impressed when a tech guy is willing to spend fifty bucks on their booze and meals. I dressed up in my most summery sundress and wedges, and he dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Brian paid for my Lyft home, and didn’t so much as kiss me on the cheek. He kissed me on the hand, instead.

  Since then, every date has been a “trip around the world.” Our second date was at a Mexican taqueria near his place in the Pearl. Our third was dim sum near my place. Ethiopian. Vietnamese. Now we’re sampling Hawaiian barbecue with rum filling our glasses.

  Did you guess whether Brian’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt? My goodness, that’s much too easy. We’re going to step it up a notch and make you figure out which color it is. Go on. You can peek through your fingers now. Ignore me in my black jumper and heavy sunglasses that blot out the July sunlight. I’m nowhere near as garish as the man sitting across from me.

  What color did you guess? Are you surprised that it’s bright baby blue with white and green parrots? Me neither! Let’s toast to our observant genius.

  “Are you going to eat that?” he asks, gesturing to the rest of the food on my plate. I don’t have much taste for barbecue, but we’re still early enough in this relationship that I try not to rock the boat. You see, I’ve pinned down this man’s exact type. Oh, I already figured it out before. He likes the girl-next-door. The flirty, happy chica who is the definition of feminine and isn’t afraid to flaunt it. I played that hand right from the beginning, because the most important thing was roping Brian into thinking I’ll be his perfect match.