by C. J. Wells
My nod of certainty is quick.
His kiss…is slow.
Slow and sensual.
And though my body awakens to the spark of arousal at the hands of my inebriation, it quickly fizzles. My mind isn’t in the game. Or maybe it’s my heart.
His lips feel…soft…foreign. My head spins as I struggle to give in to the moment and the feelings it should be evoking. I shouldn’t be thinking at all, but I can’t ignore the words floating through my mind like cue cards in grad school study hall - the most prevalent in bold italics: Awkward.
I gasp when he pulls away, though not from passionate despair at the loss of his lips. It’s more a sigh of relief from somewhere deep in my gut.
Dropping his hands from my face, he takes a step back, his gaze taking in mine. His blue eyes reflect my inner battle of mind over need, and every part of me wants to beg him to form an alliance against the prevailing side of thought. I need to forget. I need to lose myself in mindless passion. Forced or otherwise.
Have you ever been so drunk in both wine and despair that you can’t think straight? That’s pretty much where I’m sitting. “Try it again,” I mutter in a desperate plea to force something that doesn’t seem to be there.
“I should get dressed,” he replies in forfeit, but I convince myself I see a flicker of hope in his eyes as I reach to stop him from stepping away. “Aby, don’t,” his tone is gentle, understanding.
Ugh. He knows what I’m refusing to admit. “Come o-n-n-n…” I whine like a five year old, a smidge away from stomping my little feet. Yup, I’m officially pathetic. I want an escape. I’m desperate for one, even if it means trying to force a cube into the circle hole. Try summoning a slutty grin, and bite your lip like a whore propositioning him at the curb - my inner actress rolls her eyes at me from the corner. I purse my lips - it’s an outward action that hides my inner flipping her the bird.
He says nothing to my childish plea.
It makes me feel foolish. Which ties in a whole bunch of other feelings that don’t mix well with my consumed bottle of Vino. And together, the lot certainly doesn’t sit well against my drunken, defensive wall. As a matter of fact, they shatter it. “I know you want this,” I challenge him.
“Not like this, Aby,” he shakes his head, and the pity I see in his eyes - whether I’m imagining it or not - makes me want to scream.
Instead I call bullshit, and reach for the towel around his waist, a quick tug sending it falling back to the floor. If I felt like a fool before, I now see one dancing between us, smiling and laughing at me as my unveiled trump card hangs its head in shame - Andrew’s limp biscuit.
Oh God. “I’m so sorry,” I turn around in embarrassment - no, it’s full-fledged shame, with a capital “H” for humiliation. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I shake my head, wanting to disappear. What I really want is for everything that’s happened in the last two weeks to disappear. I want time to turn back and transport me into Alex’s arms, back in L.A., before the call came about Ben. Before everything fell apart. Before she told the truth and turned our worlds upside down. My world upside down.
“No, I’m sorry,” Andrew pulls me back to reality, flicking a switch in my mind that returns a seething bitterness for allowing Alex back into my thoughts. “Aby, it was really shitty of me to take advantage of the situation.”
“What situation?” I spin around defensively, noting the return of his towel around his waist yet again.
“The one where you’re drunk. And heartbroken.” His closed mouth smile of sympathy elicits an urge to vomit.
Literally.
I make it to the bathroom just in time.
“FEELING BETTER?” ANDREW asks when I finally have the courage to emerge. “I made you coffee,” he holds up a steaming cup, cautiously walking towards me.
I feign a small smile of gratitude before the scent hits me, sending a nasty ripple through my emptied, though still churning stomach. It takes a moment of pause to wash away. “Maybe a water instead?”
“You got it,” he winks, turning back to the kitchen.
I note his newly donned clothing, and wince as everything that just happened threatens to poke its finger down my throat. Jesus. Is there anything left in my stomach to come up? “I don’t know why I was sick,” I state aloud, though it was more a thought.
“Probably because you haven’t been eating much,” he calls over his shoulder, and I roll my eyes defiantly at his accurate assessment.
Every part of me wants to head straight for the door and leave this entire mortifying event behind. But I can’t do that. I can’t do that to Andrew. Especially when he turns, and I see that fun-loving smile - the one that belongs to my good friend. The friend I came here to see before it turned into a gong show. And, since I feel like the one that banged the gong, I should be the first to still its pounding reverberations.
“Andrew, I’m really sorry,” I begin, taking the bottle of water with a humiliated bite of the corner of my mouth.
“Don’t,” he shakes his head. “Let’s not do that. Aby, I took that kiss because your eyes said you were feeling it too. But it was selfish, because I knew you heart wasn’t.”
“How…” I pause, remembering that he said I was heartbroken, “How did you know that Alex and I are…” I can’t even finish, looking away as another churning wave assaults my core.
“That fight…Then no sign of him in the last two weeks.” I meet his eyes as he continues, “You’ve been crying a lot lately - those thin walls,” he shrugs. “And when I saw the latest publicity pictures…”
My legs feel suddenly weak, and I rush to the sofa to sit down.
“I knew as soon as you showed up tonight that you had seen them too. That you drew your own conclusions about them.”
“Them? You mean, Alex and Julia.” Ugh, I close my eyes, regretting how much I’ve leaned on him for support in the past when Stacey’s not around. Drew my own conclusions? “Are you suggesting I’m wrong? That those pictures don’t scream that he chose her? It’s obvious,” I stand, unable to sit in one place, despite my body’s disagreement.
“Nothing is obvious. It’s just marketing, Aby. Perception is everything.”
Alex’s words spewed from Andrew’s mouth stab at my heart, the serrated edge too much to take. “I know what those pictures mean, Andrew. I knew it the minute he walked out the door.” Tears loom in the corners of my eyes, and the minute his face flashes sympathy at seeing their impending fall, I turn away.
I need to get out of here. I need to sleep. Just sleep. And not wake up until this all goes away. “I’m so sorry about…everything,” I manage, making it to the door.
“Aby, don’t go,” I hear his concerned plea as I quickly reach my flat, no longer able to see him in the open doorway adjacent to my own.
“Please, just let me go,” I whisper, unsure if he can even hear me, or if the words were even meant for him at all.
“HOW’S MY LITTLE buttercup?” Stacey quips.
Her pity-pouted question reverberates through the phone line like an annoying stab to my pounding eyeballs. How am I? Well, let’s break this down…One, I’m hung-over, the residual taste of puke lingering despite scrubbing my teeth four times. Two, the man that I love is fucking his ex-girlfriend - brilliant. Three, I practically groped my friendly neighbor like a drunken whore - fucking brilliant. “I’m fine.”
“Well, that’s a two-worded load of crap that I’ll ignore. Are you ready to drown your very possibly unwarranted sorrows? I believe my bestie offered me a bachelorette party,” she adds.
Fuck. Drinking? I just threw up in my mouth a little. Unwarranted sorrows my ass - my seriously dumb ass - for falling in love with a man that it seems was never really mine after all.
“Hellooo? Abster? Why do I sense hesitation? You know I know what’s best for you babe…shit-faced alcohol indulgence, remember?”
“Ummm…about that, I kinda started without you. Last night.”
“Okaaayyy.
And…?”
“And, I puked.”
“Okaaayyy.”
“Andrew was naked.”
“I’m sorry, come again? Did you just say that you were drunk, you puked, and were in the presence of a naked Andrew? Back the fucking train up. I get the drinking, I get the puking, but how - and WHY - is Andrew naked in this story?”
“Well, it started innocently…”
“If you’re about to tell me that you fucking had sex with Andrew, I’m going to have a stroke.”
“Of course not!” Although it was nowhere near that, it could have been. “Do you want the story or not?”
“I’m listening…”
“We kissed. It was awkward. Beyond awkward. Long story short, I felt nothing. Not one iota of passion.” God, the look on his face when he pulled away. “I think I hurt him, Stace. I don’t want to hurt him.”
“You don’t want to hurt Andrew? What about Alex?”
“Well, I think that point is moot, since he’s bumping f’ugly’s with his whore of an ex-girlfriend.”
“Well, one, that’s speculation. And two, can we please get back to the how was Andrew naked part?”
“He was in a towel…bad aim…I saw his goods,” which I wish I hadn’t, “…and it went down hill from there. I shouldn’t have gone there in the first place, I was drunk…lonely.”
“So? What? You see random dicks and you’re inspired to kiss people? I’m really worried about you, Aby. I will not allow you to turn into an almost as attractive version of me - no offence. You obviously should not be allowed to drink alone. We’re going out tonight and doing it properly, no random dicks. Hair of the dog, as Thomas would say. But listen, babe, I’m just glad that it stopped at a kiss. That’s all I’m going to say to your blind assumptions - a.k.a Alex and Julia.”
Their names together like that sends geriatric shudders down my spine. “Okaaay,” I give in. It is Stacey’s bachelorette after all - well, in lieu of my pity party. “But hear this, my whore-friend, those names are hereby stricken from tonight’s conversation.”
“What names? Alex and Julia?”
“You really are a whore.”
“At least I’m a whore that can drink alone. And, about those names…”
“Don’t!” I stop her.
“…Time starts now.”
“SO…I TOLD him, if I’m still able to walk to the kitchen, you don’t deserve dinner,” Stacey fills us in, her tone completely serious.
I almost choke on my sip of beer with a laugh. “And at what point, exactly, are you actually going to admit to your poor fiancé that, if and when you ever do cook him dinner, he should expect a sandwich at most?”
“Listen bitch, I can summon a little Gordon Ramsay - Can you see the fuck you in my smile?”
“I hate to tell you ladies, but mad culinary skills amount to nothing more than a can of beans in the relationship department. Although,” Emily pauses, “…perhaps it’s just my department that’s full of beans.” She contemplates her statement a little. “Humph. I need another drink.”
“Then let’s get the woman another drink!” Stacey squeals with delight, flagging the attention of the waiter.
“You just haven’t met the right one, Emily,” I attempt to make her feel better, though my words put a bad taste in my mouth - which I decide to wash away with another swig of beer.
“I swear to God, if I go on one more blind date…” she trails off with a dramatic shiver.
“You just have to feel it with the right guy,” I interject again. Or the wrong guy. Fucker. What the hell is wrong with me? Am I channeling Doctor Ruth or something?
“I don’t know…I have mixed drinks about feelings,” Emily purses her lips, clearly already feeling the alcohol.
“Are you sure?” Stacey asks conspiratorially, the waiter departing with her whispered order of drinks. “I do know a few good men,” she winks.
“A few?” I laugh.
“Shut it,” she glares at me playfully, looking back to Emily. “I would be honored to give you my little black book. I won’t be needing it anymore,” she adds with a giddy squeal.
Emily and I join in, paying homage to the bride-to-be in girly style, clinking glasses and dancing in our seats with rambunctious laughter.
“Hey, whatever happened to that Ken Doll neighbor of yours?” Emily asks, and I almost choke on my beer a second time. “Andrew? Is he still available?”
“Oh, he’s available,” Stacey mutters sarcastically.
My head darts towards her to return her recent glare, but much more harshly.
Pursing her lips, she shrugs.
It’s so not funny. The last thing I need to think about right now is my run in with Andrew - and by run in, I mean his naked glistening body against mine…right before that kiss. How did I let that happen? Oh, right, I was drunk.
“Now, we’re talking!” Stacey’s attention is pulled towards the return of the waiter with a tray full of shots. “Let’s get this party started, ladies!” she gushes, swaying sexily in her seat. “It’s tequila time!”
Oh shit.
“OKAY, I ADMIFF it,” Emily begins through a drunken hiccup, “…the shots are much better than my red wine. Cause you know, well, for one,” she holds her finger up, trying to focus on it, “…my teeth aren’t purple.”
“Yup, that’s always a good thing,” I nod in agreement.
“And!” she continues, as though her next point is very important, “…wine always makes me…what’s the word?”
“Drunk?” Stacey asks.
“Noooo,” she replies like it’s a dumb answer. “All needy and shit.”
“Ahhh,” Stacey replies, nodding her head. “Like, ‘Give me wine, and tell me I’m pretty”, stupid shit?”
“Yes!” she shrieks at Stacey’s apparent brilliance.
“As opposed to ‘Give me tequila, and call me a whore’?” I question, feeling rather witty. And horny. Damn tequila.
“You can always drunk text Alex,” Emily nudges me, winking.
“Brilliant idea!” Stacey agrees.
“Okay,” I smile, pulling my phone from my bag.
“I spy with my little eye…something HOT!” Emily suddenly stands, heading across the bar towards what’s caught her eye.
“Abs, I was kidding,” Stacey mutters as I fiddle with my phone.
“I’m not. I’m sooooo not. He needs to know what he gave up. What time is it in L.A. right now? Screw it,” I start typing…
Subject: You suck, but I’m horny
If I sit on your face, will you tell me I’m pretty?
Aby
“Sent,” I announce aloud on a cheeky smile, proud of my possibly dumbass rambling. Wait, what did I type?
“Give me that,” Stacey grabs it from me. “Ugh,” she replies, reading it. “If you’re going to do it, it has to be done right. And that, my little slurring whore, is why it’s good to have me around…”
Subject: Be still, my beating vagina
You gone long time…Confucius say, he who masturbate only screwing self.
Aby
We can’t stop laughing, until my phone suddenly vibrates on the table.
“Oh. My. God,” we utter simultaneously, staring at each other momentarily in shock before bursting into laughter once more.
“Well, what did the amazing Alexander Tate say,” I ask, laced with a snarky edge.
“Ummm…Abs, he’s asking where you are.”
“What? Now he wants to know where I am? Why the fuck does he care - he’s in L.A.?”
“Well, what do you want me to tell him?”
Grabbing the phone from her I begin commentating my reply as I type, “Where am I? I’m at FUCK YOU,” I hit send.
“Well, you certainly weren’t ambiguous,” Stacey laughs.
“He was an arse,” Emily plops back down.
“Yes. He. Was,” I add. I know damn well that Emily was referring to the guy she just walked away from, but the timing of her statement w
as perfect.
“What did I miss,” she asks, clearly confused.
“Let me tell you what I don’t miss,” I quickly reply, “…Alexander-fucking-Tate.”
“Ahhh, Aby? Did you know you have an old unread message from Alex?” Stacey asks, scrolling through my cell.
“I’m sorry, what? How old?” How the hell did I miss that?
“Like, this morning old,” she replies, pausing to read it before looking at me, eyes squinted in confusion.
“Well? What did it say?”
“It says, ‘I need to’, and then…jibberish,” Stacey reads it aloud.
“He needs to jibberish?” Emily questions as I stare at Stacey, holding my breath.
What? My gaze darts to Emily, “Is that some British thing? What does that mean?”
“No! I don’t know,” she replies, her drunken defense laced with what the fuck.
“You dummies. It means the text didn’t come through. It was cut off in delivery, hence the bunch of weird symbols, a.k.a. jibberish. You fuck-tards,” Stacey holds it up quickly for us to see, before pulling it away again in scrutiny.
“Humph,” I snort, “…you never know, maybe he was drunk too. I could see how his whore-able replacement for me could drive him to drink. So, what, no subject line?” I ask, pulling down a drunken mask of bravery.
“The subject says, ‘I’m so sorry for everything’,” Stacey begrudgingly meets my gaze, pausing at whatever she sees flash across my face. “You don’t know what his text said, Aby.”
I stare at her for a moment, my broken heart begging my head to ignore what I know is true. It doesn’t matter what it said. He’s gone.
Gulping down the remains of my drink, I slam the empty glass down with a bang, standing to exit our little booth. I can’t shake my anger at Alex, my frustration, and now Stacey’s hopeful mixed messages on top of that. Fuck him. Not even losing myself in a drunken stupor is doing the trick - though I’m surprised I’m even standing at this point.
“Where are you going, Aby?” Stacey questions.
“That way,” I point to the crowded dance floor.
