One Less Problem Without You

by Beth Harbison

  Chelsea got her attention with a tap on the forearm, and the girl turned.

  “You okay?”

  “Yes, sorry, this asshole just…” She shook her head and wiped black away from under her lower lashes. “I’m just an idiot.” She laughed and smiled.

  “I’m sure you’re not nearly as stupid as he is. I mean, that’s just odds. Guys are wrong so much more often.”

  She nodded and then tilted her head. “Certain guys, you just feel like you should have known better with, you know?” Her tongue tangled in a way that is indicative almost always of heavy intoxication.

  “I feel like that’s my actual life, so yes.” Chelsea washed her hands and didn’t try to console the girl anymore. She knew she didn’t need that, and Chelsea knew she wasn’t any good at it anyway.

  On her way out, she said, “Fuck him, seriously. Forget him,” and then checked her heels for toilet paper once more—always her biggest concern when leaving the bathroom.

  The girl smiled at her.

  Andrew was still in the DJ booth when she emerged.

  She gave Andrew a look of encouragement when he looked her way, then crossed the busy dance floor to the bar, chugging the rest of her drink.

  She wasn’t sure exactly what it was she hoped to get out of going out, but almost every time she did it she thought, Not this.

  “Can I have a Hendrick’s Tonic?” They’d only had whiskey and Cîroc vodka in the VIP, both of which gave her a headache. The whiskey because she didn’t do dark liquors, and the Cîroc because it was made from wine grapes and always made her sick. She’d already had wine earlier—too much and she’d really regret it.

  “Cucumber or lime?”

  “Cucumber.”

  The bartender, who looked about fifteen and had an Afro that added at least four inches to his miniature build, winked at her. “You got it.”

  Once her drink was ordered, she had almost no choice but to lean against the bar backward and look around the room without letting her eyes land anywhere. The only other option was to use her phone, but she didn’t even have it.

  “You bored, too?” came a voice next to her.

  It was a man, older than she was, whom she had evidently ordered her drink next to and hadn’t noticed. He was attractive, she saw now.

  “Well, my friend got hit on the second we walked in, so it’s not like we got the chance to really hang out before I had to give them space, you know.”

  “That’s the worst,” he said. “My buddy did the same thing. He walked in and started bullshitting with some guy, they started talking about some Bravo TV show, and then they were off.” He gestured vaguely out into the crowd.

  Chelsea laughed. “Not much of a reality TV guy, huh?”

  He made a straight line with his mouth. “Not so much. Although I have been known to spend a summer watching Big Brother and denying it to everyone I know. I had a girlfriend who was into it.”

  Girlfriend. Huh.

  She’d binge-watched enough Sex and the City and been friends with Andrew for too long to believe this meant the guy was straight.

  “Hi, I’m Lee.”

  “Hi, Lee.”

  He waited a moment before giving a concessionary smile and asking, “And what is your name?”

  She smiled. “I’m Chelsea.”

  She searched his face, trying to make sense of the effect it was having on her. He was part generically handsome, part familiar and comfortable, and part unique. The only thing she knew was that he was immediately appealing.

  “What a pretty name. Like the area in London?”

  “Most people guess New York!” She was amazed. “But yes, London. My mom went to college there and named me after her favorite part of the city.”

  “She gave a very pretty name to a very pretty girl.”

  “Thank you!” Chelsea felt her hopes surge; earlier, she wouldn’t have believed that possible.

  Maybe Andrew had been exactly right; maybe this was her night. Despite the whole clusterfuck with Jeff earlier. She had thought that was a really bad omen. Certainly it had been embarrassing.

  Maybe everything was going to change, finally, starting now.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Eighteen Years Earlier

  The occasion was Leif’s twenty-first birthday.

  Prinny was eleven and so thrilled to be able to be there for the small family dinner and the cake she’d helped Cook to decorate (“help” basically meant she’d put the two candles, 2 and 1, in the center where Cook pointed).

  But Leif’s mood was off. It was usually off, she found. He was frequently mean, and when he wasn’t, he was chilly. But Prinny knew that was because he’d always been upset that she and her mother had come along and, as he saw it, ended his Original Family.

  But Prinny wanted to be his family now. She didn’t understand why he was so resistant to it.

  So she got him something she knew he’d like, even though it was just a small version.

  She handed him the box she’d wrapped herself and sat back, her hand on the back rail of her father’s chair, watching in happy anticipation as he opened it.

  He threw the paper aside, knowing someone else would pick it up, and looked at the box in shock. It was a model of the car he’d been wanting, a 1965 Mustang convertible. She knew it because he thought about it all the time and had spent a ton of time trying to find one nice enough for him, since apparently there were a bunch of clunkers and pieces of shit out there, but very few mint-condition vintage Mustangs.

  This one, at least, was mint condition, as it had never been owned before. How could it have been? It was just a toy from the model section of the toy store.

  So why was Leif looking at it like she’d given him a hot potato with hot lava on top?

  “What’s wrong?” she asked nervously, and felt her father’s hand come to rest reassuringly on her shoulder.

  “How did you know?” Leif asked, only it wasn’t in that tone of wonder people used when they were thrilled with something. It was accusatory. As if she’d read his diary or something.

  She shrugged. “I just … knew.”

  “There’s no way you could just know.”

  “Son,” Charlie cautioned.

  “What?” Leif shot back. “You know what this is.” He picked up the box. “We all know what this is!”

  It was a toy car.

  Wasn’t it?”

  “And you know where she got it. She got it from her mother. You brought this into our house and into our family!”

  “No,” Prinny objected, thinking maybe she could clear this whole misunderstanding up and then she’d get that happy smile she’d been waiting for for so long from Leif. “It’s from Sullivan’s on Wisconsin Avenue. I bought it. I can prove it, Maria was with me!”

  Leif gave a mean laugh. “Yeah, that’s what I meant.”

  “Leif!” Charlie boomed.

  Suddenly Prinny felt like she shouldn’t have done this but she didn’t know why. She’d been so excited to give him something she knew he wanted, but now it was clear that was exactly the wrong thing to have done. Exactly.

  But why?

  “Stop hating me!” she cried. “It’s not my fault Mommy and Daddy fell in love.”

  Leif shot her a look, then transferred it to his father, pointing at her. “See that?”

  “Nothing remarkable there. Everyone knows I loved Ingrid. I still do.”

  Leif nodded in a way that communicated that he did not agree at all. “Everyone knows. Everyone knows. Except not everyone knows.”

  “I don’t understand!”

  “Shhhh. It’s okay,” her father soothed her, patting her shoulder. “Leif just has other plans and is feeling a little grumpy because he’s running late. Run along now, Leif.”

  “Me.”

  “Yes, you. If you can’t behave in a civilized manner, you don’t need to be here.”

  Leif looked at her with what seemed like sheer hatred, but Prinny knew that wasn’t all t
here was to it. It was fear. “Don’t be afraid,” she said, hoping that would, at last, soothe him. Maybe the more she made him understand that she knew him, the more comfortable he’d be. “You’re going to have a great night in Georgetown. Can’t you just stay with us a little longer?”

  Leif rounded on her. “What did you say?”

  “Can’t you stay—”

  “Before that.”

  “You’re going to have a great time in Georgetown.” She concentrated. “At Rumors. Right?” She beamed. “That’s where you’re going, right?”

  He shook his head. “This is sick.” He didn’t look at her again, just at his father. “You know this isn’t okay.”

  “Everything is fine,” Charlie said, but Prinny knew he was also rattled, though she didn’t know why.

  “Yeah, great.” Leif turned and left the room, leaving the box with the car in it on the chair where he’d dropped it.

  This wasn’t an ordinary grown-up fight. This was something to do with her. Something to do with Leif’s fear of her and her father’s … she hated to see it, but her father’s embarrassment.

  But what in the world had she done?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Chelsea

  “So is this the kind of place you frequent?” he asked her. The Gin Bar was still hopping. In fact, it seemed to be getting more and more rowdy as time wore on.

  The song changed, suddenly louder.

  “Not really.”

  She watched his lips. He mouthed, “What?”

  “Not really!” she said, loudly enough this time.

  “Yeah, well,” he said, speaking closer to her ear, close enough to show that he wore good cologne, “first of all, I’m straight, so.” He gave a there’s that gesture. “But in general, I’m not really about the kinds of places where you feel like you’re in the middle of a full-fledged nightmare.”

  “Oh, going blind and deaf isn’t your thing?” She smiled and held a hand up at the startlingly white lights that strobed over the crowd now. “That’s so weird of you!”

  “Man,” he said, drawn out. “This is hell.”

  Chelsea laughed, the sound drowned out in the repeating beat. Too much for a small space.

  She glanced over at Andrew to make sure he was okay, but he looked fine.

  “You want to do a shot?” He shouted it at her, and Chelsea heard him, but he leaned closer as if maybe she hadn’t. “I feel like the only thing that’s going to get me through this is a shot or two.”

  She nodded. “Sure!”

  A few seconds later, a bartender was pouring deep brown liquid from an ornate round bottle into two shot glasses. Dammit, she thought. She should have specified.

  Lee took both and handed one to her. “What should we cheers to exactly? Hating our lives right now?”

  “Um”—she looked around—“the last night of our most useful senses? Saying good-bye to hearing, voice, and vision?”

  He laughed and clinked his glass against hers.

  She let the liquid trickle and burn down her throat, then set the glass down on the counter, trying to show no reaction whatsoever. God, she hated that stuff. It always seemed to get her drunker, too.

  His eyes did a quick flick from hers to somewhere indistinct on her body. “You’re something.”

  She shrugged. It wasn’t actually so bad, she thought. Getting attention, even just a little flattery, might be just the thing to bring her out of her funk.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, surprising her. “I don’t want to make it seem like I’m hitting on you or anything, because I’m really not. You just seem awesome, and I’m here to kinda, you know, babysit my idiot friend more than anything else.” He pointed.

  A balding man was dancing with a younger guy probably breaking into his thirties. He was narrow and looked like he might have a Thing for older guys.

  “Looks like he’s doing okay,” she said.

  “Yeah! I’m glad; he’s been in a rough spot.”

  There was something in his expression then. Something that cued Chelsea in to thinking he had a lot of consideration around the situation. There was a kindness there.

  “How about another shot?” she asked. “This one’s on me.” That way she could make sure it was vodka.

  “Another shot, sure, but on you, no.”

  She started to argue, but her voice was lost in the noise. She pulled on the back of his shirt as he reached over the bar to order, but he ignored her. She laughed. The last shot was starting to go to her head in a blissful, freeing way.

  Two shots were placed in front of them. This time they were pink and fruity-looking. She looked him right in the eyes and had a moment to appreciate the smile playing at the corners of his lips.

  “To this not being whiskey,” she said, holding up her glass. “Let’s keep it that simple.”

  He laughed; they clinked. Again they drank.

  The night evaporated for a bit then. Chelsea lost track of Andrew. She lost track momentarily of her clutch. She couldn’t find Andrew. That asshole, he really left her?

  Not worth being upset over, she decided. She could get home.

  She emerged from the bathroom, thinking at first that the guy she had been talking to—Lee, right?—was also gone. But he wasn’t. He was standing against the pillar where she now remembered she had left him.

  “You feeling okay?” he asked.

  “Oh, no, I’m fine.” She heard her own tongue tangling now, and recalled the girl from the beginning of the night. The one she had felt smug and sober in front of, even though she liked her.

  “Do you want to get some fresh air?”

  She nodded yes, meaning it.

  Once out onto the street, in real lighting, she could see that he was actually better-looking than he had seemed in the bar—almost never the case.

  He had good bone structure and a broken-in face that told you exactly what he’d look like for the rest of his life, but also told you what he’d looked like before age began to take hold. She pegged him for late thirties.

  They got food from a taco truck, which surprised her. He rolled up his sleeves and enjoyed every bite of the dollar-fifty taco that his suit would suggest he might not. He sat with one leg slung over each side of the picnic table bench, with a healthy distance between them.

  After that he offered to walk her back to her apartment.

  “I’m at least four Metro stops up. Really, I’ll be okay. I’ll probably just Uber—dammit.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  She slapped a hand to her forehead. “I left my phone in my friend’s car.” What a stupid gesture that had been.

  “I would be happy to call you an Uber if you want. Otherwise, I’m staying in a hotel right around the corner.”

  She gave him a look.

  He held up his hands. “No strings attached. I’m probably getting a pay-per-view movie and having hangover breakfast in my room tomorrow morning. If you want to come, there’s no expectation. But you’re a good girl, I wouldn’t mind spending more time with you. Tonight or some other time. Whatever you want.”

  He was hot, she decided then. A crooked smile, honest eyes … she couldn’t deny that she was attracted to him. And he was nice. There was something about the way he looked at her, the way he spoke, that made her believe him.

  “No funny business,” she said after considering, with a pointed finger and a set of narrowed eyes.

  “No.” He laughed, and she felt comfortable. He seemed more in control than she felt. Honestly, the risk of her trying to get home on her own in this state was probably worse.

  The fact that she was so completely hammered was a whole other issue, of course. But it had been awhile, she hadn’t eaten much, and she’d had drinks all over the spectrum. That was a conversation she’d have with herself in the morning. She downed the Mexican Coke she’d gotten from the food truck while he got her a water, too.

  Their walk in the slightly chilly fresh air, mixed with the caffeine, food, and hydration
, made her feel infinitely better. Not stumbling. Not sleepy. Drunk and silly, yes. But she also didn’t feel like going home with him was all that big a deal. She was glad sobering up hadn’t made her aware that she was making a huge mistake.

  It turned out that he was staying at the Paramount. The big, grand hotel right downtown that she’d always walked past and wondered about. Ornately carved pillars, golden light pouring out of the lobby, expensive cars in the roundabout, and doormen who looked straight out of an old movie. She was suddenly thrilled at her choice to stay with him. She was probably going to hook up with him (could you say “hook up” when he was that much older?), but that was fine. She hadn’t done something this foolish in awhile. Why not live a little?

  And at the Paramount, of all places?

  They went in, passing the check-in desk, and went to the elevators. She got a little flicker of pleasure when she saw their reflection together in the mirror. He looked like a real man, and he made her look slender, pretty, youthful. She hadn’t felt that way for some time. Something she knew was stupid.

  He asked her if she’d drink a glass of champagne if he ordered one, she said yes (she knew she probably shouldn’t, but a few sips couldn’t hurt), and he called room service and asked for a bottle of Moët & Chandon.

  He was practically Cary Grant, she thought, as she reclined on the luxurious king-sized bed.

  Some silly part of her felt like she was just acting. Like they were in a scene, and he was her husband. They were just getting home from a night of entertaining. All he wanted was to unbutton his cufflinks, and all she wanted was to unsnap her garters … the dreamy sort of vision she secretly had of men and women together.

  She smiled as she leaned back on the pillow, laughing at her imaginary scenario. Her ever-outlandish mind.

  When suddenly imagination became reality. He was upon her, his weight depressing the mattress at her side, just a little. His lips kissing her shoulder, her neck, and her jaw.

  She laughed again and let it relax her even further.

  It felt like no time until the knock on the door came. Yes! The champagne!

  When had she pulled down the straps of her dress? Had she not worn a bra tonight?