God, he always did have class.
Evan stood just a little taller than me when we were younger. Now he seemed to have added an inch or so. Still, he was the slight, wily creature I remembered.
He glanced to the plastic cup on the counter beside me before scoffing openly. “What are you drinking?”
“Well, I was trying to drink water, but -”
He grabbed my hand and led me out of the kitchen. We made our way through the living room and the den as people did whatever they could to grab Evan’s attention. I felt out of place, not only dressed as I was, but at Evan’s side. Seemingly oblivious, he dragged me to the far corner of the house where I found myself across a bar counter from a man in a black vest and white button down shirt. I’d seen another before that moment, but had simply assumed he was in some costume too hip for me to recognize. Instead, I realized he was working the party in a far more direct manner than the rest of the people there.
“Order something,” Evan said.
“No, I’m alright.”
“Faye, have a drink. You’re tense as fuck.”
How right he was. I shook my head. “What would my sponsor say?”
Evan laughed. “He’d say nobody likes a quitter!”
I snorted, softly. “You’re so sensitive.”
I’d just ordered my Rum and Coke when I heard a familiar voice behind me.
“Bitch. You left me with that snaggle-toothed schmuck on purpose.”
I turned to find Meghan offering her hand to Evan with the brightest, most catalog model worthy smile I’d ever seen on her beautiful face. Evan smiled back, glancing at me. I introduced them by name rather than blow job preference. The bartender handed me my drink, and I leaned onto the counter to create space between myself and the rest of the party goers. Despite the cathedral ceilings of the main den, the room still felt small with that many people in it. I attempted to scan the faces, leaving Meghan to her conquest without being too blatantly accommodating. After recognizing three people from my high school, I turned back to the bar. I wasn’t particularly interested in shooting the shit with complete strangers who might want to pretend we have something to talk about because we went to the same high school. Before I knew I’d even put a dent in my drink, it was gone and the bartender was handing me a new glass.
“Whoa there, Alki,” Evan said as he leaned onto the bar beside me and ordered himself two fingers of Black Label. I turned to find Meghan gone.
Evan offered without my asking. “She headed to the bathroom. She seems nice, yeah?”
“Yes, she is.”
“Well, who here doesn’t?”
I met his gaze and tried to smile. He wrapped an arm around me and squeezed before being called off by some woman in a Black Widow leather catsuit. When Meghan returned, she offered blatant disdain for my letting him leave.
“He’s around. If you like you can tranquilize him and tag him before we leave tonight.”
She shook her head. “Worst wing man ever.”
“I’m not your wing man.”
“Apparently not!”
I sipped idly at my drink, feeling warm and large as I listened to Meghan’s account of the fireworks she felt between herself and Evan. It was true love, she assured me. She applied a fresh layer of lip gloss.
I was smiling. During her monologue, I’d managed to order myself another drink. Then another.
And we had lift off.
I turned around, leaning my elbows onto the bar behind me and actively watching the crowd. Meghan turned with me, muttering with disgust at the social organism that lay before us. Pockets of conversation would burst at Evan’s passing by. Small crowds would congregate around people who’d done so little as recently spoken to the man. It was so strange to see him in this familiar space, but in such a foreign position. It was as though he was some rare and endangered zoo animal, and at any moment he might give birth to the first of his kind in captivity. I began actively lip reading and watching. Women finding reason to relocate, men declaring close personal connection to the host – it was like a school of fish that swims along under the fins of a shark, eating his leftovers, cleaning his gills. I began to contemplate what form of sea creature I would be in this scenario – a barnacle on a rock somewhere perhaps, or a sea urchin, or fire algae; something idly cantankerous.
A figure caught my eye well above the heads of the crowd as he appeared in the kitchen doorway. The man was in a green flight suit, short shorn blonde crew cut and broad shoulders. He had on a pair of Ray Bans that reflected the room around him and perfectly trimmed seventies ‘stache. I finally understood the time honored tradition of women moistening at the sight of a man in uniform. He seemed oblivious to the collective focus on Evan, searching for something of his own design.
He stepped into the room as Meghan shifted beside me, murmuring intent for us to relocate to another room in hopes that Evan might be hunted down. The man in camouflage met my gaze and before I could dodge him, he beamed at me. My heart shot into the back of my throat.
Stellan plowed past the masses toward me, stopping for a moment as a man pointed at him and recognizing Stellan’s costume as a character from Top Gun, cried, “Pull up, Goose!”
The drunk man in a ketchup bottle costume demanded a high five and a chest bump before he released Stellan to his slow path across the room. When Stellan reached me, my mouth had gone dry.
“You look fucking great, woman,” he said, smiling as I stood there like a slack jawed yokel, staring up at him.
“Holy shit, Ødegård. Not fucking bad,” Meghan said. “I even like the stache! You look like a porn star.”
Stellan gave an eyebrow wiggle. “How kind of you to notice.”
I wanted to say something similar or perhaps something belligerent to her for commenting on the object of my unknown affection - anything really, but instead I just stood there staring.
Finally, he laughed and nudged me. “Is it that bad?”
I shook my head and attempted to speak. I just kept smiling.
When I finally found words, they came out in cracks and whistles. “You cut your mullet.”
“I did!” He grabbed my hands, planting them squarely on the top of his head. He waited for me to tousle what was left of his hair. I ran my fingers across the smooth bristle of his blonde hair, then dragged them back upward, letting my fingers fight against the natural current of his hair. I let my fingers fall down the nape of his neck, and then slipped them upward again.
He shivered and stood at full height, smiling. “Do you like it?”
There was childlike expectation in his voice.
I could see the idiotic smile on my face reflected in his aviators. “I’m speechless.”
He pumped his fist just slightly in the air. “You better be! Although, the fucking mustache is driving me nuts. Won’t stay on for shit.”
He began pressing the blond hairpiece into his upper lip, finally grumbling as it fell off in his hand. He stuffed it into his pocket and took off his shades.
“You look so handsome,” I said before the words registered in my brain.
He beamed, yet quickly raised an eyebrow and turned to Meghan. “How many has she had?”
Meghan gave him an exasperated look. “No clue.”
“What do you mean no clue?”
“Well, I’m not babysitting her. She wants to get boozed up, she’s welcome to it.”
Stellan shook his head. “You’re a terrible human being, you know that right?”
“Fuck you, Ødegård.”
Stellan looks me in the eye as though there might be a ‘drunk meter’ he could read therein. “What’ve you been drinkin, lady. Have you seen Evan?”
Stellan turned to scan the crowd, his shoulder pressing against mine gently. My skin felt hyper sensitive to every inch of him. I knew the distance of his leg, his elbow, his cheek, his hip from mine. There was an urge to lean or shift my body in a way that would cause u
s to touch, but I fought it with purpose. That purpose was translated into turning to the bartender and demanding another drink.
“Hang on there,” Stellan said and put a hand out to the bartender. “I’m going to take her for a breather.”
The bartender nodded, and Stellan turned me toward the Evan-adoring hordes. It suddenly hit me that I feared walking in these cowboy boots. One foot slips in the boot, and I might tumble. I felt a firm grip around my shoulders. Stellan had hold of me. I leaned into him and looked up, his clean shaven jaw just inches from my nose as he excused himself through the crowd toward the kitchen. He smelled like laundry detergent and shaving cream and soap and home. I giggled up at him, and he smiled back, giving a chuckle as he shook his head at me. By the time we reached the kitchen, the crowd had shifted in an effort to be near Evan. It felt cool in the now empty space. Stellan held me by the shoulders, almost placing me against the kitchen counter before going to the doorway to scan the crowd.
He returned shaking his head. “Jesus, this is fucking intolerable.”
“Evan has a lot of people’s noses up his bum.”
Stellan smiled. “How many did you have, babe?”
I shrugged. “I’m pretty swimmy.”
“Yes, you are.” He scanned me as he smiled. He pushed one of my nearly deflated bangs out of my face. “I love your hair.”
“I love your hair.”
He almost blushed. “You make a pretty foxy red head, I’m not going to lie.”
My lips were on his, and my hands firmly settled on the back of his head before he could finish his thought. I felt his hands settle at my waist, and I stood on my toes to press my lips against his and keep them there. His lips were soft, the grain of his freshly shaved upper lip catching at mine.
Holy shit, I was kissing Stellan.
I can’t believe I had the balls to kiss Stellan. I’m kissing Stellan!!
I curled my fingers into the chest pocket of his uniform to pull him closer and let my tongue query at his lips. His hands shifted to my arms, and their pressure grew stronger, gently pushing us apart.
I searched his face, as he pushed me away.
“I think I’d better take you home,” he said, smiling. I felt a sharp pain in the center of my chest, as though something jagged and raw had been gouged up under my ribs and twisted there. He brushed my hair back again before telling me to stay put while he said a quick hello to Evan.
He slipped into the crowd and disappeared.
I stood there, like some tired old Jell-O mold, moments from losing shape.
What have I done? What did I just fucking do?
I stood waiting for him to return, aching for him to return, to feel him close to me again. Yet, I remembered only the pressure of his hands, the way he’d pushed me away. Suddenly, I couldn’t stomach the thought of seeing his face again.
Before anyone could notice my passage, I snuck behind the crowd and out the sun room door. I turned away from the wonderland of lights and headed past the garage, out onto the dark road. I marched in my cowboy boots past the dozens of parked cars and wobbled down the slope of the hill. I was a mile from home, I’d walked this route a hundred times.
One more time wouldn’t kill me, I thought, desperately trying to ignore the heat building at my pinky toe and my heel. I made it down the steepest part of the hill and was getting close to the bridge when my phone buzzed in my bra. My stomach lurched.
Did Stellan realize I was gone?
I pulled the phone out and pressed the button.
Schmuckface - I’m thinking of you. Call me.
Seeing the text, seeing his number appear on that tiny bright screen in the middle of that empty road - it chiseled a crack right through me. I set my jaw and began typing.
I ducking hate you!! I fucking hope you catch herpes and it burns a hole thru your dick, you ducking asshole! Go fuck yourself and due Alone!!
SEND!
I stared at the screen for a few seconds, rereading my fury in autocorrected form.
Ducking? Really? Well that just wouldn’t do.
I meant fucking! You Asshole!
I pressed the send button with a guttural scream, my voice echoing across the swampy fields by the roadside. I took a few more painful steps. My feet were crumbling into an array of blisters and raw skin, and I wasn’t in a state to show a stubbornly brave face. I leveraged the heel of one boot against the toe of the other and pulled.
That’s when I nearly bit it. I was too woozy to keep my balance, and the boots were clunky under foot – and clearly hateful. I bent down and gave an angry pull at the boot, but a mix of sweat and old leather seemed to create a vacuum around my foot. I was ready to throw my phone into the river and set fire to my boots. Instead, I dropped to the grass on the side of the road, set my phone aside and double handed, grabbed the first boot, pulled my ankle up to practically my shoulder. I was flashing my crotch (which was almost entirely baby smooth, I’ll have you know) to the world - a drunk Cyndi Lauper screaming at her boots on the side of the road.
I felt the skin of my heel tearing against the inside of the boot as I pulled it off. I sat a moment, letting my poor feet cool, dark patches of blood visible on my socks even in the dark. My ass felt cold in the wet grass. Fantastic.
I stuffed my phone back into my brassiere, took a boot in each hand, hoisted myself up, and continued my trek along the bridge.
The headlights appeared behind me as though the car had been following in the dark. I closed my eyes and fought to keep my gait steady. Don’t look like a drunk floozy, Faye.
“Where you headed, Jensen?”
I turned to find Evan’s ancient silver Jetta pulled up alongside me. I’d been ready to slew profanity at strangers, but seeing a familiar face at that moment startled me a moment. “Home,” I said, finally.
He nodded. “Barefoot in the dark?”
I continued to walk without a word.
He rolled alongside me. “Get in the car, Faye.”
“I’m fine.”
“Get in the car.”
“I’m fucking fine!”
“I will forcibly collect you,” Evan said, and the familiarity of his tone rattled me somewhere deep.
“I will forcibly kick you in the dick!”
“Sounds fair,” he said, and the car stopped. The driver’s side door shot open.
I stopped dead where I stood and backed away from him, hollering, “I don’t need you to take care of me right now.”
The fact that I was near tears when I said it made it totally believable.
“Okay,” he said, his hand out in front of him as though he was trying to calm a wild horse. “I’d still like your company.”
I growled upward, as though some beast in the sky were challenging me. When that didn’t relieve the frustration, I chucked one of my mother’s boots at the pavement. It bounced across the road, almost falling into the water on the opposite side.
I watched helpless as Evan sauntered over and picked it up.
He turned to approach me, his red devil suit jacket gone now, leaving his flaming pants to blaze bright in the glow of his headlights. “You ready to get in the car.”
I sighed heavily, my breath shaking as I did. Then, without another word, I crossed to the passenger door, and climbed in.
The car smelled familiar – a mix of paper, Febreze, and a sort of dank scent that made the air inside the car feel damp, like its windows were left open to the rain one too many times. The windows were open, and the crisp air tossed my rock solid hair about the top of my head. There was a hint of garage smell to the car, a side effect of being left at Dad’s house when Evan ran off to pursue a better life.
Evan drove right past my street. I shifted to look at him, but I didn’t say anything.
“Don’t worry – just kidnapping you,” he said.
I didn’t argue. If there was anything one learned from being Evan’s friend for any length of time, i
t was that arguing with him was futile. Unless you planned to physically assault him - he didn’t like pain of any kind.
Despite knowing that he would squeal like a frightened cheerleader if I even hinted at nipple tweaking him or twisting his armpit hair, I just wasn’t feeling it right then.
We reached St. Bernard’s Cemetery, a space of ancient trees towering over old graves. Even in the dark, the leaves across the ground and overhead were vibrant orange as Evan pulled in. I watched the gravestones pass in the glare of his headlights, watching for untold shadows hovering between the graves as I’d always done when I was young and chasing ghosts. This wasn’t Sleepy Hollow, where we disappeared to act foolish and be hooligans. This was St. Bernard’s; this place was holy to me.
I held my breath as he rounded the familiar corners and pulled the car up to the grass. The headlights flashed across the first few graves before settling on their prize.
I stared bleary eyed at the stone face – Terrence and Edith Jensen.
I sat dumbfounded a moment.
Evan had an impeccable memory.
He shut off the car, leaving us in the dark. Despite sitting in a graveyard, I felt safer there than I could express. My phone buzzed in my brassiere, startling me.
I ignored it.
I stared out my open window, listening to the night time movements of animals and leaves rustling, coupled by the rare whoosh of a passing car on Bedford Road. I could have nestled into that corner of the world and faded away if Evan hadn’t been there. He ran his fingers up the nape of my neck and gave me a light head scratch. Somehow, despite a decade of not speaking, of not taking nightly trips to this graveyard when I was losing my mind after Stellan left for school – somehow we were still there, still idiot teenagers with fucked up fathers who escaped to graveyards for solace. Sometimes I wondered, between night time graveyard habits or streaks of rabid sexual promiscuity and drug abuse, which one was more disconcerting to a parent. I sat there with Evan rubbing my neck.
“Feel like talking, Cyndi?”
I turned to him and shook my head. I was almost certain I had raccoon eyes, but I didn’t care. It was Evan. He let me go back to my window while he fumbled with something in the glove compartment. A moment later, the Flashdance theme was softly playing through the speakers. I planted my palm to my face and laughed quietly.
Catch My Fall Page 19
