by Audrey Bell
"You went to a party. You drove home. You were sober, right?"
I nodded.
“Were you speeding?”
“Three miles over.”
"So, you went to a party. You drove home. You were doing just about the speed limit. And you got totally fucked." She squeezed my wrists tight, staring into my eyes. "Jesus is big in Texas. My mom is big on Jesus. But, you can call it whatever you want. Jesus, Buddha, God, Fate, Luck. You're not bigger than it. You got fucked over. You didn't do anything wrong. You were just on the wrong road at the wrong second and you got totally fucked over. Trying to figure out how you could've prevented it is like trying to figure out how to breathe underwater. It's impossible."
She looked me in the eye.
"You've got a lot of reasons to be fucking livid, but it’s not your fault," she said. "You're not bigger than chance or luck. You didn't do anything dangerous. You lost a hell of a lot. And you didn't do anything to deserve it. That sucks. But it's not your fault. You didn't deserve it."
"Get off me," I whispered.
"No."
"January, you better get off me before I do something I regret."
"Like what?" she asked. "You didn't deserve it. Your brother didn't deserve it. And you don't deserve to be miserable, just because you were driving." She stared into my eyes. "If you'd died, would you want him to suffer like this?"
"He wouldn't have been at the party--"
"It doesn’t fucking matter, Christian," she repeated. "It doesn't fucking matter. You're trying to make things make sense. And the truth is, this makes more sense if it's somebody's fault. But it's not. It's not anybody's fault. It just happened."
I felt tears burning behind my eyes and I reached for the back of her neck and held her chin. She was still so pretty that it fucking hurt and I was crying. She was blurring before my eyes.
"January," I managed.
She grabbed my chin. She kissed me once, too briefly and too softly.
I kissed her back urgently. I pressed her back onto the couch.
I wanted more than just a kiss.
“Not like this,” she said. She put her hands on my shoulder and she got up. “Let me get you something else to drink.” She brought me water. I took it from her and started to drink.
January
He fell asleep in the den. And I pulled off his shoes, threw a blanket over him, and called a cab. I shouldn't have kissed him. I felt panicked just remembering that I had. He had been fucked up, and I had no business kissing him when he was that upset.
I waited on the steps to his front door. A few streets over, I could hear mischief-making teenagers hooting, a few dogs barking at the sliver moon. I shivered.
I wondered if he'd hate me for seeing him like that. I gnawed at my fingernail. I wondered if my parents had done anything to celebrate my 22nd birthday.
I wondered if they even remembered.
Christian
I woke up with a massive hangover and a bad feeling that January Cooper had seen me crying. I could imagine there was a long fucking list of men she’d made cry, but I hadn’t wanted to join it.
I put my hands over my burning eyes. I was going to throw up.
I'd never been able to sit still when I was hung over. I peeled myself off the couch, doused my pounding head underneath the cold tap in the kitchen, and trudged upstairs to pull on sneakers and a sweatshirt.
I grabbed my iPod, and tried to sweat out both the cheap tequila and the memory of January Cooper on my lap, gripping my wrists in her small, surprisingly strong hands. I jogged around the block and almost immediately I threw up into a gutter, hunched over and spitting.
I felt better after that I jogged slowly, listening to some shitty playlist Patrick had played our freshman season.
Every song had a different memory. And all of them included Sam. Beating Wisconsin, losing to Harvard, toppling Michigan in overtime to make it to the Frozen Four, Carl Cashen going into the boards head first and scaring the hell out of everyone until he got up, blood running down his face with a wild smile.
I ran a four minute and fifty second mile that season. I'd never do that again.
I scored six goals against the number-one ranked team, North Dakota, that season. I'd never do that again.
I tied three games in the third period. Scored five game-winning goals, skated faster than anyone on my team that season. I'd never do that again.
I'd thrown a punch for Sam that year, when he’d been clobbered illegally by an out of control defenseman in the final. I'd never do that again.
I’d gotten drafted that year. Sam came along for the celebration. Never seemed unhappy about it. We laughed—trying to decide whether or not to risk going out without fake IDs. We’d passed out in the hotel room before we made a decision. I’d been so happy.
He’d seemed so happy, too. I hadn’t even thought about it being hard for him to see me get something he’d also dreamed of. Hadn’t considered that he might resent the hell out of me when I celebrated all of those fucking individual awards.
When I told the team I was coming back for another year, instead of signing a pro contract, he’d seemed to think I was naïve. I never considered that he saw me as competition for playing time until he told me as much the night he died.
I circled my house twice, the endorphins doing a good job of exorcising the alcohol and the nausea.
I felt like I'd shaken the hangover as my leg started to throb and shake like crazy.
I shouldn’t have let her into my house.
What had she wanted?
Maybe some kind of proof that she wasn't the saddest person in the world.
Maybe some kind of ammunition.
I wish I could remember more of what I'd said or done.
I wish I could say that I hadn’t wanted to kiss her. That it was all her idea.
She was bad fucking news. My brain had been screaming it from the beginning.
She was bad fucking news and I needed to get far away before I did something really stupid.
January
I thought I might hear from Christian after I kissed him.
The Tuesday before my shift, though, Darrin texted me to say he’d pick me up. Christian wasn’t working that night.
I cringed. My stomach twisted. I knew, somehow, that I had made a fool of myself.
When I got into Darrin’s car, he was playing Beyoncé.
“You listen to this?”
“Everyone listens to Beyoncé.”
I nodded. “Is Christian sick?”
“Yeah. No. He changed his schedule at the bar. Physical therapy or something.”
“Physical therapy or something?”
“And he has Spanish.”
“Spanish,” I repeated.
“Yup,” Darrin said nervously. “Spanish. Nothing to worry about, J.”
“So, he hates me?”
"No.”
“He changes his work schedule because of Spanish?”
“And physical therapy.” He looked over at me. “Okay, and he's a fucking idiot. But he doesn't hate you.”
I nodded. “Right.” He definitely hated me. Why? Because I’d kissed him. Or maybe he didn’t hate me—maybe he’d just gotten sick of turning me down.
"What happened at his house?"
"Nothing," I said glumly.
“Don’t act so heartbroken. I can drive you. And I have good music.”
I tried to thank him. But I kept thinking about the night Christian told me he wouldn’t let Darrin pay for his mistakes.
I was feeling sorry for myself, and vulnerable, so I tried to tell Katelyn about Christian.
Darrin had made me try a SoCo lime shot at the end of the night, before he drove me home. It hit me harder than I expected, and my judgment when it came to Katelyn had been weakened. It was stupid. I knew as soon as I started talking I was being stupid to tell her anything.
"Why don't you just do your normal thing?" she asked dismissively.
"What
normal thing?"
"Your normal January thing."
"I don't even know what that means."
She sighed. "I don't know. You just were always good at getting boys to follow you around."
"No. I really wasn't."
She laughed. "Sure you weren’t. You know what I'm talking about."
"Katelyn, the last two guys I dated were Schuyler and Tyler. Schuyler cheated on me. Tyler went to rehab because he was doing coke with strippers and sending pictures of his dick to people on the internet."
"But Schuyler didn't even like you January. And he dated you for eight months because you looked at him for two seconds. I just don't see how you couldn’t get this guy to ask you out." She sounded annoyed. "I mean, I know what we did was objectively pretty shitty. But I'd liked Schuyler for two and a half years before I got him to notice me and as soon as he was borderline interested in me, you swept in, talked to him for about five seconds, and he went just gaga for you."
"What?" I demanded. "He was my boyfriend!"
"I know! But I'd had a crush on him since forever and you just..." She ran a hand through her hair. "You just decided you liked him too and that was that."
"Are you saying…" my voice trailed off and I had to take a breath to wrap my head around the accusation, “…that you think I dated Schuyler because you liked him?"
"I don't know!" she said. "At the time, to be perfectly honest, it seemed that way. Yes. Yes, I did think that.”
"I never knew you liked him. You never said anything!”
"Jesus," she said. "Are you kidding me, January? Why would anyone ever tell you something like that?" She looked at me. "You would’ve laughed. And you’d have wanted him more.”
"You think I wanted Schuyler because you wanted him? Katelyn, I don't know what the hell Olivia's been telling you, but that is insane. I was a wreck when I walked in on you two. I lost my boyfriend and my best friend! And you never told me you liked him. Ever. Ever. Did you?"
"I know!" she shouted back at me. She ran her hands through her hair. "I know. I know. Okay?" She exhaled. "Clarissa told me you didn't like him that much and that you were going to break up with him, and it was just a moment of weakness."
"Clarissa told you that?"
She nodded.
I looked at her. "Clarissa." I spluttered. "That wasn't true. She..." I spluttered, furiously. "How come you never told me that?"
"I'm pretty sure I tried to, but you were so angry at me..."
I bit my lip. "Jesus."
Katelyn looked at me.
"I literally have no friends," I said to no one in particular, certainly not to Katelyn. "There's nobody that I can trust. It's all fucking shit. Oh my god."
I went to the library that night, even though I didn't have any homework to do. I tried not to think about the fact that Christian wasn't talking to me, that Olivia thought my life falling apart was a joke to be shared with three hundred people, and that Clarissa had deliberately set up my best friend to ruin my relationship last year—and that was before my father had been arrested.
And somehow all of them had told me that I was a friend to them.
I couldn't wait for Thanksgiving. I couldn't wait to spend a week in Lynda's modest house, which reeked of tobacco, where nothing glamorous would happen and where nobody could stab me in the back.
Christian
I felt a little less insane when I didn't see her. Not that much less insane. I scrolled through her pictures on Facebook. January in a riding helmet and blazer, with boots over her knees and a horse nuzzling her chin. January in a baby blue hat, with a mint julep in her splayed fingers, at the Kentucky Derby. January in a white bikini on a white beach, with the turquoise water behind her as blue as her eyes, and a sailboat the side of a city block drifting at anchor in the distance.
January with legs for miles, and her boyfriend staring at her like he was seeing the second coming of Christ. January blowing out candles on a white and pink cake built like a castle. January lying in the back seat of a red convertible, with her blond hair fanning out around her and a red lollipop in her pursed lips.
“Get a fucking grip,” I muttered to myself, in the library, realizing how long I’d been looking at her, and how fucking empty I felt with just the photos.
But, it was hard to focus. I thought about her at work, in jeans and that white tank top she wore underneath the McSorley’s t-shirt.
I just had to get fucking laid, I decided. No more pussying out. I needed to fuck some blonde, get her out of my system, and take up some kind of hobby.
After midterms, Darrin, who would’ve been thrilled under any other circumstances, said he’d go out with me. Play wingman. But I had to ask him three times.
"Normally, I'd be okay with this," Darrin said, picking me up for a party at Danielle's. "But you're fucking stupid."
"Why?"
"You just are. She thinks you hate her."
"Who?"
"Fuck you, who," Darrin said shortly. “January.”
I let him drive and didn't say anything.
"What happened that night?"
"Nothing."
"What? Did you fuck her?"
"No."
Darrin looked at me. "She thinks you hate her."
"No, she doesn't," I said, guiltily. "That's stupid."
"She. Thinks. You. Hate. Her."
"Well, maybe I do," I snapped. "She's fucking crazy. She doesn't listen to anybody and she's just totally lost without her dad's money."
"You're a dick.”
"I didn't want to see her. You shouldn't have brought her to my house," I said. My voice was strained. "It really fucked things up."
"How?"
"It just did."
"You're a fucking douche bag," Darrin repeated. He shook his head and parked the car.
I didn't need to hear this from Darrin. We got out of the car. He found Danielle, and I walked from the door to the bar, thinking about whether January Cooper actually thought I hated her. Maybe I should text her.
I really don’t hate you.
I shook my head. No. She’d think I was fucking with her.
"Can I get a beer?" I asked the guy working the bar. There was a bit of a Harvard crowd here, I realized, recognizing a few of the faces from McSorley’s. I wondered if January ever came to parties like this. I wondered if I’d see her. I wondered if I’d ignore her.
Probably.
I was a huge pussy.
So probably, I would.
I took my beer and started walking back towards Darrin, when a slim-hipped girl in high heels and a skintight dress stepped in my path.
"I've seen you around," she said. She smiled. "Are you in my history class?"
"I don't think so. Excuse me," I said. I needed a blonde. This was not a blonde.
She put a hand on my forearm. "Hold on. I definitely know you." She smiled. She pointed a finger at me. She tapped it against my nose. "I've had my eye on you for the longest time."
"That right?" I asked, looking her over. "You go to BU?"
"No. Harvard." She smiled. "I keep waiting for you to memorize my order."
I studied her, drawing a blank. “I don’t know.”
"That's okay," she whispered. “I know who you are. Christian, right?”
I nodded. She wasn’t bad looking, nice body, decent face. And it wasn’t like I was on the hockey team anymore, when girls would fling themselves at me just to say they’d been with me. Maybe I didn’t need a blonde. Maybe I could pretend she was January and that would be enough.
“I used to go to all your hockey games,” she whispered.
“Yeah?” I asked. “You want me to get you a drink?”
“I’d love that,” she trilled. I already knew it was futile. This girl had nothing on her. It wasn’t going to work.
January
The pictures were posted the Sunday morning I'd be leaving for Dallas for Thanksgiving.
Olivia.
A guy in a flannel shirt standing ne
ar her, his hands on her waist, his face out of the picture. I'd know that tattoo anywhere.
Christian.
The next one showed his face. Drunk, grinning. The third one was a selfie they’d taken. Captioned: #slummingitatbc
Katelyn knew I’d seen it. She was curled up like a little rodent in her bed, nibbling on the straw of her iced coffee, watching me with a look of anticipatory glee.
I thought back to the conversation we'd had. I'd said his name, hadn't I?
And she'd told it to Olivia.
That must’ve been what had happened.
It had just taken a few days. Katelyn told Olivia. Olivia slept with Christian. January got put in her place.
I guess it was supposed to be revenge. It was good. I had to give it to them. I felt like my heart was in the basement of the building.
And people thought I was the one who got what I wanted.
“Anything good on Facebook?” Katelyn asked.
I closed the lid of my computer screen. Well, that was fine. They wanted to see me go nuclear. Wanted to see me fall harder. I smiled. They could do what they wanted. They weren't going to see me slip. I smiled. “No. Just some fat girl and a rando I work with.”
Katelyn’s jaw dropped.
“I’m going to wait for Darrin outside. Have a great Thanksgiving.”
Darrin was driving me to the airport with Danielle.
I actually liked Danielle. She had lacquered nails and a thick Boston accent and she was always threatening to fight people.
She said I was a real piece of work and that Christian was one fucked up dude.
I liked her better than any of my real friends and I only knew her from the couple of minutes we spent together after work.
I decided to worry about the weather instead of about Olivia and Christian.
That was a much more practical thing to worry about anyways.
A blizzard.
There wasn’t anything to do about Olivia and Christian. They’d slept together. I could picture it. Her beneath him. Moaning. I could picture her whispering in his ear: so tell me about January. And I could imagine him chuckling. She’s crazy. She came over to my house on Halloween and tried to seduce me.
