Waiting on Justin

by Lucy H. Delaney

  I parked in a grocery store lot and watched for someone who looked likely to help me. I settled on a group of guys a little older than me. I had become expert in picking out the willing; usually younger guys in groups or older working guys were my best bet. All I had to do was smile and flirt the slightest bit and lie about me and some friends wanting something to drink that night. It worked most of the time. I asked for wine coolers because they looked too busy to bother going to a liquor store for me. Wine coolers were better than nothing. The agreed, and I was set for the night. I spent a night in a cheap motel near UCLA and drank all twelve coolers.

  I drank a lot before I ran away—usually every weekend and some weekdays if I could sneak it past Aunt Aerin—and though I hid it, I didn't understand how bad my problem was. I was never like my mom; I never had the shakes, ever, not once. I blacked out a few times, but that had always been at school parties, where there was way too much alcohol and I was mixing it. Even though I was too afraid to tell Justin I was drinking, I somehow had myself convinced my drinking wasn't as big of a problem as Aunt Aerin made it seem.

  That night it felt like a celebration: I was free, and I was finally old enough to be on my own. How could I celebrate and not drink?

  The next morning there was no hangover—no shakes or worrying about what I'd done the night before—just lonely old me and twelve empty bottles lined up, side-by-side, on the nightstand. I stared at them as I laid on my side, looking through them to the fuzzy door just beyond, and let all the lectures Aunt Aerin gave me blur into one long stream mixed in with memories of my mom with the empty bottles I used to see all around her. I cried quietly—tears ran sideways out of my eyes, wetting the pillowcase underneath—but I couldn't bring myself to believe my drinking was out of control.

  There was a reason I made my way to UCLA: Lizzie was there. I knew her address: she, like Justin never stopped writing me, but unlike with Justin, I managed to keep in touch with her. It had been a couple months since I had written her, but that morning, after I tossed the bottles in the trash, I showed the hotel guy her address in the return part of my last letter from her. He wrote directions on the other side of the envelope, and I went to find my only friend left in the world.

  She shared a quaint apartment with ShamRae in Pacoima, a city about a half an hour away from campus if traffic was light. When I first heard she was going to UCLA, I was happy and sad all at the same time. I was so proud of her. Justin and I wanted nothing more for her than to see her succeed, and she had. The bitter part was knowing she came from the same place that I did, and she was making it while I was still directionless.

  In her letters she told me all about how she got to UCLA. ShamRae's parents, contrary to my assumptions, weren't super wealthy or able to pay for their own daughter’s college tuition, let alone Lizzie's. Instead, ShamRae's mom, Demery, made them apply for scholarships starting the summer between their sophomore and junior years of high school, the summer after I moved away. I'm not talking one or two scholarships—she made them apply for four hours a day, every weekday of the summer that they weren’t working at their summer jobs. And then, when school was in, they had to apply for at least four scholarships each month.

  Lizzie said Mr. Reyes was famous for finding scholarships for her to apply for and handing the packets to her on Fridays, just in time for weekend applying. They added it up, and between the two of them, by the time they graduated, they had applied for more than a million and a half dollars in free financial aid. The real miracle was they were each awarded enough in scholarships to cover both of their tuition fees to UCLA—and then some—for all four years of their school programs.

  ShamRae was going to be a pharmaceutical tech, and Lizzie wanted to be a counselor, specializing in child psychology. She said it wasn't a miracle, it was hard work, and she worried about the other four or more years of school she still had ahead of her that weren't yet covered by financial aid.

  From her letters I also knew they were both busy. Lizzie had a full course load at school and worked nearly full-time at a movie theater, mostly on the weekends. ShamRae had school and a job at a restaurant called Orlando's. They both had to work to cover their bills. ShamRae's parents helped with utilities, but the girls had to pay for rent, books, groceries, and any other expenses. They really did live like poor college kids. I assumed they partied like them too and Lizzie must have just left that out of the letters, but I was wrong about that.

  I showed up at their apartment in the middle of the day. No one was home so I waited in my car, reading Z for Zachariah, a favorite book of mine that I had thrown into my bag of clothes at the last minute when I left Auntie's. Finally around four o'clock I saw her. She was grown up and not at all the girl I remembered, but I knew in a second it was my Lizzie.

  “Hey!” I shouted, getting out of my car and waving.

  “Haylee! Where have you been?” I saw the worry on her face immediately. Someone already told her I left. I figured it was Aunt Aerin.

  I told her most of the story, but left out the part about taking Aunt Aerin's money.

  “Can I stay here for a while? Just until I get on my feet?”

  “Oh gosh, Haylee, I don't know. I have to check with ShamRae; we're not supposed to have anyone in our apartment.”

  She didn't want to help me. All those years we had taken her in and she wasn't sure if she could take me in when I needed it. It hurt, but I tried not to let it show.

  “Just until I get a job and can get a place of my own. I swear it won't be long.”

  “Shouldn't you let your aunt know where you are?”

  “It doesn't matter.”

  “She's worried.”

  “She's overprotective. I needed to get out of that town. It's too small, and I'm too young,” I lied. “You're starting your life; you're on your own; what's wrong with me doing the same thing?”

  “People know where I am. I didn't run away.”

  I was getting mad, but I couldn't get in a fight with Lizzie; she was all I had left.

  “Look, I don't want to fight about it. I need to do this. I just need help for a little bit, that's all. Please?”

  Surprisingly, ShamRae was easier than Lizzie to convince. She had no problems with helping me out, even recommended I go to Orlando's and see if I could get a job there since they had an opening. I did, and on ShamRae's recommendation, I got the job.

  Because I didn't go to school, they scheduled me for the morning and lunch shifts during the week, and I had nights and weekends to myself. My first weekend off I found out exactly how boring Lizzie and ShamRae were. I went out and got some Johnny Walker and figured we'd listen to music and wind down together when they got home. I imagined it like old times, only Lizzie and I were the grown-ups now, and we were the hosts instead of my parents. I had a couple drinks before they got there and had Queensryche playing on the stereo—not too loud the way Mom and Clayton played it, up just enough to set the mood. ShamRae came home first; her shift ended at eleven.

  She looked uneasily at the bottle then at me. “Where did you get that?”

  “Some guy.”

  “You had some guy buy you alcohol?”

  “No, not me, us. It's the weekend—time to let the stress of the week roll off our backs. Want a drink? There's Coke in the fridge to mix it with.”

  “Um ... ” She breathed deeply before agreeing and poured herself a drink. I laughed at her mix; there was barely any Johnny in with the Coke. One drink was all she had and she fell asleep on the couch before Lizzie even got home. Lizzie had even less than her.

  “Sorry, I can't. I have to study, I have a huge paper due on Monday, and I have to work all day tomorrow. Anyway, you shouldn't bring that here; we could get kicked out.”

  “They won't kick you out. Who's even going to know?”

  “What if my landlord comes to the door?”

  “At twelve-thirty in the morning? For what? It's fine, lighten up!”

  “I wish I could, but there's so muc
h pressure. I have to keep my grades up to keep my scholarships, and I don't have any time to do homework. I wish this paper was due on Wednesday—then I could have worked on it Monday and Tuesday when I'm off—but it's due first thing Monday. I can't afford to drink this weekend. Another time. When the term ends there will be tons of crazy parties.”

  “When the term ends? When's that, December? You need to lighten up. We'll celebrate on Monday after it's turned in!” I finished, and with it I chugged down the rest of my glass.

  Monday night came and they both had another excuse not to drink, so I drank alone and watched the two of them hunker down over their books. I read my book to feel like I fit in but was self-conscious of how small it was in comparison to theirs.

  Lizzie kept pushing me to call Aunt Aerin, but I couldn't. I felt bad about leaving the way I did, and the longer I went without talking to her, the harder it was to make the call. The guilt was horrible. It gnawed away at my insides. I imagined Aunt Aerin calling all my friends in Leavenworth and Lizzie, Justin, and even Clayton, frantically asking if they knew where I was—or being so mad that I took off the way I did that she never wanted to see me again. It didn't matter how she was taking it; I couldn't stomach a call to her.

  I spent three weeks with the two prudes until I found a place I thought I could afford on my own. And then, for the second time in my life, I was completely alone—only this time I didn't even have a social worker or CASA or strange foster parents.

  I was one hundred percent alone in the world.

  Nothing was like I imagined it would be. It wasn't that it was bad; it was just different than I expected. I didn't keep up with Lizzie—or rather I couldn't, because she was always too busy with work or school. I didn't have any other friends and wasn't going to talk to Aunt Aerin or Justin. I was alone.

  For months I lived a quiet, empty life, but I wasn't really sad—at least not like when I used to cry all the time. It felt good to be on my own. I was making it. I could do what I wanted without anyone yelling in my face, or telling me what was best for me, or pushing me to be a better person. I was in charge of myself, and I was doing it.

  I had everything I needed: food, clothes, and a place of my own—granted, it was a tiny studio, in an old weathered four-plex , with a bathroom I had to share with another apartment, but it was mine. Of course, I had all the alcohol I could possibly want, too, and I didn't have to hide how much I was drinking from Clayton and my mom, from Justin and Aunt Aerin, from Gabby and her dad, or from Lizzie and ShamRae. I didn't have to hide it at all. I built up my own collection with all the alcohol I could want and kept stocked up. I found an old decanter table that I used as my bar at an antique store and refinished it in a teak stain after watching a do-it-yourself show on a decorating channel.

  Without anyone to hide or limit my alcohol consumption from, I started drinking more regularly. I drank almost daily, but never before work, and I never let it get in the way of working–at first. I liked to work double shifts and covered for people to earn extra money. I liked having money to spend, but I wasn't a very good saver.

  I found I enjoyed decorating and turned my place into a retro-sixties kind of scheme to match the bar. I spent most of my extra money on pieces I'd find at thrift shops and antique stores. It wasn't like I was getting wasted every day; but I liked to unwind after a long, hard day of work. I'd usually mix myself a drink when I got home to relax before going out for a walk.

  There was a trail called the Milla near the Hansen Dam Park that I walked if I got off early enough and it wasn't too dark yet. It was a private road covered with graffiti and tags, but everyone used it. I thought about running once or twice, but it wasn't really for me. I liked to walk slowly and let the families pass me by and watch people, it was almost like looking at the pictures on the walls when I was a kid. Most everyone was happy or at least not sad or mad. They had lives with purpose, husbands to hold hands with, friends to run with, babies to push in strollers and little ones to call back to them when they ran a little too far off, or said hi to the sullen looking girl with the stick straight hair. The trail made me feel tall; upon it I could see the surrounding city and landscape and watch the day fade to evening and the street lights replace the sun. It was beautiful. It was a good place to get lost in my thoughts—and most of my thoughts seemed to circle back to Justin.

  I tried to convince myself I liked being on my own, but everything felt wrong without him. I wanted to write him or call him and tell him I was OK, but I was too far gone. My life had taken a turn down a road I didn't want him to know about: I’d left my aunt and stolen her money, and I knew he wouldn't approve of my drinking habit or my choice to not pursue college. Someday, I told myself, I would quit drinking so much; someday I would make something of myself and make them proud—then I would go back. But I wasn't ready yet.

  That didn't mean he wasn't ready to find me.

  He came for me.

  I'm pretty sure Lizzie told him where I was—that, or Lizzie told Aunt Aerin and she told him. But somehow he found out and, he came for me.

  My apartment was a cramped studio, maybe even smaller than the one Coffee had helped him get. He was waiting outside my door one day when I came home from work with two bags of groceries hanging from my arm. He looked so much older. He was so much older: four and a half years had passed since I last saw him. All the boyish features I remembered were gone. He was a full-grown man: handsome, strong, broad, and perfect. There were traces of Clayton in his freshly shaven face and form, but his hair was lighter, and his eyes, piercing as ever, were uniquely his. I couldn't look at him; I was so ashamed. I put my head down and pushed my key into the door.

  “Haylee, it's me, Justin.”

  “Yeah, I see that. How'd ya find me?”

  “Searched. You're a hard one to track down.” I could hear the smile in his voice; I didn't have to turn to see it.

  “You ever think maybe I didn't want you to find me?” I asked but motioned for him to come in.

  I was embarrassed of my apartment. It wasn't dirty—I was fanatical about keeping it clean—but it was messy: I had clothes on my bed and a couple dirty dishes in the sink.

  “Why, what happened? You stopped writing.”

  “I changed; that's all,” I said depositing the bags on the counter.

  “Doesn't look like you've changed all that much. You're still the same old Haylee.” He smiled and reached to pull me to him. He meant it to be a compliment. I didn't take it like that.

  “You're right,” I said backing away and crossing my arms, “I'm the same worthless loser I've always been, and you're Mr. Perfect flying his airplanes up in the stratosphere.”

  He was confused. “I did what I promised you I'd do. I made a life for us. I did it, Haylee!” He was so proud, so sure of himself. “I'm set up. Come with me; I'll show you.”

  “No, I'm good right here. I work too; I'm set up; I can take care of myself. You see, while you were out there doing your thing—not ours, Justin, yours—I was left to figure out life on my own.”

  “You were safe, you were with your aunt.”

  “You didn't know I was safe! You left me! You went off and did your own thing and left me alone.”

  I didn't mean to yell at him; it just came out before I could catch it. “And now after all these years you're going to come back here and pretend like we were never apart. I don't think so. I don't need a hero anymore. I needed one once—and you left!”

  “I couldn't do anything, Haylee! We were kids. I couldn't take care of you; they wouldn't let me. And I did know you were safe. After you said you were in Chino, I was the one who told them about your aunt. I was the one who went back to the house and found her address, remember? I called her, I made sure she was OK. And I came back for you as soon as I could, and you were gone.”

  “Because it was too late. You're too late. I've got my life now, and you're not in it. You left me.”

  “Is there someone else?” he asked, my heart broke seei
ng the look on his face.

  “What? No,” more than anything I wanted to reach out and touch him, but I couldn't. Everything was different, “I just want to be alone.”

  “Don't do this. Come with me.” The tables were turned at last. He was the one begging me.

  “I don't want to go anywhere with you. I'm fine here.” I said.

  “I know you got problems; we can work through them. I'll help you.”

  “Problems? You don't even know me anymore!”

  “I know you drink too much.”

  “You've been talking to my aunt?”

  “I wouldn't have to talk to her to figure that out. There's a fifth on the coffee table—” he swung his hand toward my latest vintage find—“and two others in the trash.”

  “Whoops, my bad; didn't think it was illegal to drink in my own house.”

  “Actually, you're not 21, so it is.”

  I stared at him, searching for traces of the Justin I used to know, but he was gone. The man in front of me was a complete stranger. “What happened to you? Just leave.”

  “I don't want to go without you. I can't. You're the reason I've kept going.”

  “You're living in the past! I feel sorry for you. Move on ... I have.”

  “Haylee, don't do this. Please!” He reached for me again. I knew if I let him touch me, hold me, I would remember who he was. I could fall in love all over again and be hurt worse than before when he left, because he would leave—there was no way he could want me once he got to know who I was now, what I had done, all the lies I had told. I didn't have it in me to lose him again, so I dodged his embrace. But I didn't want him to leave either.

  “Fine. Come in. Sit down; let's catch up.”

  He moved to my loveseat and shuffled a puce-colored corduroy pillow to the side to sit down. He told me he couldn't imagine his life without me, told me that all those years he was telling me to wait he had been telling himself the same things too. Then I stopped writing and taking his calls, and Aunt Aerin told him I completely disappeared. She told him about my drinking, and that I took the money and took off, and that Lizzie told her where I was. He said he didn't care what I had done; he just wanted us to be together.