Drowning Erin

by Elizabeth O'Roark

  When Rob finally walks away, I make my move, asking Erin to dance with so much urgency in my voice that I sound almost angry. She looks up at me with a wariness I can hardly fault her for.

  “I’m only agreeing for one reason,” she says.

  “Because this is your favorite song?” I reply.

  “Did you know that?” she asks. “Or are you guessing?”

  “I knew,” I tell her. Of course I knew—that’s why I requested it. That’s why I’ve had it on repeat in my car for months.

  I trace the bare skin of her back, press the pads of my fingers tighter. She looks up as if she knows what I’m doing, as if she wants me to do more, and I can no longer stand to wait.

  “Come here,” I say, grabbing her hand, pulling her through the crowd to the darkness at the building’s side.

  “Why are we here?” she asks.

  “For this,” I say. I press her to the wall, placing my palms on either side of her face, and I kiss her. For a moment she softens beneath me, her body pliant, her mouth opening in response to mine. It is right, and perfect. It’s what we should have been doing all along.

  And then she jerks away. “Stop.”

  “Why?” I demand. “Because of Rob?”

  “No,” she says. “Because you don’t get to treat me like shit the whole time we work together and then suddenly decide you’re interested the minute your friend asks me out.”

  Her voice is raspy, as if she’s on the cusp of tears. It makes me hate myself. How could I have realized everything so late? I’ve completely fucked this up.

  “That’s not what this is…” I begin, just as the deejay announces that Will and Olivia are getting ready to leave.

  “I have to go,” she says, pulling away. “I need to help Olivia get ready.”

  “Erin, you’ve got to give me a chance to explain,” I plead. “Meet me back here after Will and Olivia take off.” I pull her to me before she can object and kiss her once more—hard, a silent plea: please give me a chance; please believe me.

  I take her stunned silence for agreement. It’s only later, when she never returns, when I receive a text from Rob saying he’s finally gotten Erin into his room, that I realize she wasn’t agreeing at all. She was walking away for good.

  25

  Erin

  Present

  I’ve done my hair and makeup by the time Harper arrives on Saturday night. I don’t really have a lot of “going out” clothes, however. Rob and I eat out somewhere nice a few times a month, but my work clothes suffice for that. I settle for the same tank and skinny jeans I wore the last time we went out, but her loud groan tells me she does not approve.

  “No,” she says, taking one look at me before heading straight for my closet.

  “No to what?” I ask.

  “All of it. You’re 26, Erin. Stop dressing like the only stores you know of are Ann Taylor and Lady Footlocker. And you’re wearing daytime makeup.”

  “There’s a difference between daytime and nighttime makeup?” I ask.

  “Oh, my sad little butterfly,” she says, patting my head. “You still have so much to learn.”

  When we arrive at the club an hour later, I’m wearing more makeup than I’ve ever worn in my life, along with the inside layer of a black dress, which Harper is making me wear alone with my highest heels. I’m not sure if I feel pretty or like I’m for sale. Perhaps a little of both.

  It’s my first VIP line, and the club itself is the kind of place with which I have little experience: low lighting, club music, bass reverberating off the walls. The moment we’re inside, Harper starts dragging me toward the cordoned-off section of the room, where the men stand a food taller and a foot wider than normal human beings.

  “Not ready for that,” I object. “I haven’t spoken to a guy who isn’t Rob or a client in four years.”

  “You seem to talk to Brendan all the time,” she says with a brow raised. Ever since she saw us together at that show a while back, she’s been like a dog with a bone.

  “He doesn’t count.” I sigh. “I need a drink first, at least.”

  “How does Brendan not count?” she asks, waving a $20 at the bartender.

  “It’s just not like that.”

  “You’re sure?” she asks.

  I think about Brendan, about his sharp cheekbones and the way that hollow beneath them seems to throb sometimes when he’s thinking. About his miles of smooth skin, his broad back in those bike shorts, everything I noticed contained within those bike shorts when he turned around.

  I swallow. “Of course I’m sure.”

  She slides a shot in front of me. “Keep telling yourself that. It doesn’t make it true.”

  Twenty minutes later, I’m holding a drink I didn’t ask for—one that didn’t come straight from the bartender as Brendan required, because you can’t go through life assuming everyone is a rapist—and I’m talking to some guy named Jason. I assume he’s a football player, based on his size, but it hasn’t come up, and so far I’ve been pleasantly surprised. My only experiences with football players, prior to this, were with the dicks at ECU who fought us constantly for space on the track, and whose conversation at any party focused on how amazing they were.

  But Jason is nice enough, telling me all about the house he’s trying to renovate in Beaver Creek. This is something I can discuss at length, since I directed most of the rehab of Rob’s place too, though I wonder, sporadically, if I should tell this guy I’m not single. I suppose I should have worn my engagement ring, but it’s been sitting on my nightstand since Rob left town. I’ve just never felt comfortable with it on. Three karats are for Kardashians, not girls who save mascara for a special occasion.

  Jason and I are debating the merits of a glass-front refrigerator when a proprietary hand wraps tight around my hip, and a voice I’d know anywhere brushes my ear, followed by his lips. “Sorry I’m late, babe.”

  Brendan. Who is warm and familiar and smells amazing, and when I turn is smiling at Jason in a way almost anyone would find scary—calm, self-possessed, friendly, and itching for a fight.

  Jason looks at Brendan and the hand on my hip before politely excusing himself. Which I suppose means I would eventually have had to tell him I’m not single, so Brendan has spared me that awkwardness, but I’m still annoyed.

  “I’m 26, Brendan. Which means I’m a little old to still require a babysitter.”

  “That guy was bad news.”

  “Yeah, it was super threatening the way he quietly walked off when you showed up—I really dodged a bullet,” I reply. “Why are you here? And how’d you get into the VIP area?”

  “Friends in high places,” he says. “And I’m here because you didn’t answer my texts. I thought I’d better come check on you.”

  I sigh and smile at the same time. Good lord, Brendan can be sweet. And also a pain in the ass. “I wasn’t checking my phone because I was getting ready, and then because I was here, doing what you’ve been telling me to do for weeks.”

  “I’m pretty sure I didn’t tell you to dress like you want to get laid and go nestle up to the first football player you find,” he says, his words bitten off and unhappy.

  I remove myself from his hand and take a step away from him. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

  For a moment I still see anger on his face, as if he plans to defend himself. But then he pinches the bridge of his nose—the same thing his brother does every time Olivia’s frustrating him—and the anger recedes.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  I feel tears closing in and turn, walking rapidly down the stairs and toward the exit. But before I can get there, his hands are on my hips, and he’s pulling me against his chest.

  “Please, Erin. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. It came out worse than I meant it to.”

  I shrug him off. “Whatever, Brendan. It’s fine. I’m going home, though, so you’ve done what you came to do.”

  “No,” he says. “Don’t do
that. You look really good, okay? You sort of look too good. And it pissed me off because I’d been worrying about you already, and then I show up here and you look like that and that guy was looking at you like… Whatever. I just got pissed off. And I’m sorry.”

  A small thrill shoots up my spine. Brendan’s opinion shouldn’t matter to me, but it always has, and I think it always will.

  “Come on,” he says, pulling me toward the bar.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m buying you a drink.”

  “If we’re staying, we should probably go back up to the VIP section with Harper.”

  He sighs, his eyes pinching shut. “You look hot, Erin. I don’t mind throwing a few elbows, but I’m not in the mood to fight off an entire professional football team.” He orders my drink, knowing what I want without asking, and surveys my dress. “Jesus. Don’t let Harper dress you anymore.”

  “I’m right on the cusp of being offended again, just so you know.”

  “I’m not saying you’re doing anything wrong. I just don’t like worrying about people, and if you’re out dressed like that, I’m gonna worry.”

  Stupid overprotective alpha male, acting like I’m fragile somehow and in need of his care. I don’t know why I like it so much, why it makes me feel like my heart is swelling in my chest. I guess because for most of my life it’s been me worrying about everyone else.

  He nods at my drink. “Slam it and we’ll dance.”

  Rob isn’t merely a guy who’d prefer not to dance. He’s a guy who’s horrified by the idea. I haven’t been able to persuade him to get on the dance floor anywhere since we first started dating.

  “It’s been so long I don’t remember how.”

  “I’ve seen you dance,” he says, cutting me off. “You dance like someone who does it for a living.”

  “Are you saying I dance like a stripper?”

  “I’m saying you dance like a dancer. One who’d potentially be a fucking awesome stripper.” And with that he pulls me into the crowd.

  For the first few seconds I feel awkward, my limbs stiff and unnatural, as if this is something I’m no longer supposed to do. But the crowd pushes us close, and under the throb of the bass, his hips guiding mine, it all comes back to me. I find myself moving—so in sync with him you’d think we’d been doing it all of our lives. It’s fun, but it’s also something so much more than that. It reminds me of another time, a time when things still felt possible. It’s not a specific memory, just a general sense of well-being, excitement, a sense that all was right with the world and only getting better.

  Dancing is another of the many things I loved, and gave up—live music, biking, baking, watching Grey’s Anatomy. It’s more like I didn’t just tone myself down for Rob, I killed myself off entirely.

  The song changes into something slower, more bass. Brendan’s hands land on my hips, and with them comes the memory of those hands as we danced at Olivia’s wedding. It’s perhaps the most dangerous memory I have.

  He’d spent the entire night hitting on the wedding coordinator, so I was surprised when he asked me to dance. I was more surprised by the way he pulled me against him—a way that felt decisive, almost aggressive. I’d wanted to object, but I also wanted to sear the moment into my memory so thoroughly that I would never forget a single piece of it: his fingers on my skin, his smell, his gaze sweeping over my face in a way it never had before.

  “Put your arms around my neck,” he’d said, his voice rough and low, still watching my face as if it were the last time he’d ever see it. That’s when his hands slid to my hips, hands so impossibly large that I was certain he could wrap them around me if he really tried. Things with Rob had been new then, and I couldn’t even remember who he was when Brendan looked at me that way.

  I’m also finding it hard to remember Rob right now, four years later. All I can see is the stubble on Brendan’s jaw, the tiny, beautiful scar at the top of his right cheekbone, and the look in his eyes as they brush over my face.

  “I think the last time I danced was with you,” I tell him. “At Will and Olivia’s wedding.”

  His eyes hold mine, a question there I can’t quite read. “I thought you’d forgotten.”

  I’m not sure how he thinks I could have forgotten. That was the night he ruined everything, the night I gave up on him for good and decided to move on. I’ll never forget that night.

  I thought I’d never forgive him for it either, but here I am.

  He pulls me closer, and I realize neither of us is breathing normally. His eyes flicker to my mouth and hold there, and I feel just as desperate for him as I did the last time we were like this.

  Yes, Brendan, do it.

  I think it for only a moment, and my mouth parts as if being directed by someone other than me while his hands tighten around my hips. It’s so much like the last time, except I remember how that time ended.

  Then—and only then—do I remember Rob. Rob who put me back together the last time Brendan broke my heart.

  I pull away, unable to think of a single word I can use to explain or justify what I very nearly did, and I’m struck by a realization that sickens me: I didn’t give up on him after Olivia’s wedding. No matter what happens, no matter what he does, Brendan will always be the one I want most.

  26

  Erin

  Present

  Brendan moves out the following Wednesday, which I know only thanks to a Post-it note he leaves on my kitchen table, along with the key to the pool house. I haven’t seen him once since Saturday night.

  I tell Rob Brendan has moved out and he says, “See? I told you it wouldn’t last forever.”

  The problem is I’d begun to wish it would.

  On Monday morning, Harper warns me that it’s going to be a rough day. “Timothy got reamed out by the chancellor last night,” she says. “I guess there was an error in something.”

  I sigh heavily and rest my head against the back of my chair. There are so many bad parts about my job, but this is the worst: one tiny error in a brochure, and you may have just ruined a $10,000 print job. One tiny error means it’s possible you’ll be fired, and it’s certain you’ll never hear the end of it.

  Even though Timothy and the client both have to approve any project before it goes to print, blame is like water. It will trickle down until there’s no place left for it to go, and that place is me. I’m senior project manager here. Almost everything comes through me before it goes out.

  “Do you know which piece it was?”

  “Does it matter?” she asks.

  No, it doesn’t. Regardless of whose piece it was, I’m the one who should have caught the error in the end.

  Timothy remains holed up in his office all morning, and by the time he finally emerges midday, there isn’t a single person here who hasn’t started pulling his or her resume together.

  “Erin, can I see you in my office?” he asks.

  Fuck. I’ve never been fired before. Can he fire me? I’ve been here nearly four years. Surely one error in four years meets the acceptable quota. Except Timothy hates me, so I’m guessing my acceptable quota of errors is a lot lower than anyone else’s. Harper insists he can’t fire me, because I’m the one who does his job for him. I suspect, however, that the fact I do his job better than he does is what bothers him most.

  “I suppose you know why you’re here,” he says, after I take the seat in front of him.

  The first law of being caught at anything—speeding, cheating, murder—is to never admit your crime. Fairly easy in this case, since I have no freaking clue.

  “No, I don’t.”

  He raises a brow. “Really, Erin? The counseling center brochure?” he asks, sliding it across the desk.

  Relief washes over me, turning the fine layer of sweat I’d broken into cold. “That’s not my project.”

  “You’re the senior staff member here. Which means you reviewed it.”

  “I’ve never seen that before. That’s Edie’s
project.”

  His mouth twitches with irritation. I guess he expected me to just roll over. “Let’s not deflect blame.”

  “I’m not deflecting anything. It’s not my project. I was never asked to review that.” Which doesn’t surprise me. Edie thinks sunshine blows out of her ass. She never thinks her work needs editing. If she can bypass me, she will.

  His nostrils flare. “I’m not trying to create a witch hunt. I just want you to admit you had a hand in this.”

  And that’s when it all becomes clear: he didn’t have me review it. He reviewed it, and if I don’t take the fall, he does, because nothing can leave this office without my okay or his.

  “I didn’t have a hand in this. The final mock-up will be on file with a supervisor’s signature on it. I’d start there.”

  “I don’t need to start there,” he says between his teeth. “I know I didn’t sign off on it, which means you did.”

  Normally I keep the peace, somehow allow him to save face. But Brendan’s departure has left me without a single fuck to give.

  “When you can prove that,” I tell him, rising from my chair, “let me know.”

  27

  Brendan

  Three and a Half Years Earlier

  Three weeks after Will’s wedding, I moved to Italy.

  I’ve been here a month now, leading bike tours. I’m not sure how long it’ll take for Florence to seem mundane, but I was raised on a farm in the middle of nowhere…so maybe never.

  The only time the streets outside my window are quiet is the middle of the night, and even then there are cars and the sound of doors slamming, the occasional shout echoing in the darkness. I like that, though. The air is muggy in the morning, stained with the scent of coffee and exhaust fumes by the time I rise. I like that, too.