Costars (New York City Bad Boy Romance) (109 page)

Thank you for making my
fantasies come to life. I will never forget you.

—Leila”

And that was it.

And here we are.

Mike’s still downstairs
smoking. I don’t know, maybe he left. It’s been about half an hour.

I don’t know if I’m sober
or drunk. I don’t even know what I’m feeling right now, only that it’s the
worst thing I’ve ever felt.

This is the worst day of
my life.

The buzzer snaps me out
of my trance for a moment, and I walk over and press the button.

“Yeah?”

“Hey,” Mike says, “it’s
me. Mind if I come up for a few minutes?”

I don’t answer, but I do
press the unlock button.

Really, I don’t want to
talk to Mike right now.

I get why he did what he
did; she is his friend, and he was doing what he asked her to do. I can’t hate
him for that, but I hate the situation. Right now, that situation is embodied
in him.

There’s the knock on the
door. I just call out, “It’s unlocked.”

Right now, I’m trying to
force an answer to the question of inebriation.

Thank god I remembered to
go to the liquor store.

“How are you doing?”

“Did you read the note?”
I ask.

He’s quiet.

That’s a yes.

“How long have you known
that this was how she was going to do it?”

“She left most of her
stuff,” he says. “Well, she took her personal stuff, but she didn’t want to
just up and leave you with an empty apartment.”

I mumble something.

“What?”

“I said, it
is
empty,” I tell him. “Without her
here, I don’t give a shit if this place is packed to the ceiling,
it’s
fucking empty.”

“Yeah,” he says, and
that’s all he says for a minute.

 
Alcohol probably isn’t the best idea right
now, but the anesthetic properties are all I’m thinking about at the moment.

“Do you want to talk
about it?” he asks.

“Not really,” I tell him.
Then I decide I have every right to be pissed off at this guy, “Not with you,
anyway.”

“I get that you’re
upset—”

“Upset?” I ask. “Did you
even consider what this might feel like for me? Did you even care?”

“I know it hurts, man,”
he starts, but I don’t let him finish.

“You don’t know a fucking
thing,” I snap. “I have
never
felt
what I feel for Leila. Why would she do this?”

“Because it’s her fucking
dream job and you need to stop being so god damned selfish,” Mike answers.

“Boy, you’ve got some fucking
balls,” I retort, glaring.

“Yeah, maybe that’s a
little harsh, but this whole time, have you even thought about how much this
job means to her? She’s been working toward this for her entire adult life, and
I’d think for someone who professes to love her so fucking much, you might look
past your own shit and realize that you need to let her do what’s going to make
her happy. Otherwise, who the hell are you and what the fuck are you doing?”

“Why are you here?” I
ask. “Aren’t you doing the same fucking thing: not supporting her? The least
you could have done was help her move.”

“I helped her move the
stuff down to the car, and does it not occur to you that the only reason that I
am
here right now is because Leila
asked me to be here? She cares about you, dickhead, and she didn’t want you to
be alone tonight. So you can be pissed at me all you want. I probably would be
if I was in your shoes, but at the same time, you’ve got to pull your head out
and realize that if you really care about her, you’ve got to let her follow her
dreams, man.”

“I want her to follow her
dreams,” I tell him. “But I want to be a part of them, too. Is that such a bad
thing?”

“She kind of gave you the
chance to do that,” he says. “Don’t you remember her inviting you to move with
her?”

“I have a job,” I tell
him, and yes, it sounds and even
feels
weak as it comes out of my mouth. “I can’t just leave my boss high and dry.”

“I get that,” he says, “I
really do. But that’s the choice that you’ve made. So, you can sit here and be
pissed at me or be pissed at her, but you made your choice. Now it’s time to
start living with it.”

“I was going to talk to
her tonight,” I tell him. “I was going to talk to her about finding a way to
make this work.”

“Don’t you think that’s
the kind of thing you might not want to leave for the last minute?”

“Okay, I get that you’re
trying to help your friend here, but your folksy advice is really starting to
piss me the fuck off.”

“Whatever,” he says.
“Look, you had the chance to go with her, to figure something out before hand,
but it doesn’t seem like it was important enough for you to—”

“Get the fuck out of my
house,” I tell him.

His mouth is still open
and, for a second, it looks like he’s going to start moving it again, but I’m
ready to beat the shit out of him, and I think he can see it.

“Fine,” he says. “I told
Leila I wouldn’t leave, but I don’t want to make things worse either. Just one
more thing before I go?”

“What?” I ask,
impatiently.

“Could I use your
bathroom? I’ve really got to take a—”

“Get the fuck out of my
house,” I repeat.

He leaves, and I start to
feel bad. I don’t really feel bad for him. He was being an asshole, but I feel
bad for talking to one of Leila’s friends—one who actually listened and
followed through when she asked him to keep an eye on me tonight to make sure I
was going to be okay.

Maybe I should have gone
with her, maybe not. Whatever the case, Leila Tyler turned my life upside down
in the best and worst possible way.

Now she’s gone.

Now she’s gone, and I’m
calling Wrigley to see if she’d feel up to hanging out, maybe getting a drink.

It’s not that I have
plans to get back with her; she’s simply the only person I can talk to right
now. Before I slept with his secretary, I used to be able to talk to my friend,
Derek, but he’s a little pissed at me right now.

I’m sure as hell not
going to get Mike back up here.

“Hello?”

“She’s gone,” I start,
but I can’t say anything else.

I take the phone away
from my ear and drop it on the table.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Of
Chlorine and Anger

Dane

It’s been a week now, and
I haven’t heard anything from Leila.

Mike hasn’t stopped by
again, but I’m not quite so upset about that.

I tried calling Leila a
few times, but the phone always went straight to voice mail, and what I have to
say isn’t something a recording can contain.

I’ve been talking to
Wilks, trying to gauge his readiness in taking the kitchen entirely on his own,
without any further input from me, but he’s nervous. I know it’s something he’s
going to have to overcome, but even standing back, watching him, it’s clear
he’s not quite ready.

I’m not sure that I am,
either.

Right now, I’m at home
with an old friend. Well, in truth, the only friend I have left.

“So, are we fucking
tonight, or what?” Wrigley asks.

“That’s really not why I
called you,” I tell her.

“I know,” she says, “but
I bet it would cheer you up.”

“I bet it wouldn’t,” I
answer, taking a shot of vodka.

“Pour me another?” she
asks as I’m still breathing through mine.

I pour her another shot
and start to wonder what the hell she’s doing here.

I know why I called her:
I’m lonely, heartbroken and I have absolutely no one else to talk to about it.
Unless she actually thinks I’m going to relent and we’re going to end up in the
sack, however, I have no idea why she came over.

“You know what you’ve got
to do,” she says and takes her shot.

“What’s that?” I ask.
“Fuck my pain away?”

“Woo!” she says, slamming
the now empty shot glass onto the table. “No,” she says, wiping her mouth,
“well, it couldn’t hurt. What I mean, though, is that you’ve got to figure out
a way to be all right with never seeing her again. How would you go about
that?”

“If I had the answer to
that question, I wouldn’t have a problem,” I tell her. “It’s not just some
switch I can turn on and off at will.”

“It’s simpler than that,”
she says.

“Simpler than flipping a
switch?” I ask.

“Well, no,” she says,
“but it’s not nearly as difficult as you’re making it out to be. All you have
to do is get mad. Get angry at her for hurting you. You’ve heard of the five
stages of grief, right? You know: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and
acceptance.”

“I’ve heard that they’re
largely bullshit.”

“They’re not,” she says.
“I mean, not everyone goes through every one of them all the time, and there’s
not some absolute order to them, but they are a pretty common way that people
deal with loss. You, my dear,” she says, “are stuck in depression. Have you
even experienced anything else since she left you high and dry without so much
as a phone call or a goodbye kiss?”

“I know what you’re
trying to do,” I tell her, “but it’s not going to work. I love Leila, and I’m
not about to get mad at her for following her dreams.”

“Oh, god, will you stop
romanticizing the fact that she got a fucking job and moved to New Jersey?” she
asks. “It’s about the least romantic thing there is. It’s just a thing. No, I’m
not telling you to be mad at her for ‘following her dreams,’ I’m telling you to
get mad at her for not wanting you to be a part of them.”

So far, I’ve been deftly
avoiding Wrigley’s finer points, but that last part caught me off guard.

“She’ll call,” I tell
Wrigley.

“She hasn’t yet,” she
answers. “Why do you think that is?”

“She probably wants to
make this easier on both of us,” I tell her. “I mean, if we’re not going to be
able to be together, isn’t it better to—”

“Closure is better,”
Wrigley interrupts. “That’s the one thing I will give you about the bullshit
way you decided to stop giving mama the old in-out-in-out: At least you were
upfront about it and were firm in your resolve. I’m not saying it’s been easy
going back to less compatible man skanks, but at least you didn’t leave me
hanging. I mean, that’s just fucked up.”

“Stop it,” I tell her.

“You’ve got to stop
idealizing her as this perfect person who could never do wrong, who’s perfectly
benevolent and holds the power to make your life better at a whim. That’s why
people create gods.”

“What does that have to
do with anything?” I ask.

She smiles.

“Nothing,” she says. “I’m
just trying to tell you that the longer you put her on that pedestal, the less
of her is going to be part of it.”

“What does that mean?” I
ask.

“It means that the longer
you idealize her, the less real memories you’re going to have to hold onto
because they’ll all be slowly replaced by the fantasy. Memories are good,
whether they’re of happy times or bad times. They keep things in perspective.
If things are shitty, you can pull on a good memory to remind you that things
aren’t always going to be shitty. If things are good, you can pull on a bad
memory to remind you to keep your focus and not get complaisant.”

“Where do you get this
shit?” I ask.

“I’m a social worker,”
she says. “There’s a bit of psychological training that goes into that, you
know.”

I stop to consider the
fact that Wrigley has had substantial psychological training.

“How can I be mad at her,
though?” I ask. “I’m just hurt. If anything, I’m mad at myself.”

“Why?” she asks. “Now,
don’t get me wrong, I’ve been around you enough to know that you’re pretty good
at being stupid when you want to be, but that’s hardly a crime.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean it,” she says.
“What did you do that was so terrible to deserve being abandoned the way that
Leila abandoned you?”

“Will you stop saying
shit like that?” I ask.

“Why?” she smiles. “Is it
making you angry?”

“Yeah, it’s making me
angry.”

“Good,” Wrigley says.

“How is that good?” I
ask.

“It’s good because you’re
allowing yourself to feel something else. You’re becoming more in tune with the
larger reserve of emotion that you’ve been pushing down so you could wallow in
your depression. Movement is a good thing.”

“It’s so weird to hear
you talk like this,” I tell her.

She laughs.

“I’ll tell you what,” she
says. “Why don’t I pour another shot and you can take it from between my tits?”

“That’s much more
familiar,” I chuckle.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe
I do need to get angry. I’m just not used to being the one left wondering.

Yeah, I get the karmic
bullshit in the situation.

I’ve been looking off
into space, and I didn’t even notice that Wrigley has, in fact, poured another
shot and she’s holding it between her breasts.

“You know you want to,”
she says.

“Wrigley…”

“Stop being such a baby,”
she says. “I’m not telling you to lick it out of my twat, although—“

“I think I’ll be okay,” I
tell her.

“Oh, you’ve had enough
for the night?” she asks. “Lost your tolerance for alcohol, have you?”

“No,” I tell her.

“Then, come on,” she
says. “I’m kind of getting tired holding this thing in place. Maybe if I’d worn
a bra, I could have—”

“Fine,” I laugh. “I’ll
take the fucking shot.”

“Don’t worry,” she says.
“I won’t read too much into it.”

I hesitate.

“Seriously,” she says. “I
won’t. Now stick your face in there before I spill this shit.”

I laugh, but I’m thinking
about what Leila would think of the scene.

You know what? She kind
of gave the right to care when she just left without even saying goodbye.

She hasn’t been answering
my calls, and the only reason I know she’s all right is because she sent over
her stupid fucking friend—who I hate, by the way—to tell me that she didn’t
care enough to see me before she took off.

My mouth is around the
shot glass a moment later.

“There you go,” Wrigley
says, running her fingers through my hair like some weird oedipal
hallucination. “Doesn’t that feel better?”

I pull the now empty shot
glass out of my mouth and set it on the table.

“You know what?” I ask.

“What?”

“It does,” I tell her.

She smiles.

“I’m glad.”

“And you know what else?”
I ask.

“What?”

“You were right. What she
did
is
bullshit, and I’m not going to
sit here another week feeling sorry for myself about it.”

“Good for you,” she says.
“Does that mean we’re going to fuck?”

And my momentum is
stalled.

“Too soon?” she asks with
a chortle. “Got it.”

“But you’re right,” I
tell her. “What am I accomplishing by sitting here feeling shitty about
everything? I’m just making it impossible to be happy. I mean, she’s doing what
makes her happy, why shouldn’t I?”

“Okay, now I’m back to
unclear as to whether—”

“Tonight, things are
going to change. I’m going to stop trying to be that guy who sits at home,
bummed because his girlfriend left him. I’m going to reintroduce myself to an
old friend.”

“Great, so we’re
gonna
—”

“Myself!” I declare. “You
know, I’m pretty fucking good company when I’m not acting like a bitch.”

“I couldn’t agree with
you more,” Wrigley says. “What are you going to do about it?”

“I’m going to stop
pretending like I owe her something. We’re not together anymore.” I stand up.
“Why am I wasting my fucking time when I could be out there, having fun and
I’ve really got to sit down.”

I sit back down and
Wrigley gives me a polite round of applause.

“That was great,” she
says. “I’ve never actually been in the room when someone made an inspiring
speech to themselves.”

“Glad I could be of
help,” I tell her.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, just stood up too
quickly,” I tell her and then stand again (this time, much more slowly.) “Mark
the day,” I start again. Couldn’t tell you why, but the over-dramatization
seems to be helping. “Tonight is the first night of the rest of my fucking
life!”

“Eh,” Wrigley says with a
shrug. “A bit cliché there at the end, but I can get behind it.”

“First thing’s first,
though,” I say.

“Yeah?” she asks. “What’s
that?”

“We’re going to need more
alcohol.”

*
                   
*
                   
*

Wrigley and I make a
quick trip to the liquor store, and we crack open the bottle once we’re
outside.

I haven’t paper-bagged it
for years, and damn it, tonight is my throwback to the dynamic son of a bitch I
was before I met Leila. Tonight’s going to be a fucking good night.

“What now?” Wrigley asks,
wiping the vodka from the sides of her mouth.

“Now,” I tell her, “we’re
going to do something that’s not only stupid, but absolutely brilliant.”

“What’s that?” she asks.

“I have absolutely no
idea,” I tell her. “I’ll come up with something.”

She laughs and hands me
the bottle. I take a swig and hand it back.

“Are you open to
suggestions?” she asks.

“I’m open to pretty much
anything right now,” I tell her, wondering whether I’m really ready to jump
back in bed with her.

“All right,” she says.
“I’ve got an idea, but we’re going to have to take a little trip to get there.”

“All right,” I tell her.
“We’re young, we’re drunk,
let’s
fucking do it!”

“Okay,” she says, “you’re
going to need to work on your inside voice, though. Otherwise, we’re not going
to be able to pull it off without getting arrested.”

“Something that could get
us arrested,” I say. “Now you’re talking.”

She smiles and hails a
cab in her usual style.

While it may not be the
most dignified technique, that shit works. We’re in a cab less than a minute
later.

“Where are we going?” I
whisper.

“Why are you whispering?”
she whispers back.

“You told me to work on
my inside voice,” I tell her.

She grins. “You can talk
normally until we get there,” she says.

“Okay. Where are we
going?” I ask in my normal tone.

She finishes taking a
pull before answering, “We’re going swimming.”

“Ooh,” I mock. “Now
that’s
living on the edge.”