Guyaholic (5 page)

As I’m heading down the hall, I pass these sliding doors that open into the backyard. Sure enough, there’s Sam and some other kids, sprawled in lawn chairs, smoking cigarettes and passing around what looks like a fat joint. I don’t linger long enough to tell whether or not Sam is smoking because I don’t want anyone to invite me out. I’m too mad to even
consider
talking to Sam right now. I understand he was angry, but he didn’t have to corner me like that. And I can’t believe what he said about my mom.

“V!” Trinity squeals. “What’re you drinking?”

“Nothing yet,” I say.

I glance around the kitchen table, where it looks like everyone used to be playing beer pong but now they’re so drunk they’re just sloshing balls into one another’s cups. Trinity and Chastity are at one end, along with two guys I’ve never seen before. At the other end, there’s the goalie that Rachel used to go out with, some red-haired girl, and Amos Harrington, who I’ve barely talked to since he brought me the puck the day after I got hit.

“Where’s your other half?” Chastity asks, throwing a Ping-Pong ball in my direction.

“What other half?” I ask.

Trinity and Chastity glance at each other.

“You need to get drunk,” Trinity says.

As she wobbles over to the counter to mix me a vodka and cranberry, I scoop up the ball and toss it toward Amos. He catches it with both hands.

I pull up a chair between the twins, and for the next hour or so, we drink and chat and flick balls around the table. People wander in and out of the kitchen. Rachel and Janine appear in the doorway, but as soon as they see Rachel’s ex, they rush back down the hall. I finish my drink, and Trinity makes me another. I can feel Amos smiling at me. My face is flushed, but I’m feeling good. I’m having fun. I reach across Trinity and splash a little more vodka in my cup.

By this point Chastity is sitting on one of the guy’s laps. His name is Gavin. His hands are inching closer and closer to her boobs, and whenever they kiss, they’re making these sucky-slurpy noises.

“Hey, Chas,” Trinity says sleepily. “That’s what beds are for.”

We all crack up. I can feel Amos watching me. I pull my hair back from my face and twist it into a loose knot.

After a while Chastity and Gavin go in search of a free bedroom. Once they’re gone Trinity rests her face on the table and closes her eyes. The red-haired girl and the goalie head toward the living room, trailed closely by the other guy. Which leaves Amos and me at opposite ends of the table, rolling a dented ball back and forth.

Damn.

This is dangerous.

“Where’s the bathroom?” I stand up and brace myself against the counter.

“I’ll show you,” Amos says, pushing back his chair.

Damn.

I forgot how hot he is. Stocky but muscular.

Damn.

I am way too drunk for this.

“You don’t have to get all . . .” I’m trying to remember that word for a guy doting on a girl and opening doors for her, but my brain is so fuzzy the only thing I can think about is how Amos and I hooked up at that party in March and he grabbed me toward him, pressing his lips hard against mine.

“I don’t have to get all what?” Amos whispers in my ear.

We’re standing an inch from each other, and it’s obvious there’s lust going on. I can feel it between my legs, and as Amos steps closer to me, I can feel it between his legs, too.

“You’re looking hot tonight,” Amos says.

His breath smells like alcohol and wet cigarettes, but it’s okay. In fact, it’s turning me on.

“Bathroom?” I ask meekly. My hair slips out of the knot and falls past my shoulders.

Amos takes my arm and steers me through the dining room and into the bathroom. Before I can say anything, he’s inside with me and I’m locking the door and we’re making out. I’m leaning against the sink and we’re rubbing our bodies together and he’s grabbing my boobs and I’m grabbing his butt and he’s just reaching down to unzip his jeans when someone knocks at the door.

“Hey!” a voice shouts.

I jerk away from Amos.
Shit.
It’s not just a voice. It’s Rachel Almond.

“Chastity and some guy are in the other bathroom,” Rachel wails. “If you know Chastity, you know how long they’re going to take, so please let me in. I’m going to keep knocking until whoever’s in there opens this door.”

I can feel my stomach churning. I can feel saliva pooling under my tongue.

“Amos.” I push him toward the door. “I’m going to throw up.”

“Want me to hold your hair?”

“I don’t think so.”

Amos unlocks the door and I press myself against the towel rack so Rachel won’t see me. But as soon as Amos mumbles that there’s still another person in there, Rachel flicks the light switch and peers inside.

“V?”
she asks in this horrified voice.

For a second, we both just stand there, staring at each other. Then she turns and disappears through the dining room.

I close the door and sink onto my knees in front of the toilet bowl. I attempt to puke, but nothing comes out. I can’t believe how drunk I am. I can’t believe I just fooled around with Amos. I can’t believe Rachel saw us. I can’t believe my mom didn’t come to graduation. I know deep down she doesn’t love me, but I guess I’m always hoping for her to prove that wrong.

I slump against the bathtub, sobbing. Someone bangs on the door. I keep crying and eventually they go away. After a while I wipe my face with some toilet paper and wander out of the bathroom. I grab my sandals from where I’d slipped them off under the kitchen table and stumble through the house.

As soon as I get outside, I see my car parked on the grass. I know for a fact I’m in no shape to drive. Besides, Sam has the key. Even so, I check the doors. The back is unlocked, so I toss my sandals onto the floor, grab my phone, and walk down the empty street.

I hear a car pulling in the driveway. It’s pitch-dark. I’m not really awake, not really sleeping. Mostly, I’m just gripping the edges of my mattress, trying to keep the room from spinning, trying not to heave up whatever is sloshing around in my stomach.

I fumble on my bedside table for my phone. The light from the screen pierces my eyes. No missed calls. No voice mails. No text messages. I moan and drop my phone onto the bed.

I hear an engine cutting out. I hear a car door opening. Is it Sam? Should I go down and talk to him? What would I say?
Thanks for returning my car. It was nice knowing you. Sorry I fucked everything up.

I hear a car door close. I hoist myself out of bed, but the second I’m upright my stomach seizes. I barely make it to the bathroom in time to puke my guts into the toilet.

“V?”

It’s bright out, brutally bright, and the doorbell is ringing. My clock says 7:14
A.M.
, but it’s way too bright to be 7:14
A.M.
Besides, who would ring the doorbell at this brutal, brutal hour?

“V?”

My grandma is at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to my room. This used to be the guest room, but I’ve been staying here ever since last January. It actually took me eight months to unpack my bags. But once I learned that Aimee had moved to Florida, and my grandparents convinced me to stay here for senior year, I folded my clothes into drawers, taped up some photos, and bought a beanbag chair. It probably doesn’t sound like a big deal to most people, but to me, at the time, it was huge.

I press my face into a pillow. My temples are pounding even worse than last night.

“There’s someone at the door for you,” my grandma is saying.

Oh, my God.

Is it Sam?

Oh, my God.

“It’s the FedEx guy,” my grandma adds. “I think something from Aimee.”

I mumble that I’ll get it later and then burrow my face deep into the pillow.

“V?”

My grandma is back at the bottom of the stairs.

“We’re heading to work,” my grandpa chimes in.

I attempt to open my eyes, but it’s even brighter than before.

“She must be sleeping still,” my grandma murmurs.

“I’ll call her later,” my grandpa says. “See if she wants to have lunch.”

Argh.

My grandma works in Rochester, so I’m off her radar most of the day, but my grandpa is a dentist in Brockport, which means he’s constantly inviting me to have lunch with him or go for afternoon power walks on the canal.

“That sounds good,” my grandma says. “I know she had a hard time yesterday.”

As their footsteps recede down the hall, I turn onto my side, hug my knees to my chest, and fall back asleep.

My phone is ringing, but I can’t find it anywhere.

I glance at the clock: 10:23
A.M.

The ring tone is this tinny version of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” Sam put it on there a few days ago, after I snuck “Oh, Shenandoah” onto his phone. I know it was funny in the moment, but when you’re just waking up from the worst hangover of your life, the last thing you want to hear is “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” courtesy of the guy you just cheated on.

I finally discover my phone wedged between the sheet and the side of my mattress. Just as I’m opening it, the ringing stops. I glance at the last call. aimee. I quickly dial her back.

“Hey!” my mom says. “I just tried you.”

“I know. I was sleeping.”

“Want to call me when you’re awake?”

“No . . . that’s okay.” I fold an extra pillow under my head. “What’s up?”

“I just wanted to say I’m
so
sorry about missing your graduation. We went back to the emergency room in the middle of the night for more testing, but they sent us home again and . . . Oh, hon, I really am sorry. You know how much I wanted to see you walk across that stage.”

I’m getting the hugest lump in my throat.

“Did my package arrive?” Aimee asks.

I remember brightness, a searing headache, my grandma shouting from the bottom of the stairs.

“It should have come this morning,” Aimee says. “It’s lots of stuff for college. I was going to bring it with me to Brockport.”

My eyes are filling with tears.

“Speaking of college,” Aimee says, “I was thinking I could use my ticket to fly back east in August. We could rent a car and I’ll drive you to Boston, get you settled in. What do you think?”

“That sounds nice.”

We’re both quiet for a moment. Then I wipe my eyes and say, “What’s his name, by the way?”

“The Cowboy?”

“Yeah.”

“Steve,” Aimee says. “And do you want to know something? We’re talking about buying a house together, maybe even a ranch.”

“In San Antonio?”

“Yeah . . . you should come visit.”

“Really?”

“You’d like it here. Steve has three horses that he boards in a nearby stable.”

“Horses?”

“We could take them out whenever you want.”

I say that sounds nice, even though riding a horse around Texas was not exactly what I had in mind for myself this summer.

Twenty minutes later I’m down in the kitchen sucking a saltine and wondering whether Rachel told Sam that she saw me with Amos. I’m sure she did because Sam hasn’t called or texted yet, and we’ve never gone this long after an argument. Then again, I’ve never cheated on him before. But I can’t
really
call it cheating because we never made any monogamy pledges.

The home phone rings.

“Hello?” I ask.

“Hey,” Mara says. “I heard.”

“Heard what?”

“About graduation . . . Mom and Dad told me about Aimee not showing up.”

“That was fast.”

“You know them,” she says. “They’re talking about sending you to therapy this summer.”

“At least it’s not rehab this time.”

“Seriously,” Mara says, laughing.

Mara is my grandparents’ other daughter. Officially, that makes her my aunt, except they had Mara when Aimee was eighteen, so she’s only a year older than me. When I moved here last year, Mara was a senior. She was this super-uptight, perfectionist overachiever, and I was, well, the opposite. At first we wanted to murder each other, but things got better throughout that spring. By the time Mara left for Yale in August, I’d even say we liked each other.

“Are you okay?” Mara asks.

I snort. “Hardly.”

“How so?”

“I fucked things up with Sam.”

“Oh no,” Mara says, and I can hear genuine regret in her voice. She’s spending the summer in Chicago, but she was home for five days after Yale let out. While she was here, she hung around with Sam and me a few times and kept saying how she’d never seen me that happy.

“What happened?” Mara asks.

I tell her about the fight, the party, Amos.

“That sounds awful,” Mara says.

“I know.”

“Do you think you guys are over?”

“It can’t be over because it never was anything to begin with.”

“You really believe that?”

“Hmmm,” I say. “I guess I’ll have to discuss it with my therapist.”

“Stop joking. I know you’re upset.”

I pour myself some Dr Pepper, but my stomach is still too queasy, so I dump it into the sink and fill my glass with water.

“Have you talked to Aimee yet?” Mara asks.