Just Roll With It: a Just Us novel (33 page)

"You did this to yourself," he tells me.

"No. My heel did this to me." I whine.

"What?"

"My heel, of my shoe. My heel of my shoe I was only wearing to try and impress you with. It makes sense, though. It's all coming full circle, like a cosmic karma-sphere. I was drunk when I bought them, and now I'm drunk when I killed them. See?" I hold up the two broken parts, a piece in each hand like they are some sacrificial offering, to show him the proof. Little pieces of evidence brought forth in the trial of my madness.

"Shit." He crosses his arms and looks up to the sky in thought, or defeat, or irritation. It's a toss-up really. He did see my proof, though. Because my sad shoes are what's most important here. 

I don't know what I thought I would find when I invited her to come tonight. Closure, maybe? Or some sign I'm doing the right thing? I shouldn't have called her. I should've let it be done after the whole Shana fiasco.

I had to see her one more time, though. I kept hearing from our friends about her being a mess. Good. Let her know what an asshole I am. Which is what I wanted, right? But then when I heard she was seeming better, well, truth be told, I felt like complete shit.

My plan worked, so why did I feel so sick? Let her be a mess at first, then get over me and move on. I want her to be happy. But, I think I must've went into some uncontrollable state of panic because I went and picked up my goddamn phone and called.

She's more of a wreck than I anticipated. The fucked up thing, is it's my fault. Of course it is, but tonight specifically. All because I failed to tell her about the party actually being outside. I don't even know for sure if I really forgot to mention it, or if some subconscious part of me had hoped this would happen. Because it's the easiest way out.

I watch her stumble the entire way to the car. I don't offer to hold her hand or help her, even once. I'm a prick. I can't, though. Not now, anyway. It's too late.

"I can't believe you let me wear heels tonight," she mumbles. She's getting angry now.
Here we go
. "The whole thing is such bullshit, you know," she grumbles at me.

"That's right, it's all my fault."

"It is
!
You
brought me here! You told me we were going to a house.
Inside
."

"Let me guess, it's my fault you couldn't fucking walk right. Has nothing to do with you being piss drunk. No."

"You're the reason I'm pissed and drunk!" she snaps back. The way she misunderstood what I said is adorably comical which irritates me more.

"Yep. I forced it down your throat and made you swallow." The most maniac-like laugh I've heard yet bursts from her mouth.

I stop walking and turn toward her. "What the fuck is so funny right now?"

"The one thing I can attest to, you've never forced anything down my throat and made me swallow. I do that shit willingly." Her hysterics continue but then dwindle into hiccups.

"Not funny, Bee." It's funny, but I'm not telling her that. We make it to the car eventually, but not without constant bitching on Rigbee's part, and are on our way back. It dawns on me Rigbee is too drunk to drive back to her place, so she is going to end up having to sleep at my house. Wow, won't things be awkward as shit tomorrow morning.

"Why are you being so mean? Why are you such an asshole! You are such a dick!"

She's leaned over and screaming in my face now.

"Ahh, I'm so tired of your crap! What is your problem? Why are you being like this?" she repeats herself.

"Like what?"

"An asshole!"

"You were being a bitch all night."

"Hmm, I wonder why?"

"It's not my fault you wore heels."

"Gah! Yes, it really literally is!"

I don't know what she means, but I'm not about to humor her drunken rant. “Will you please quit bitching!"

"Did you call me a bitch?"

"What? No." I shake out my head in aggravation, ridding it of the confusing havoc she's wreaking in there. "But you
are
being a bitch."

"Unbelievable. You are so inconsiderate," she accuses.

"You're free to leave."

"Yeah, okay. Right here on a desolate dirt road, a road going who-knows-where, in a town I'm completely unfamiliar with."

"In fact, yes." I bring the car to a gravel grinding stop. "Get out."

She crosses her arms and rolls her eyes like she doesn't believe me.

"Out."

"No."

I lean over her and throw her door open.

"Get. The. Fuck. Out of my car!"

I thrust myself back into my seat, expecting for it to be done with. I think she's going to get out, and in an angry rage she will call someone and never speak to me again. She doesn't. It's about to piss me off.

She sits still. Staring out the open door for who knows how long, too long. Her body is shaking. I'm sure she's been cold all night with that outfit on. I am an asshole.

Finally, she snaps out of whatever trance she was in and looks me square in the face. Her eyes are rimmed with red and swollen. I can hardly see them through the tears building up. I warily watch as the dam breaks.

Tears silently roll down her cold cheeks. She's menacingly quiet, doesn't say a word or make a noise. You wouldn't know she was even crying if you weren't looking at her face. Unless you're observant enough to notice the slight twitch in her shoulders. I am. Insecurity and despondence play on her face for the first time tonight. Allowing herself to be so exposed is hard for her and hard to look at. I lean over.

She thinks I'm going to kiss her. I'm not. It's too late. I pause for a slight second when my face gets close to hers. I keep my eyes trained on her as I reach over her and grab the door handle. She jumps at the noise of it slamming back shut. It's too loud after such a deafening silence.

Without a word I sit back in my seat, turn the stereo up, and shift into drive.  

The splitting sound of Rigbee screaming wakes me up. I am instantly hit with a wave of Deja vu. 

I've become achingly familiar with this feeling. Waking up in the morning only to try and forget the same thing you were trying to forget the night before in the first place. The hangovers don't even bother me compared to the gnawing pain of that.

I have to pee. I have to pee very burning badly. Where am I again?
Oh, yeah.
I look over the balcony of the loft where I slept last night. Alone.

After driving in complete silence for the majority of the way here last night, Roman ultimately broke up with me. Officially, this time.

"It's over, Bug." Boom. My whole big breakup. Everything I've been tirelessly obsessing about was put into a tiny three-word sentence. A very small sentence with a very large punch.

I sat there in his passenger seat stunned and not really knowing what to do. We were already parked in his driveway, after all, and I wasn't in any shape to drive. I could've called Enzo, but it was so late. I heard him mumble something along the lines of, "Go sleep up in the loft."

I got nothing else from him the entire way in. I watched his back stiffen as he walked to his room. With the soft closing of the very last open door, he's was gone. I didn't know what else to do so I slipped into the bathroom to take off my clothes. The clothes I had picked out special for last night are now completely filled with mud. Literally and figuratively.

I noticed the stupid fucking heel of my shoe and how it was still in my left hand. I put it in an indiscernible pocket somewhere and continued to strip.

I brought a bag with a change of clothes in it, like I always do, so I did have fresh sweats to change into. It's a good thing, I was so dirty everything on my body had to go, down to the bra and undies. I couldn't stand the thought of anything from the night touching my skin. As I was taking my shirt off, I noticed something was off. I ran my hand over my skin and gasped when I realized my necklace wasn't there anymore. I had lost it at the bonfire. Tears welled in my eyes.

In my drunk stupor, I had failed to bring my bag up into the loft with me. It's not routine. I usually go into Rome's room, not upstairs, so everything felt foreign. Honestly, I could give an epic shit about the bag or the stupid fucking broken shoes.

It's all a wretched reminder of the night that shattered whatever pieces of me I had left. Those stubborn ones I continued to cling to through all the bullshit.
Tomorrow, my broken shoe will act as a cruel metaphor,
I thought to myself. Then I passed-the-fuck out.

Now I have to pee. I wonder if Roman is awake yet. Should I slip out and leave undetected and without saying bye? I don't know anything about post break-up etiquette. I wonder if his parents and brother are home?

I'm living the awkward moment when you wake up at the house of the guy who just dumped you. That's a thing, right? At least things can't get much worse. There is only uphill from here. I take a deep breath and ready myself for the day ahead.

"I got this," I reassure myself.

I twist the knob to the bathroom door and push it open, using just enough force for it to jolt my arm right back when it comes to an abrupt halt.

I take in the scene before me. It takes a beat before my brain can catch up and process what had caused the door to stop. Roman's dad's hand. Pushing the door back at me.
How rude. Why would he do that? Oh, because he's currently occupying this particular bathroom. Wait, what now?

When I see a newspaper in his other hand, I take note to how he is still in a sitting position on the toilet. Yes, that's right, sitting down. There's only one reason a guy sits.

In a blurry dreamlike state, I hear him say, too calmly might I add, "Close the goddamn door".

Horrified beyond evolution, and with serving-tray-sized eyes, I just stand there and stare. I stay still until the fiery heat of embarrassment runs the full length of my bloodstream and ends with a burn in my cheeks.

I cover my face with my hands and scream out something completely unintelligible, but along the lines of, "
OHMYGODICANTEVENBELIEVETHISISHAPPENINGRIGHTNOW
."