Whiskey at Midnight, page 2
“Oh my God,” says Emma. She covers her smile with a hand.
This catches the bartender’s attention. She coughs before asking Emma what she wants. Emma has an almost full drink at the table. She shouldn’t get another yet. She probably shouldn’t have any more period. Her cheeks are flushed. Her wallet is already more empty than she would normally like. Then again, there are always shots.
Wren raises an eyebrow when Emma sets a shot down in front of her but doesn’t say anything. Steve and Cam are still dancing a little too closely. Emma huffs and raises her glass, clinks it to Wren’s, and feels the liquid go down her throat.
Steve and Cam dance so long that Wren gets up and tells Emma to follow her. They stop at the bar and Wren buys Emma a shot this time. Whiskey. Of course, Wren likes whiskey. It’s the bartender with the ponytail who pours the shots and she doesn’t look Emma in the eye.
“Come on,” Wren says when they’ve taken the shots. “I need a cigarette.”
“I don’t smoke,” Emma says, but follows anyway.
It’s only when Emma steps into the warm night air and giggles that reality hits her. She’s drunk. Wren walks another ten feet from the entrance and lights a cigarette. She inhales like it’s the best thing in the world. Emma wrinkles her nose. She’s never liked cigarettes. They smell weird and the scent clings to anyone who smokes. Wren, though, just looks right with a cigarette in her hand.
“Is she breaking your heart again?” Wren says as she exhales. The words tumble out of her mouth.
Wren is not someone Emma has ever confided in. Nothing more than “I really hate this fucking project.” Surely she has never mentioned her feelings about Cam. They’re barely friends.
“What?” Emma asks.
Wren rolls her eyes and takes another drag of her cigarette. “You’re going to play dumb?”
Emma can go inside. She can sit at the table and sober up while she watches Steve dance with Cam. She can sit at the bar instead and see what happens between the two bartenders. Anything, really, would probably be better than standing outside with Wren watching her every move.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Emma.
Wren strides forward the few feet that separate them. She’s holding the cigarette in her right hand. Her hair has fallen into her face a bit and she reaches her left hand up to push it out of her face. She cocks her head to the side and studies Emma for a moment. “You’re both idiots,” she says finally. Then, without warning, she pitches forward and kisses Emma. It’s over quickly and she studies Emma again. “Don’t forget to pay your tab,” she says as she walks past Emma back into the bar, her cigarette tossed into a nearby ashtray.
Emma stands outside for another minute. More people come outside to smoke and they might stare at her, but she doesn’t look at them. Her fists are clenched together and her eyebrows are furrowed in confusion.
“What the fuck,” she mutters.
She pays her tab and leaves without saying goodbye.
The next time Emma sees everyone again, they’re at the same bar and Emma has had a terrible day. Her perfect record at the craft shop has been tarnished by a verbal warning for being late. Not that a verbal warning would go on her official record, but they love her at work. Standing next to Ed, wearing mismatched socks and only being able to shrug her shoulders when he asked what happened was particularly disappointing. Worse was the look in his eye. Emma hates letting people down.
This is probably why she’s in no mood for Cam’s hot and cold behavior. Cam’s warm greeting, hugging her a little too long, and holding her hand under the table until Wren and Steve return to the table, followed by promptly ignoring her existence has Emma on edge. It’s juvenile. It’s all Emma has.
Steve keeps grabbing onto Wren’s wrist above the table and Wren lets him. It’s a safe place to look since Emma can’t look at Cam without her eyes wanting to water. She also can’t bring herself to look at Wren across the table. Whatever game Wren is playing, staring at her, as usual, with a smirk on her lips, Emma doesn’t want to play.
Emma gets up from her seat, a little abruptly, and begins to walk away from the table.
“Where are you going?” Cam asks.
“Bathroom.”
She means to go to the bathroom, just as she has said, but first to the bar. The bartender with pigtails has switched to two braids on each side of her head. It fits her better. She’s free, so Emma orders a shot from her. It’s only when she turns away to pour the shot, a wicked grin on her lips, that Emma becomes confused again. Wren likes whiskey, not Emma. Why did she order it?
Emma takes the shot anyway. It’s alcohol. She pays while she’s there, just because.
The bathroom is located at the end of a hallway. Picture frames line the wall along the way. In them are photographs of smiling people, cheeks dimpled, with the decay of age making the pictures look ancient. It almost seems quiet and secluded. The bathrooms don’t have stalls. Two sit side by side, one for men and one for women. No one really pays attention to which door they go into. A person can go in there and lock themselves away. Exactly the kind of thing Emma needs. Inside it is a little too small. There’s only a toilet, sink, mirror, and trash can. But it doesn’t smell and it’s clean.
Emma looks in the mirror and grimaces. There are dark circles under her eyes. Her blonde hair hangs limply around her shoulders. She hasn’t dressed up. She’s wearing a gray t-shirt that she picked out of her clean laundry bin and a pair of jeans. Her hands grip the sink. The taste of the whiskey won’t go away. It’s just another thing to annoy her.
It becomes obvious that it’s time to stop hiding the longer she stays. Someone will start to wonder. Someone with a full bladder will begin to knock. If she needs it, she can stop at the bar again on her way back to the table. She lets out a shaky breath and unlocks the door.
Wren is standing in the hallway, leaning against the wall opposite the bathroom, when Emma opens the door. She’s chewing gum and looking utterly bored. “Hey,” she says.
“Hey.”
“Are you going to hide all night?” Wren asks. She pulls at a strand of her brown hair.
“I remember when you used to never talk,” Emma says, her tone bitter sounding.
“I remember when you used to talk,” Wren fires back.
Emma shrugs and starts to walk past Wren. There’s no one else in the hallway and there are butterflies in Emma’s stomach. Wren is right. Emma used to talk to Steve and Cam while Wren sat there silently. It’s been a new development, this sullen quietness.
Wren grabs Emma’s wrist and stops her. Her touch isn’t surprising. Whatever her actions have meant lately, it’s not out of character now to grab onto Emma. It’s the strength behind it that causes Emma to pause. Those arms that are like twigs actually have more strength in them than Emma could have ever guessed.
“Just have some fun,” Wren says when Emma turns around to look at her fully. “You still know how to do that, right?”
Emma nods and clears her throat.
“Good,” Wren says. Wren leans forward, onto her toes, instead of moving to stand in front of Emma, and kisses her. It’s longer this time but still chaste. When she pulls back, there’s a satisfied smile on her face. She drops Emma’s hand and walks away.
That should be the end of it. Emma walks back through the hallway, past all of the picture frames and closer to the area covered in pictures, without frames, tacked to the wooden walls. She has to walk by the bar to get to the other section where Steve and Cam will be. But that would be too easy. Wren is standing by the bar, leaning against it, with two shots of whiskey next to her.
The bartender with the braids is standing there watching Emma approach. That same grin is on her lips. She likes her job a little too much, Emma thinks.
Emma takes the shot with Wren. Unlike Steve, Wren doesn’t toast to anything. Emma sets down the glass on the bar top. She’s taken the shot with her eyes closed and when she opens them, Wren is looking at her.
“Thanks,” Emma says.
“That’s more like it,” Wren mumbles.
Cam starts telling Emma to come out to the bar an hour or so before Wren and Steve are supposed to arrive. Of course, Emma does it. With Cam’s busy schedule and the beginning of fall classes for Emma, it’s some of the only time Emma has alone with her. During that hour, Cam dances with her when good music is playing, even when they’re the only ones paying attention to the music so early in the night, and kisses her sometimes. Cam doesn’t talk about what’s happening or what might happen in the future. If Emma tries to bring it up, Cam silences her with a kiss. It might be enough for now.
Emma tries not to let the hurt she feels cross her face when Steve and Wren arrive and Cam backs away from her. She also tries to ignore the fact that she’s not really sleeping much anymore. Her eyes always have dark circles under them when she wakes up. She applies makeup to try to conceal them and it works for the most part. She’s sluggish at work and Ed just looks at her with a worried expression on his face. He doesn’t ask her what’s wrong, which is good because she’s not sure what she would say if he did. Her classes have barely begun. It’s not the extra homework.
On the nights they go out, Emma comes home frustrated. Of all the things she thought about when it came to her and Cam, Cam being a tease never entered her mind. It’s partially the fault of her body. It heats up with just the softest touch of Cam’s hand on her side. And if that wasn’t enough, Wren is still looking at her with those knowing fucking eyes. At least Steve is as normal as ever. Or mostly normal. Even he has started trying to pull Emma out of her funk. He asks her how work is going or tries to get her to dance with him. She always declines. He shrugs and says things like, “Suit yourself, sweetheart.”
Emma gets tipsy every night they go out. Her bank account would hate her more if the bar didn’t have such nice specials and if she wasn’t only eating sandwiches and chicken broth. She feels not completely present as she goes about her daily life, following her schedule as best she can, feeling like she’s not in control of much of anything. The sandwiches and broth are bland, but the thought of other food makes her stomach queasy. She begins to lose weight, a pound at a time, but doesn’t change.
Wren corners her at the bar one night. She orders two shots of whiskey, of course, and stares at Emma until Emma picks up the shot meant for her and thanks her. Wren’s been leaving her alone for the past week, until now.
“Have fun,” Wren says. She smiles after, not her usual smirk. It seems genuine.
So Emma orders another round while Steve and Cam are busy talking at the table. It’s not whiskey this time, but Wren doesn’t seem to mind. Wren’s wearing her usual layer of eyeliner that’s a little too much. Her wrists are covered in bracelets. No one does that anymore, no one but Wren.
The two bartenders are secretly trying to check each other out. When the girl with braids passes by the one with the ponytail, she touches the small of her back. The girl with the ponytail smiles and Emma smiles, too. It’s the sweetest thing she’s seen in weeks. She jumps when she feels a hand on the small of her back. It’s Wren.
“We should get back to the table,” Wren whispers in her ear.
By closing time, Emma is something like happy. She’s smiling and laughing. She tells Steve that he’s an idiot, which is so close to a normal interaction between them that he laughs with her. Wren nudges her shin under the table and gives her an approving look. Everything would be great if Emma could ignore the way Cam’s bare arms are flexing on the table.
She can’t drive home. Emma considered this possibility at the beginning of the night and hadn’t driven her car to the bar. Cam is driving but lives in the opposite direction. Steve left without saying goodbye to anyone.
“I’m getting a cab,” Wren says and holds up her phone. “Already called and they’re on the way.” She glances at Emma but directs her comments to Cam. “I can make sure Emma gets home safely.”
Cam nods and gives Emma a one-armed hug. Cam misses the smirk on Wren’s face.
Wren’s hand is on Emma’s thigh as soon as the cab door shuts. It’s warm against Emma’s bare thigh. That’s probably why Emma was able to finally be herself, in some small way, again. She’d shaved and worn a skirt. The look on Wren’s face is so appreciative that Emma blushes.
“Come home?” Wren asks her. It comes out a little more like a statement. As if this is where the two of them have been headed for weeks. And maybe they have. Wren had told her to have fun. Emma’s panties have been damp since she first got to the bar and Cam kissed her. She nods her head and gasps when Wren kisses her on the cheek.
Wren kisses Emma against the closed front door of Wren’s apartment and strips her down when they reach the bedroom. Emma probably would have slept with her, it would have been fun, but Wren pushes the covers down on the bed and tells Emma to go to sleep. “We can do it some other time,” Wren says.
Right before she passes out, Emma tries to ignore the pang of disappointment that hits her.
The second time Emma goes home with Wren, they’re both far too drunk. The night started with shots, alone, at a bar that Emma had never been to before because she couldn’t bear to run into Cam or Steve or even to see the flirty glances between the two girl bartenders at her usual watering hole. It was just her luck that Wren showed up and sidled over to her, two shots in hand, and gave her one silently. They both knew why Emma was there, trying to forget the name Camille altogether, and so they drank until the lights turned on above them and they shuffled out to the sidewalk to look for a cab.
Emma’s head rests on the back of the seat in the cab until Wren pulls her close and sets her head on Wren’s shoulder. It’s only when Wren pays the driver and pulls her out that Emma realizes she’s not at home, that Wren had given a different address to the driver. They trudge up the stairs together and when Wren lets go of Emma to put her key in the lock Emma feels suddenly sober.
The living room is sparse with only a brown rug, couch, coffee table, and old TV. The only sign of anyone having been in the room recently is the overflowing ashtray on the wooden coffee table.
“Where’s your roommate?” asks Emma.
Wren lets out a breath that sounds almost like a chuckle and shrugs. “She’s not coming home. Don’t worry about it.”
Emma has grown so much since her beginnings as a so-called princess in training. She switched from the idea of a heroic prince finding her to a heroic princess. Then she evolved to thinking about marriage and kids. She might even get a dog. It’s been years since she first heard the word lesbian used as an insult, years since the thought of being one drove her to desperation, years since she stopped flinching when she heard the term. Still, she dreams of falling in love and everything being perfect.
All of this is why Emma can’t quite believe herself when she’s kissing Wren’s neck in Wren’s darkened bedroom. Sex is meant to be special, something to share with someone you love. Even if she doesn’t prescribe to the notion of saving yourself for marriage, sex for Emma is not supposed to be biting and licking at the neck of a girl she barely considers a friend, a girl who is hissing loudly when Emma pulls at her hair.
Wren’s head falls back against the bedroom door with a loud thump, because they haven’t even made it further inside, and Emma loses her train of thought and just acts.
She pulls Wren closer to the bed and then releases her to take her own clothes off. Since they haven’t spoken, not really, the only thing Emma has to go on that Wren is fine with what is happening is that Wren is taking her clothes off even faster than Emma. It’s an easy task, disrobing faster. Wren is only wearing boots and tights and a dress. Underwear is apparently optional for Wren.
It’s sloppy, all of it. Their kisses are all teeth and tongues. Emma pushes a thigh between Wren’s. She feels a coating of wetness on her leg and has to bite her lip to keep from moaning. Emma kisses one of Wren’s nipples, turns it into a soft bite, and wonders why she’s never noticed Wren’s tits before.
Emma pushes Wren onto the bed and the way Wren’s hair falls down onto her shoulders in wavy layers is one of the most beautiful things Emma has ever seen. Wren tangles her fingers into Emma’s hair and begins to push downward until Emma relents and moves down, past Wren’s belly button, to settle down between Wren’s legs.
“Are you sure?” Emma asks.
Wren rolls her eyes and lets out a frustrated sigh. One of her own hands glides down her body until she’s touching her own clit. Her tongue snakes out between her lips for a brief moment before it retreats inside and she bites her lip.
“Okay, I get the hint,” says Emma.
Wren is sweeter tasting than expected. She smokes so many cigarettes and drinks so much that if Emma had ever thought to wonder how Wren might taste she would have assumed an ashy bitterness. Wren’s hips move toward Emma’s mouth, thrust upward, and it’s all Emma can do to keep grounded. She claws at Wren’s hip, anything to make what they’re doing be the opposite of making love. She bites the inside of Wren’s thigh and enters her cunt with two fingers.
Wren sighs happily and within minutes begins to jerk, her eyes shut tight.
Later, when Wren has fucked her two times in a row and left bite marks all over her chest, Emma waits until the world feels normal again. She can smell the evidence of Wren’s smoking habit when she breathes. She crawls out from under the covers. Without looking at Wren, she mumbles, “Time to get dressed and go.” Her clothes are scattered around the room, making her stay longer than she’d like. Wren doesn’t dress, just lights a cigarette and watches Emma until she stubs the butt into an ashtray by her bed and rolls over, away from Emma.
Emma turns back at the bedroom door, purse in hand. “Maybe we shouldn’t do that again.” She almost thinks Wren has fallen asleep because she doesn’t respond at first. She pulls the door open to leave.
