Whiskey at Midnight, page 22
Wren gets a Saturday off and decides that’s a good enough reason to go out downtown. Besides, there’s only so many times she can say no to joining Bible study in the living room without coming across as rude.
Steve’s working all day and will only want to go to the normal bar after work. Wren doesn’t ask Vicki what she’s doing. Wren showers and leaves the apartment with her camera. She walks around downtown. She takes a picture of the sign in front of Victor’s, just because. She’ll never go there again, not if she has any choice in the matter.
It’s been too long since Wren has gone out to take pictures. There hasn’t been the time, too many people wanting her attention. She walks steadily until she reaches the park Steve met her in just a few months before. Fewer people are around now that the season has changed. A couple of people walk briskly around, stare at her as they pass. Her light jacket affords her little warmth and she can’t help the slight chattering of her teeth when the wind blows. When the action of taking pictures is no longer comforting, she walks around a little longer before finding the exit again.
She shouldn’t drink, shouldn’t head straight to a store to buy a bottle of liquor. So much of what Wren does now she shouldn’t. She buys a bottle of vodka and heads back to the park. There’s nowhere else to go. Far off the path that the joggers take is a field that some people like to use for sports. She sits against a tree and watches a group of young men toss a football around. They’re horrible at it and breathe heavily from the effort of running around. Not that she could do much better.
The camera rests against her chest and she doesn’t lift it to take any pictures. It’s late afternoon, bordering on dinnertime for most people. The more she drinks, the more she’s unable to stop the flow of thoughts in her mind. How Emma’s cheek used to feel against her palm, how things hadn’t really gone according to plan. There’s still time, there’s always still time. She takes another swig of the vodka.
There hasn’t been a phone call or a text message for her all day. No one wondering what she’s doing or if she wants to do anything. Steve’s at work, Trudy is with Trevor. Is there anyone else? Not anymore, not right now.
She drinks faster. Another guy is tackled to the ground, amid excited shouts. Wren picks up her phone and her brain isn’t working fast enough to make her stop. She’s on the name, only has to press one more button to hear the phone try to call Emma. She sets it back down at the last second, kicks her heel into the hard dirt beneath her.
She hasn’t eaten all day, a bad habit, and is forced to put away the bottle before she’s finished with it. It’s comforting, anyway, just knowing that it’s still there, waiting. Sitting there, watching the amateur athletes, the part of her that feels like it’s gone, the growing absence somewhere inside that she can’t make go away, takes over. It’s as if her head spins and she’s no longer in control of anything. Lips covered in pink gloss, a worn book, a forgotten pill. These are all that exist in a dying world. If this is what it’s like to go crazy, Wren has only skimmed the surface before.
Maybe love exists. Maybe Wren has been wrong all along. The concept that foolish people cling onto, people like Emma, that doesn’t exist. It never did. Wren hurts and her body doesn’t match the pain. If Emma was there, going through Wren’s mind, she’d say that none of it is fair. Wren smirks. Life isn’t fair. Love exists, but life isn’t fair.
Wren can’t sit still. Football is boring. Left to her own devices, the day is a reminder of how Wren has fallen into a trap and can’t do anything to get out. She leaves the park, crosses the street carelessly, ignores the sound of a car horn nearby. She holds the bag carrying the bottle in one hand, smiles at the feeling of it bouncing against her leg.
She walks slowly through the streets until the world isn’t quite so blurry. She stomps up the stairs to her apartment. Trudy’s not there, for once. A note is on the coffee table. It says that Trudy’s out to dinner, don’t tell the Bucktons. As if Wren is the type to call someone’s parents to tattle. As if the Bucktons have told Trudy that she can never leave the apartment for food.
Wren finishes the last of the alcohol while she changes clothes and deposits her camera back on her desk. It might not be the smartest decision to go back out, but Wren doesn’t care. It’s a lucky outfit that she wears, or so she considered it a few months ago. It’s a white shirt that Emma seemed to like, or at least stared at Wren’s chest almost constantly when she wore it, with some boots and a black skirt. A classic for Wren. It’s warm enough to go without a jacket now that the wind has calmed down.
She finds a club that doesn’t immediately make her want to slit her wrists and smiles up at the guy standing out front, his arms crossed over his chest. He doesn’t ask for ID, barely even glances at her as she goes inside.
A younger crowd dances in a roped off area and the bartenders make drinks in a jerky fashion, moving behind the various bars. It’s exactly the kind of place Wren tries to stay away from usually.
If the alcohol from earlier has worn off, Wren does her best to get her buzz back. She stands by groups who order shots, takes one if they hand her one, then disappears. On the dance floor, men try to sidle up to her and dance. Some she lets, others she purses her lips at and walks away from. One man, already sweaty from dancing, puts his arms around her shoulders, smiles like he knows her. She gives him a moment before shrugging his arms off and turning toward someone else.
The someone else happens to be a girl, happens to be a blonde. Wren has never particularly been into blonde people, much less blonde girls, but she’s drunk again and the girl seems to be inebriated as well, with her dress strap falling off her shoulder.
Wren dances close to the girl, face to face, puts one arm around her. The music is loud, pounding in Wren’s head, and none of it feels quite right. Not the girl, not the club, definitely not the music. It takes a moment for Wren to comprehend the touch that is pushing her back, away from the girl. It’s not the girl, though she is putting some distance between herself and Wren, and there are so many people around that Wren can’t see who it is that has pushed her.
And then that sweaty fucker is on Wren again, smiling at her like she wasn’t just trying to dance with someone else who was most certainly not him. She kind of hates him, kind of hates everything in the world at that moment. His eyebrows are bushy, his nose beak-like. Everything about him is wrong.
Wren’s never gotten particularly angry at someone, not to the point of violence. Even Roy has only made her feel a certain seething anger that is more like contempt than anything that might produce violence. Wren hasn’t felt much like herself lately, that is obvious to anyone who has seen her, and so she’s not all that surprised when she pulls away and punches him right in his drunk mouth.
It’s apparent that Wren has made a mistake when the first punch hits her in the face. The club becomes blurry around her, a mixture of the alcohol and the ringing in her ears. A girl nearby screams. It’s horrible, all of it. Wren lashes out, kicks and punches until she connects with something. Her ribs hurt after falling down onto her knees and being kicked in the midsection. She tastes blood.
The guy is about her height, a little shorter than the average male, and he stands over her like he’s won. Blood pours from his nose. She stands back up and launches at him again. His fist connects with her face, hitting her cheek and eye. Later, much later, when Wren is in bed and replaying the whole thing, it’ll just be her falling down and getting back up, unable to admit defeat.
They’re kicked out, the both of them, and go their separate ways. He is followed by his group of friends, mostly girls, who give Wren dirty looks for ruining their night out. Wren walks alone, stumbling from the pain and drunkenness. It’s still early, early enough to go somewhere else to drink. Wren’s phone is in her bra. She calls Steve.
“Are you off yet? Come to the bar,” she says as soon as he’s picked up. She doesn’t wait for an answer. He’ll show up or he won’t.
Wren walks until she passes a cab and flags it down. It’s much better than walking. Her knuckles look awful and she picks at the loose skin there. Wren lets her head lean back into the seat of the cab. The driver is quiet and travels steadily toward the bar. His face appears in the rearview mirror at times, eyes on Wren’s face. When he pulls into the parking lot, Wren pays him without speaking, ignores the card that he tries to give her until he insists repeatedly.
Wren goes straight back to the bathroom to see the damage. Her picking at her knuckles has caused them to start bleeding again. Her lip is swelling. A whole side of her face looks like it’s been pummeled. She wets a paper towel and dabs at her lip. It’ll all be fine, nothing to worry about. She smirks. Her body matches how she feels on the inside again.
The bar is busy. Perfect for Wren. She’s able to get a drink and vanish into the crowd if she wishes. No one really notices her, no one but Reese and Taylor. It’s a little awkward, sitting next to strangers with Reese gawking at her.
“You’re not going to bleed on the bar, are you?” Taylor asks in a peeved voice.
Wren takes a sip of the drink that is placed in front of her. Whiskey again. “No,” Wren says. “I think that’s all done.”
“You look like shit,” Reese says.
It’s true, absolutely true. Wren laughs until the pain in her lip makes her stop.
There’s still two seats next to her that are empty. A quick glance around the rest of the bar makes Wren sigh pleasantly. Emma isn’t there. Neither is Cam. It’s been one thing, all this time, making everyone think everything is fine. And it is, kind of. But not tonight. Not when Wren has been so weak. She can’t see Emma.
She’s on her second drink when Steve finally shows up. He slaps her on the back and sits down before he notices her wincing and the state of her face. Victoria gasps.
“What’s this?” Steve asks. His hands ball into fists on the bar.
Taylor and Reese look toward Steve, but they say nothing. Taylor busies herself with cleaning dishes and Reese prints out someone’s receipt at the computer. Wren kind of likes it, that they’re staying away for the moment. She wasn’t thinking when she called Steve, not really, and now he’s going to blow up.
“Who did this?” he asks, his voice loud.
Reese shoots a warning look over at Steve. He ignores it.
“Steve, it’s fine. Just sit and drink. Have some fun,” says Wren.
“You want me to sit here like nothing is wrong, like your face isn’t broken? What the fuck, Wren? Who did this? I’ll kill him.” Steve’s eyes are wide, full of rage and energy that is dying to be let loose. He pounds his fist on top of the bar.
“Steve,” Taylor says.
“Some guy at a club,” Wren says. “I started it.”
Taylor glares at Steve, and a little at Wren too.
Steve sighs. “I’m going, I’m going,” he says. “Wren, call me when you’re not trying to get yourself killed over a stupid fucking girl.”
Wren flinches at the words. She doesn’t look at him, focuses on the whiskey in front of her.
He continues to shout on his way out of the bar, speaking to Victoria. He says things like how Wren is worse off than he thought, how he can’t believe it. How he really will kill the guy if he comes across him. Victoria follows him out, doesn’t look at Wren on the way.
To Wren’s surprise, very few customers look at her when Steve is gone. Everyone seems to want to get back to their normal Saturday night.
Reese sets a shot down in front of Wren, an eyebrow arched as she does so. Taylor looks annoyed as she finishes washing dishes, looks occasionally at Wren for causing it all.
“Sorry,” Wren mutters.
The group next to Wren cheers. Some of them sit at the bar, the others fan out behind their chairs. The guy sitting next to Wren is loud and boisterous. He talks with his hands, almost hits Wren in the face by accident. She can’t stop herself from flinching, even though she tries.
It might be the worst day Wren has had in awhile. Thoughts of love, angering Steve, being a complete idiot. But that would be too easy, because the next thing Wren knows, Emma is waltzing into the bar. It really is the worst day.
Emma’s easy to read. She’s uncomfortable and sits a little straighter in her seat than normal. She taps her fingers along the top of the bar, frustrated with something. She looks at the group next to Wren, which should be Wren’s cue to look away, but she doesn’t. And then Emma is looking right at Wren, shock on her face, and all Wren wants to do is kiss her and tell her not to worry. Wren takes her shot instead, keeping the eye contact with Emma.
Wren sighs. Emma looks kind of sick, kind of sad, like her heart is breaking. As much as Wren doesn’t really want to see Emma, doesn’t want to talk to her, it makes something in Wren’s chest clench to see the look on Emma’s face. That might mostly be a lie, because the only person Wren has really wanted to see all day is Emma. She motions for Emma to follow her outside and slips off the chair she’s in, dodges the man’s hands next to her again.
Wren gives Emma a cigarette outside. She looks like she needs one as much as Wren does. “How have you been?” Wren asks, because the silence is a little too much, even for her.
Despite everything, Emma’s laughter still makes Wren happy and she smiles at the way everything else falls from Emma’s face when she laughs. Her lip begins to bleed from it, Wren can tell, and she licks at the other side. A habit she’s had for months.
“Been better,” Emma says. “You?”
It’s not the right response. Not yet. Emma is supposed to try to sound neutral, but be unable to hide her happiness. But like the night Wren had to walk away, Emma is making things happen too soon. Love isn’t what Emma imagined, and she had to get to that point, but not now. Maybe Wren isn’t on top of things like she thought.
“Yeah,” Wren says and closes her eyes.
Wren could pull Emma to her right now. She could kiss her and Emma would respond in just the right way. Until the guilt set in. There’s always time, Wren reminds herself.
They finish their cigarettes and head back toward the bar. That’s supposed to be it. A weird interaction that Emma will try to dissect for days after, think about at the worst possible times. Then Emma flips the script and invites Wren to her apartment.
When things were still good, Emma had grabbed onto Wren’s wrist in Wren’s bed. Emma kissed Wren’s hand and told her, with eyes pleading, that it was okay to want things, that the world wouldn’t end if Wren did. Wren hadn’t said anything in response. It’s not that easy to start wanting things and Emma had never brought it up again.
For some reason, Emma wants Wren to go back to her apartment, wants to spend time with Wren despite what Wren has done, which must seem like a horrible thing. Unlike Steve, Emma seems content with not hearing what Wren did, which is good because Emma is the one person Wren never wants to tell. Want. What does Wren want?
“Okay,” Wren says. “Let me pay my tab.”
Taylor can’t hide the satisfied look on her face when Wren pays. Less trouble for Taylor if she leaves, Wren thinks.
There’s vodka at Emma’s apartment. Even though Wren feels sober now, she shouldn’t drink any. She has a little anyway, straight from the bottle. The distance between them on the couch is too much and the silence makes it seem like an even bigger space.
“You should see the other guy,” Wren says finally. She can’t remember what he looks like, other than the bleeding nose, but it seems like the thing to say.
It works. Emma smiles. “I bet,” she says.
They talk for awhile. Or Emma talks, rather. Then she asks Wren if she wants to sleep on the couch since it’s so late. Wren’s body is becoming more sore and the thought of heading back to her apartment makes her yawn. It doesn’t take much convincing for Wren to agree and Emma brings her a blanket and a pillow.
Wren can’t sleep. She wakes up every few minutes with the need to readjust. The side of her face feels like it’s pounding. Maybe the ice Emma wanted to give her might have been a good idea, but it’s too late now. Wren places an arm over her side to see if it’ll help. A floorboard creaks and Wren closes her eyes quickly.
Emma’s in the room, unable to stay away, and keeping her face blank is hard for once. Emma comes closer, right up to the side of the couch, and then there are lips kissing Wren’s forehead. Faking sleep is impossible then, and Wren opens her eyes to look at Emma. It’s hard for Wren to not show surprise. That look, the one that always made Wren want to run away, is on Emma’s face. It’s part fear now, but it doesn’t make Wren want to run.
“I should get back to bed,” Emma whispers. She doesn’t move and neither does Wren. Emma’s not done, she’s never quite done, and Wren has to remind herself to breathe. Emma dips her head again, more slowly this time, and kisses Wren on the lips.
Wren’s supposed to feel guilt, supposed to stop it. Emma has never been able to stop herself and she’s with Cam now, the one person Emma knows she loves. But Wren doesn’t stop, just closes her eyes and feels it all. The pain in her lip is almost too much. Emma doesn’t look nearly as guilty as she probably should when Wren opens her eyes.
“Now I should really get back to bed,” Emma says, louder this time, and turns to walk back to her bedroom.
Wren can’t sleep after either. There’s no comfortable position and the bedroom door is open, inviting her to slip into the bed next to Emma. She manages a few hours of interrupted sleep before she gives up and gets off the couch. She does slip into Emma’s bedroom, but to find a notepad rather than to join Emma.
Emma is sleeping peacefully. She wouldn’t know if Wren were to cross the room and kiss her, but Wren doesn’t do it. She finds a pen and writes the word “thanks” on a sheet, leaves it on the coffee table and quietly leaves the apartment.
