Whiskey at Midnight, page 25
“Mom, I fucked up,” Emma whispers into the phone.
“Language, Emma!”
Despite the fact that Emma is an adult, has been doing her best to make it on her own, she’s still her mother’s little girl. She’s not supposed to be the type of girl to curse. She’s not supposed to fuck a girl she didn’t love. Emma laughs.
She tells her mother everything. All the gory details of how Emma has fucked up and been fucked over and everything inbetween. She says things like, “Wren and I were kind of together, romantically” instead of “we fucked each other all the time and occasionally went on something like dates.” Her mother already knows Cam. She’s heard for years who Cam has been with, how Emma knew that they’d end up together. It was just a matter of time.
She doesn’t laugh at Emma, even though now Emma feels so foolish about it all. Instead she asks about Wren. What is she majoring in? Emma doesn’t know. How long has she been into photography? Emma has no answer. Emma does know that Wren will take someone on a picnic because they might like it, that she’ll listen to Emma ramble on, even if it might be boring. That even though Wren doesn’t seem the type, she might buy some flowers to put in her apartment when someone is coming over.
“That sounds like love,” Emma’s mother says.
“But that’s all in the past,” Emma says. “We’re just friends. And she manipulated me.”
“Emma, you’re kids. You’re figuring everything out. Everyone is bound to make mistakes at that age.”
It’s all too simple. The situation can’t be resolved by some quick fix. Emma tells her mother as much, says that it feels like there’s something else in the room when Wren is around, like there’s an insurmountable mountain between them. Only now the thing between them isn’t a person like before.
Eventually, when Emma has run out of steam and the only thing left is a tired feeling that takes hold of her body so that there are no more words, her mother clears her throat. “Oh, Emma. We didn’t prepare you for the world at all.”
Maybe Emma’s been thinking the same thing for awhile, during all of this mess, but she’s never meant to tell her mother anything that would make her come to the same conclusion. Parents do the best they can and the guilt is back all at once. “No, Mom, not at all,” Emma says.
“Think about everything,” her mother says.
Emma gets off the phone as fast as she can, promises to call back in a few days, promises to think about the situation more rationally.
Time moves slowly and quickly all at once. Cam has been gone forever and yet they were just together, kissing in a motel bed. Emma picks up her phone at times and almost calls Cam, but there’s nothing left to say between them. Emma has been a stupid little girl when it comes to Cam and Cam has been, well, Cam.
Things with Wren are so new, so different from before, that Emma tries not to see her too much. Emma sees her enough to keep things going but not enough to confuse her brain. It all comes down to trust and Emma isn’t sure that she can trust herself anymore, not when it comes to how she reacts to people.
Emma works as much as her body will let her. Student teaching has her feeling like her body will never recover, waking up so early and then having to go to the craft shop after. She works after school four nights a week, and then one more shift on the weekends. It’s all because she can’t make ends meet otherwise. She might make it on four shifts at the craft shop, but the extra gives her a little spending money, a few bucks to throw into savings. Becoming a teacher, she’ll need all the savings she can scrap together.
Maybe it’s Emma’s new preoccupation with money, but she can’t help but notice how Wren spends hers. How Wren works the bare minimum and never blinks at buying shots for Emma. There are also all of the nights that Wren drinks whiskey. The good stuff, too.
On one of Emma’s nights off, she invites Wren over for drinks and movies, though they ignore the television screen. The alcohol is cheap, but it’s what Emma can afford. Wren convinces her to walk outside with her to smoke a cigarette rather than inside Emma’s apartment.
“How do you afford it all?” Emma asks, smoking a cigarette that Wren hands her.
“Afford what?”
“All your habits,” Emma replies.
Wren shifts her weight from one foot to the other and takes another drag off her cigarette. She’s still acting cooly toward Emma, but that hasn’t stopped her from seeing Emma. “I work,” she says.
“And your bills?” Emma asks, rolling her eyes. It’s not unlike pulling teeth sometimes when she wants to know something about Wren.
“Dear old daddy,” Wren says bitterly.
Emma leaves it at that. Wren’s tone is final, like she won’t answer anything more and Emma’s not sure she deserves many answers anymore. They go back inside and drink some more, like the good friends they’re not.
Karaoke is the one night that Emma expects to be different. Cam might have stopped going as much for a time, when she was with Mark, but there was still a good portion when she was a weekly fixture. Every time, it feels strange that Cam’s absence isn’t more troublesome. Emma never thinks she sees her, or wishes that she was there. That knowledge is enough to make Emma almost feel bad.
Almost.
Emma comes alone now, either driving or walking. She has to wake up early, so she rarely has a chance to get drunk. After an hour or two, she has to head home and get into bed, prepare for another day with fifth graders. Except for this particular night. A day off from school is exactly what she needs and she takes a cab, determined to last until the bar closes. She can’t really afford it, but she’s taken the day off from the craft store as well.
She must have mentioned it to Wren at some point, because as soon as Emma arrives, her hair curled for the occasion, Wren orders a shot for Emma.
“It’s going to be a night to forget,” says Wren. The smile on her face is easy and bright, unusual, even since Wren has been more talkative, that Emma pauses for a moment before taking the shot.
There are things to ask, like why Wren looks so happy now or why she’s being more talkative, but Emma doesn’t ask them. There’s only so many questions she can get by with asking.
“To stupid holidays that get you out of school,” Wren says, placing her shot glass back on the bar.
A sign on the front door warns that there will be no karaoke. A DJ is there instead, playing music so loudly that Emma can feel the bar vibrating beneath her arm. It’s strange not hearing the warbling notes of small town superstars and guys who have lost bets, but the music is upbeat and Emma taps her foot to it.
“Is Steve coming?” Emma asks.
“Probably,” says Wren. She looks toward the door as if he might enter at any moment and then plucks the cherry out of her mixed drink to eat. “Why?”
“Just wondering.”
“Well, stop wondering. It’s the one night you don’t have to think about anything. Order a drink.” Wren picks up her own drink like she’s about to walk away from the bar, but just moves to stand right behind Emma. “Put it on my tab,” she says into Emma’s ear.
Wren sniffs at what Emma orders, a beer. Emma follows as Wren meanders around the bar until she finds a secluded table and sits.
“Wren, I think we still have some more things to talk about,” Emma says.
Wren doesn’t roll her eyes, a small comfort in the moment. But she does gulp down all of her drink and tells Emma to hold that thought while she gets another.
“Alright,” Wren says, when she returns. There’s no fruit in her glass this time. “Cran vodka,” she says when Emma doesn’t stop looking at the fresh drink.
“I don’t know where to start,” Emma admits. She looks sheepishly at the table. “Or even if I deserve any of this.”
Wren leans in so that Emma can hear her over the music. “You fell in love with two girls,” Wren says bluntly. “One of them only wanted to talk about herself, the other didn’t talk much at all. You convinced yourself that one of them was marriage potential and other was only good for a fuck. Then you learned that you’d been an idiot about all of it and one of them ran off. Now you’re left with the one who you thought was all sorts of fucked up and want to be friends but you’re one of the few lesbians that isn’t good at being friends with someone you’ve fucked.” She takes a sip of her vodka and smiles. “Sorry. Steve should be here soon so I thought I’d throw it all out there.”
Emma nods dumbly. “But I didn’t--”
“Please,” Wren says, her voice pained. “Let’s cut the bullshit. We both know that you did and I wouldn’t let you say it.”
“Okay,” Emma agrees. “Have I mentioned lately that I liked you better when you talked less?”
Wren laughs, her shoulders bouncing up and down. “You might have mentioned it a few months ago.”
Emma drinks quicker then. There are still hours until the bar closes. The music is going strong but she won’t get the urge to dance until she has more.
“I’m sorry,” Wren says, after they’ve sat in silence for minutes. “For my part. It wasn’t really fair to you, but none of it was, I guess. Now drink up. I want a cigarette.”
Steve is a whirlwind when he arrives. He complains about the lack of karaoke but moves his arms to the music as he sits. “I’ve got a girl’s number,” he announces, and wiggles his eyebrows at Wren. “Chase’s,” he says when neither girl asks for more information. “From work.”
“Steve, you’re an idiot,” Wren says. “What happened to no drama?”
“There won’t be any drama,” says Steve. He drinks half of his beer in one long gulp. “Vicki and I parted on friendly terms. She’ll understand that a person has to move on. What? What’s that look for?” He directs the last bit at Wren who has rolled her eyes and gazes at him with an incredulous look.
“Nothing, Steve. Do what you want,” Wren says.
“That’s more like it,” he says. “Shots? Anyone?”
Steve’s the one who pulls Emma up, laughing, to dance. Wren grins at them and stays at the table, watches how Steve dips Emma dramatically and pulls her back up. His hands cover most of Emma’s back when he rests them there. He spins her around, holding onto her hand to keep her from falling over. People are watching. Some have looks of bewilderment, others recognize Steve and clap.
“Emma, you’re a star,” he says when the song is over. He leads her back to the table just as Wren is standing, saying that she wants a cigarette. Steve bows. “I’d join, but this song is killer. There’s got to be a girl in here who will dance with me.”
Emma walks carefully through the bar, makes a mental note to get a water when they return. There’s at least another hour and a half until the bar closes and Emma won’t make it at this rate. Outside, she stifles a yawn.
There’s a group huddled together outside drinking. Only a few of them smoke. Wren doesn’t look at them as she passes. She continues on until she rounds the corner into the alley.
Emma follows, like she always does. The drink has gone to her head.
Wren leans against the brick wall and lights a cigarette. All Emma can see, as if she’s not really there at all, is the two of them, months ago, leaning into each other and fucking.
Emma holds her hand out for a cigarette. “I’m not a smoker,” she says, defensively.
Wren shrugs and hands one over.
“Why do you still talk to me?” Emma asks, leaning her head against the building. She can feel Wren’s body heat next to her.
Wren makes a clicking sound with her mouth, flicks her lighter and watches the flame for a moment. “Why wouldn’t I?” She runs a hand through her hair. “You ask a lot of questions.”
Emma rolls her head around until she’s looking at Wren. She watches as Wren casually pulls at her long necklace. Wren’s wearing one of those short dresses she seems to like. “Do you love me?” Emma asks.
Wren’s eyes are suspicious when she looks at Emma. The heel of one of her boots hits the wall behind her. “Have fun, Emma. That’s what this night is supposed to be about.” Wren turns to go inside, not waiting for Emma.
Taylor laughs when Emma asks for some water. It’s melodic sounding, but it makes Emma grind her teeth together all the same. She orders another cranberry and vodka for Wren. She drinks it herself.
At the end of the night, Emma can’t stop laughing in the cab. Wren stares at her like she’s grown two heads and that just sets her off all over again. The seatbelt feels restrictive, but Wren stops Emma’s hands from pulling at it.
On the sidewalk, in front of Wren’s apartment, Wren reminds Emma to be quiet. “My roommate is asleep,” she says.
A small lamp is on in Wren’s living room. A picture of Jesus hangs on the wall. The ashtray that used to be on the coffee table is gone. Wren grabs hold of Emma’s hand and leads her toward Wren’s bedroom, as if Emma can’t remember where it is after all this time. Her hand is cold on Emma’s.
“Sit,” Wren instructs and Emma obediently plops onto the bed.
Wren leaves long enough to get them both some water. When she returns, Emma has pulled off all her clothes and snuggled up under the covers. Emma yawns and rubs at her eyes.
“My hair is going to look awful tomorrow,” Emma mumbles.
“Good thing you don’t have anything to do then.”
Wren pulls her own clothes off and leaves them on the floor. She rummages through her dresser until she finds the shirt she’s been looking for. Emma watches all of it. She’s seen Wren naked so many times that it feels natural to watch, even if it’s probably inappropriate now. Emma closes her eyes for a moment as Wren puts the shirt on and opens them when the bed dips beside her.
Wren doesn’t look tired at all. She lights a cigarette. Her legs are bent and she rests her chin on her knees. Her face is grim, her look miles away.
Emma rolls over and puts an arm over Wren’s feet since she can’t touch her anywhere else and still be comfortable. Wren’s feet are as cold as her hands. “I found the picture,” Emma says. “Underneath. Too late, I know. But I found it.” She yawns. “So when I asked tonight, I know that you did. At some point.”
Wren doesn’t say anything. She lets one hand drop and squeezes the arm that is placed over her feet. Emma falls asleep minutes later.
Chapter Ten
Loud footsteps mark Trudy’s journey from her bedroom into the kitchen. Wren opens her eyes at the sound. Emma is still asleep next to her, the covers pushed off of her torso and feet. Trudy isn’t quiet while she goes about making her usual breakfast of coffee and toast. Wren’s bedroom door is closed. Trudy probably has no idea that someone else is in the apartment.
Wren crosses to the window and sits in the chair there. Trudy had moved the kitchen chair back into the kitchen. Wren bought a cheap lounge chair to replace it. The sun is shining brightly into the room and Wren watches the street below. A woman walks by, pushing a baby carriage in front of her. There’s not a cloud in sight.
When her cigarette is finished, Wren puts the butt into the ashtray next to her bed. She showers quietly, even though the odds of waking up Emma seem slim. Tiny snores drift into the bathroom and make Wren smile. She throws on clothes and goes out of the bedroom, closing the door behind her.
Trudy sits at the kitchen table. A napkin is on the table in front of her, covered with crumbs and jam. She reads a gossip magazine between sips of coffee. “Late night?” she asks when Wren enters the room.
“Yeah, something like that,” Wren says. She pulls out the bread and goes about making toast. There’s a tray somewhere, she remembers seeing it when she first moved in, and she looks in three different cupboards before she finds it. She puts the toast, a butter knife, butter and jam on it. Then she pours two mugs of coffee. She stares at one of them until she remembers how Emma takes her coffee.
“Is someone here?” Trudy asks, gazing at the tray.
“Yes, Trudy,” Wren replies. Her voice is still gravelly. She drinks some of her coffee, makes a face, and goes to put a little sugar in it.
“A boy?” asks Trudy.
“No, Trudy. A girl.”
Wren leaves before Trudy can ask more questions. She balances the tray on one arm and opens up her bedroom door with the other. Trudy never speaks to Wren before Wren has had her coffee. It’s a testament to how curious Trudy is that she has asked Wren anything this morning.
Emma’s hair practically glows in the sunlight that falls through the window and onto the bed. Wren sets the tray down on the floor. There’s no room on either of the nightstands. She crawls back onto the bed and touches Emma’s hair, stroking it back away from her face.
“Emma,” Wren calls. “Emma, it’s time to get up.”
Emma’s eyes open slowly before she blinks rapidly. She reaches her arms above her head and stretches. She looks at Wren and smiles. “Good morning.” She stifles a yawn.
“I brought toast and coffee,” Wren says, putting the tray onto the bed between them.
Emma drinks the last of her water before attempting the toast. She spreads a light layer of jam on it before nibbling the edges. “Look at you,” she says, still groggy. “Playing the perfect host.”
“Yeah, well, it seemed like the thing to do,” Wren says. She eats her own toast and smokes a cigarette after while she drinks her coffee. They don’t speak for awhile.
Trudy hasn’t gone back into her bedroom, unless she tiptoed. Wren can guess why. Wren’s bedroom shares a wall with the kitchen. Trudy wouldn’t think of trying to listen as spying, more like just trying to keep up with what’s going on in the apartment. Wren rolls her eyes.
“Hurry up. We can stop by your apartment for clothes and then go out,” says Wren.
“Go out?” Emma asks, her mouth full of toast.
“To a park or something. Anything.”
Wren carries a bag with her to Emma’s apartment. Emma noticed Wren’s wet hair and insisted that she get a shower as well. Alone, Wren sits in Emma’s living room, pressing buttons on the remote until she gives up on trying to find something on the television. Wren stands up, moves across the room, and pulls her camera out of her bag. She takes a picture of the couch.
