Whiskey at Midnight, page 4
The water in the shower is almost too hot. It pelts her and leaves her skin an angry pink color. If she closes her eyes hard enough, she can imagine her eye makeup swirling down the drain, a blob of black on the white flooring. She won’t be able to put on much makeup, if any at all.
The one appropriate outfit she has to wear is a white dress shirt and black slacks. She throws them on and smokes a cigarette in her bedroom. It’s not the best idea. Even though Trudy’s parents never go into her bedroom, they might still smell it. They’re not her parents, she shouldn’t care. Still, she sprays herself with a body spray that reminds her of the beach and hopes it masks the stench.
True to form, Trudy arrives thirty minutes before her parents. Her hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail and her eyes are a little wide. She looks around the apartment with a smile on her face. “Good job,” she says and hands Wren a twenty dollar bill. She rushes toward her bedroom. “Gotta get changed,” she mumbles.
Unlike Wren, Trudy actually wears a dress when her parents come to visit. She also owns more than one appropriate dress. The one she wears today is a muted yellow color that comes to just below her knees. Trudy sits on the couch and tugs at a few strands of her hair. It’d be funny to fuck Trudy right now. Not that they ever have. But Trudy looks so pure in her little church dress. Her parents would probably each have a heart attack if they walked in on that.
“One day they have to be late, right?” Trudy asks. “They have to prove they’re human at some point.”
Wren shrugs.
When Mr. and Mrs. Buckton arrive, they kiss Trudy and ask all the usual questions. If she is eating right, if she needs any money. Trudy doesn’t have a job. As far as the Bucktons are concerned, Trudy goes to classes and sits at home studying. They don’t know about Trevor, the nice Christian boy who has led Trudy astray. It makes Wren smile until her teeth show.
Mrs. Buckton hugs Wren after. “You’re looking great,” she says. “And do we get to see any of your latest pictures?” They never have a chance to see them. It’s never in the schedule.
Mr. Buckton rubs at his bulging stomach. “The car is idling, dear,” he says.
Mrs. Buckton clears her throat, licks her red lips. “Well then, I guess we should all be heading out.”
Wren sits in the backseat with Trudy, who ignores her staring, on the way to the church. A Baptist. Wren shares an apartment with a goddamn Baptist. It’s almost too funny.
Wren keeps a blank look on her face while the preacher rants. It’s strange how everyone in the congregation has such serious expressions on their faces that it morphs into a group of people who look mostly bored. They’ve all heard the warnings before. It’s just repeated words now. Mrs. Buckton is a vocal follower. She nods her head at the right moments and says “amen” under her breath. Trudy looks like she might be struck by lightning at any moment. It’s a beautiful church, that much is certain. It’s sparsely decorated and open. Wren wouldn’t mind taking a few pictures there sometime.
They have lunch at a nearby deli. Wren never finishes her food when they go out to eat. Mrs. Buckton always gives her worried looks and asks if she wants anything else to eat. It’s almost charming.
“The sermon was lovely, as always,” Wren says, mostly to get the concerned look off of Mrs. Buckton’s face. The Bucktons smile at her, showing too many crowded teeth.
Back at the apartment, Wren gets out her camera to take a picture of the proud Bucktons and Trudy. They stand in front of the couch so that Jesus is looking down on them. They’re going to love the picture just as much as hearing that Trudy has all A’s so far, a few weeks into the semester, which might be a lie. Mrs. Buckton hugs Wren when she’s done and Mr. Buckton slaps her on the shoulder when Wren agrees to go to church with them again the next month.
The apartment is a little too silent when the Bucktons leave. Mr. Buckton has a commanding air about him that fills the room and Mrs. Buckton’s nervous excitement, bustling about and hugging everyone, is always a bit much. Trudy sits on the couch and takes a deep breath, like she’s managed to fool them once again, which she has. Trudy is thin like her mother. She even has her mother’s slightly auburn hair. The main trait, physically, Trudy shares with Mr. Buckton is his piggish nose. It’s alarming on him, kind of cute on Trudy.
Trudy doesn’t normally talk much between the time her parents leave and the time Trudy thinks it’s safe for her to leave. It’s not like they have a lot to talk about anyway. Trudy is only around once a month and her parents pay all of her bills so that Wren doesn’t even have to contact Trudy to remind her to pay. It’s a nice little set up they have. Cleaning the apartment and going to church once a month isn’t so bad in exchange for only paying half the rent and being able to walk around naked whenever she wants.
“I’m getting sick of them,” Trudy says, one hand draped over her eyes.
Wren didn’t come from a particularly religious household. She never had to go to church or pretend she wasn’t interested in boys. She was basically allowed to do whatever she wanted. Truth is, she’d probably hate to have the Bucktons as her parents.
“I’m sure they’re not that bad,” says Wren.
“Yeah, but here you are doing whatever you want. Probably sleeping with all kinds of boys, no offense. You’re not even taking a full course load this semester, right? And here I am having to hide the fact that I live with a nice guy who has promised to marry me as soon as college is over. It’s crap. I wish they’d go live in Europe or something.”
Trudy huffs and sinks further into the couch. Trudy must know that Wren takes the Jesus picture down as soon as Trudy is gone, but Wren leaves it up for now anyway. Trudy will be gone soon enough. Wren does pull out the ashtray though and runs into her bedroom long enough to grab a cigarette.
Wren closes her bedroom door behind her, but Trudy must get a quick peek from on the couch. “Was that a bra? Doesn’t look like one of yours…”
“It’s a friend’s. She must have left it the other day.”
This appeases Trudy. Emma had left it behind the last time she was over in her hurry to leave. Wren hadn’t thought dropping it on a bar table in front of Cam was such a good idea. Then again, the look on Emma’s face might be worth it for a few seconds. Wren pictures the bra on her floor. Lacy and pink. It’s a B cup. Obviously not Wren’s. She’d never wear pink lace and she’s barely an A cup.
“I don’t know how you smoke,” Trudy says, her hand over her nose.
“Wanna try?” Wren asks, holding the cigarette out toward Trudy across the room.
“No.” Trudy shakes her head, disgust all over her face. She sits up and looks at her phone. “Well, I best be on my way. They’re long gone by now.” She shuffles toward her bedroom and changes back into her previous outfit. “See you next month.”
Wren has missed four texts and two calls from Steve throughout the day. Nothing from Emma. The last text says that he’ll be at the bar if she wants to come out. He doesn’t even say the name anymore. She dresses again, in clothes she actually likes, a long tanktop and jeans, does her makeup, and heads out.
She walks there. There are side streets that she can take without having to hit any dangerous areas. She passes by an older man walking a dog on her way. The dog barks and the man tries to hush him. Wren doesn’t pass anyone else.
Taylor, the bartender with the ponytail, hands her a shot of tequila when she walks up to the bar. Taylor’s nails are painted a dark purple color, almost black. She turns away from Wren and begins to wash some glasses by hand. Bent at the waist, her head staring down at the sink, Taylor works quickly and efficiently.
Wren looks down at the glass in front of her. So that’s the kind of night Steve wants. He’s sitting a few chairs down from her, already drunk. His cheeks are a deep pink and he’s arm wrestling a man Wren has never seen before. Reese is pulling at one of her braids behind the bar and laughing at Steve and the man. She has the best view of the two men and is probably supposed to make sure neither one cheats, but is instead just hurling insults at them both. The man’s arm slams into the top of the bar and Steve lifts his arms in victory.
He stands up, moves closer to Wren, and plants a sloppy kiss on her cheek. “Victory shots,” he announces. Wren hasn’t taken her first shot, so she waits for Steve to order another for himself before taking it. She checks her phone, but she’s missed nothing.
“I want to smoke,” she says after.
Steve follows her outside, his arms still flexing and a grin on his face. He steals a cigarette from her and lights it up. The days when he used to swear he wasn’t a smoker, only liked to have one when he was really drunk, are over. Even when he’s sober, he steals one from Wren at least once when they see each other. He squints at her through the smoke.
“How long have you been fucking little Emma?” he asks.
Wren shrugs. “Not long.”
Steve grins stupidly, takes another drag off his cigarette. “This is going to be excellent.”
“You can’t tell anyone,” Wren says. As much as Wren doesn’t care who knows, she likes fucking Emma and that will go away if people find out. Emma is too caring, too scared of hurting people to ever want the information to get out.
“Alright, alright. Even I know telling Cam would be bad. Still, it’s going to come out at some point. Emma can’t keep a secret to save her life,” he says. His look turns serious for a moment.
“Aren’t you supposed to be too drunk to talk about this kind of thing?” asks Wren.
“Fine, fine. So, did you see me whip that guy’s ass? King of the world, right here.”
And there it is again. Normal Steve on a normal night. Boisterous and lovable. Seemingly without a care in the world, just out for a good time.
Wren takes Steve to his house at the end of the night. Past experience says that he’ll pass out at some point and be impossible to move. Better to have it happen at his own house. Wren doesn’t do sleepovers at her own place, especially not with Steve. Plus, it’s better for him to wake up in the morning with his car at home than at the bar. It’s not too far to walk back to her own apartment from Steve’s.
Junk mail litters the living room floor. It smells like man. All sweat and beer and stale junk food. If she stepped closer to one of the bathrooms, she’d smell shaving cream and cologne. The silence pervading everything says that his roommates are still out.
Steve grins at her and says, “You know what I like about you? You’re so small. I can just toss you over my shoulder.” Wren doesn’t have time to react, she’s already picked up, looking down at the floor, being carried to his bedroom.
Steve’s energy promptly leaves him when they reach his bedroom. Old movie posters line the walls, his desktop computer has gone to sleep in his absence. He sets Wren down roughly onto the mattress. “What d’ya think?” he asks.
So she pulls her jeans and underwear off and he pulls his shorts and shoes off. He tumbles onto the bed with a laugh while Wren gets up to close the bedroom door. Something’s already got him going. Maybe watching Reese and Taylor put on a show at the bar, the way they both stare at one another and then blush. Steve has always liked Reese’s ass.
Wren climbs on top of him, lets him hold onto her hips and rides him. The poster above the bed is from a 1990s action flick, violent and macho. Wren stares at the man on the poster, all muscles and a glare that she’s almost jealous of. Her eyes flick down for a moment. Steve’s eyes are closed, a blissful smile on his face. Soon after, his eyes crinkle together and he says “fuck.” He stretches the vowel sound out, turning it into a long, drawn out word that sounds almost like a prayer.
Steve’s always the same after, always wants to sleep if he’s at home. Wren kisses him on the forehead and leaves, finds the key hidden outside and locks the door.
Wren doesn’t hear from Emma for a few more days. It doesn’t bother her. It can’t. It means something right is happening for Emma. It’s not like they’ve been close friends.
Steve mentions to Wren one Friday afternoon that he wants to hang out. She ignores him despite the itch to go out, and spends the daylight hours sitting around her apartment. She gets out her textbooks like she’s going to study, but just ends up putting them away again without opening them. She picks up her remote control to turn the little television on in her bedroom, but drops it back on the floor before hitting a single button.
After a few hours, when the sky is starting to turn a brilliant orange, she dresses and heads out, reminds herself to go to a bar that Steve doesn’t normally go to. It’s an Italian restaurant that she winds up at, mostly so she remembers to eat something. The decorations on the wall are loud and cover so much space that it’s hard to see the white paint beneath. The floor is green carpet. It smells of cheese and oil. Wren sits at a small table alone, facing the back of the restaurant so she can watch the other diners. It’s a habit.
She slowly eats some bread and meatballs, ignores the fact that she drinks three glasses of house wine in less than an hour. The bread is soft and warm on the inside, hard as a brick on the outside. She’s in the middle of chewing a bite of bread when she spots Cam and Emma. They’re sitting together in a corner booth, almost at the very back of the restaurant, drinking water and eating pasta. Emma is facing Wren, eyes focused on Cam and whatever she is saying.
Wren almost stands up to go over and say hi. It’s what a friend would do. But friendship is a weird thing and Wren asks for the check instead, leaves before finishing her wine and food. She looks back inside once she’s on the sidewalk out front. Through a display case of bread, she sees that Emma is still looking at Cam. Emma’s bra strap is hanging on her shoulder. It’s the red one. The one she always wears when Cam is stringing her along again. Wren lights a cigarette and begins walking until she finds a bar she wants to drink in.
It’s four in the morning when Wren wakes up to someone knocking on her door. She’s been home for hours, having called it an early night for reasons she couldn’t quite figure out. She’s pulled her tanktop off while sleeping and pads to the front door in only her underwear. She opens the door to find Emma standing there, bouncing from foot to foot. Emma’s still wearing the same skirt and dress shirt she wore at the restaurant. Emma’s gold necklace glistens in the light from the apartment. Wren opens the door wider to let Emma inside and grabs a towel when the first words out of Emma’s mouth are that she needs a shower.
Wren doesn’t pull a shirt on even though Emma keeps looking down at her chest. She lights a cigarette and sits down on the toilet while Emma nervously strips and gets into the shower. The resulting hiss from the too hot water causes Wren to smirk. Emma doesn’t speak while she’s in the shower. It’s probably improper to watch, but Wren has never put up anything over the shower except for a clear liner and she can’t look away from the hair that darkens as it gets wetter. When Emma starts to wash herself with Wren’s loofah, starting with her shoulders, Wren finally looks away and focuses on her cigarette.
Emma leaves a puddle on the bathroom floor where she steps out of the shower. Her skin is just as pink as the rims of her eyes. It’s only then, when Emma is standing there, blinking in the harsh light of the bathroom, and beginning to shiver, that Wren gets up to find some clothes for her.
Dried off and dressed in an oversized t-shirt, Wren guides Emma into the bed and hushes Emma when she starts to protest. Wren picks up the remote control and turns on the TV. It’s a late night infomercial airing, but it’ll do. Wren smokes another cigarette while Emma stares at the screen. It’s not until the salesman has mentioned the extras for ordering immediately that Emma clears her throat to speak.
“We went on a date. Me and Cam.”
“I know,” says Wren.
Emma turns to Wren, panicked. Her eyes begin to water. “How do you know? We didn’t tell anyone.”
Wren looks toward her nightstand, picks up a seemingly random glass from the three sitting there, and drinks from it. “Doesn’t matter.”
Emma nods and looks back toward the television. “She freaked out on me. It was going so well and then she just freaked out at the end. Said it was a horrible idea. It wasn’t even like I pushed her. She was the one who asked me out. I don’t get it.”
“Hm,” Wren says. She stubs out her cigarette and lights another.
Emma sighs. “I don’t know why I’m here. Or why I’m telling you this.” She pulls at the neck of her t-shirt like it’s choking her. “I guess you’re the only person who knows. Who else could know? Steve? But even he doesn’t know as much as you.” She looks away from the television, toward the wall where a picture of a bridge is framed on the wall. She pushes the covers back, away from her, and sits up. “I shouldn’t even be here. I should go.”
Wren stretches out a hand, grabs onto Emma’s wrist. “Don’t. Just stay. We’ll sleep.”
Emma falls asleep first, resting on her side, facing Wren. Her hair covers half of her face like a curtain. Emma sleeps like the dead. Her mouth hangs open. She doesn’t stir when Wren gets out of bed to open her bedroom window or when Wren returns and sits a little closer, smoking cigarette after cigarette, barely watching whatever infomercial comes on. Wren puts out her last cigarette of the night, turns away from Emma, and falls into an uneasy sleep.
Emma is gone when Wren wakes up in the morning.
Wren goes out to take pictures soon after waking up. She walks along the busy streets of downtown, the sidewalk cracked beneath her feet. Everyone is trying to enjoy the hot weather before autumn officially begins, sweating in the glaring light of the sun. Patios are full with women in cute tanktops and dogs hidden under tables, water bowls kept full nearby. She keeps her camera strapped around her neck and takes pictures of the different buildings and landmarks she passes. Some of them she has photographed before, in different seasons, others are new. She steadily makes her way toward greener areas, away from the steel architecture of the center of downtown, where people hike and give her dirty looks when she lights a cigarette. She smokes anyway.
