Page 30 of You Are Not Me

Robert’s hands fluttered in my hair for a second, until Barry said, “Get your shit, woman. I can’t hold him all night. He’s heavier than he looks.”

I spent the ride to their place lying down in the back seat. The lights outside flashed past with the rhythm of the car, slowing down and speeding up as we did. I was still a little drunk, or drugged, or whatever combination of the two, and I existed with no concern for the past or future.

When brief flashes of almost-thoughts about Adam, Leslie, college, and what I’d done back at the club approached the front of my mind, the car’s movement or the sweetness of Robert’s fingers on Barry’s hand as he shifted gears distracted me.

When we arrived at their house, I found their sofa comfortable enough.

Tutting softly, Robert divested me of my clothes, and helped me into some of his sweats. Then he covered me with blankets. “Sleep tight, Sweetie.”

Barry loomed over me. “Yeah, sweet dreams, Puker. Because tomorrow is going to be a helluva day.”

“Hush, you’ll scare him.”

“He should be scared.”

“Don’t give him nightmares!”

Robert’s lips on my forehead were soft and Barry rubbed a hand over my hair and muttered, “Itoldthat woman. Sleep well, kid.”

I did, only to wake up several hours later to pitch-black strangeness and panic. I nearly knocked the lamp on the side table over as I tried to get my bearings. Steadying it, I sat up and twisted on the light switch. It cast a yellow tone and odd shadows over the pictures on the wall, the foosball game in the corner, and the coatrack by the door.

My blood zipped through me in sharp, fast pulses, like I’d had a dozen coffees in my sleep. Shaking and trying not to cry, I scrubbed my hands over my face. “God, you are so stupid,” I whispered.

The Black Jesus painting Robert or Barry had recently hung over the television set gazed down at me mournfully. I blinked at it in dumbfounded numbness. The night came back to me like a series of photographs—vivid, strong lines, and in perfect color. But the end, after the GHB, didn’t seem real at all. More like a vivid and erotic dream.

I shouldn’t have had so many drinks. I should’ve asked more questions about what he was giving me. I shouldn’t have trusted someone I didn’t even know.

I scrubbed my hand through my hair. My contacts felt gritty against my eyeballs, and I realized I hadn’t taken them out. I knew I should do that now. Instead, I sifted through layers of numbness, looking for the emotion buried under it all. Staring up at Black Jesus’s empathetic face, I wished I believed in him.

Up until tonight, I’d only been with Adam. I didn’t know how to process that it was no longer true. Nausea and a sense of violation battled.

And—well,fuck.

Guilt. So much guilt. Because I loved Adam.

What was I going to tell him? And what was I going to tellmyself, because that hadn’t been me. That was not me—not me. I didn’t do those kinds of things, or want those kinds of things, or do drugs, or have anonymous sex, or whatever the fuck had happened, because thatwas not me.

I bit my lip and tried to think of how to explain to Adam what I’d done. All I got were images. Images of Jeremy’s smile. His mouth around my dick. His hands on my hips. Strangers looking at me with eyes full of want. Strangers, people whose names I didn’t even know, touching me as I touched them too. Making them come. Makingmecome.

I didn’t sleep any more that night. I folded the blankets and sat tense and miserable on the sofa. A few hours after dawn, Robert stumbled half-asleep out of his and Barry’s bedroom, wearing black running shorts and a white sleeveless T-shirt.

“Sweetie, you awake?” he asked, yawning. “Want coffee?” He glanced over at me, then shook his head. “No, better have water, young man.”

“Okay.” I felt stupid and small as I trudged into the kitchen after him. I smelled awful.

I accepted the glass of water he thrust at me without comment and leaned against the counter while he changed the coffee filter in the machine.

“Your clothes are in the dryer so at least you won’t have to wear vomit stains home.” Robert winked at me.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“So, let me guess. You woke up in the middle of the night in a panic over your whoring ways?”

I collapsed at the kitchen table and hid my face in my hands. The scent of fresh-brewed coffee filled the air. It was simultaneously comforting and heartbreaking. Lifting my head, I watched Robert pour coffee into his colorfulCulture Clubmug. He sighed and sat across from me.

“Barry was pretty angry with you, Sweetie. You promised him you’d be careful.”

I nodded, still covering my face. “I know. I’m sorry.”

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