Page 7 of Drowning Erin

“Dad, I need you to promise you won’t drive, okay? Give me the name of thebar.”

He argues, of course, but he doesn’t argue for long. He’s too exhausted and drunk for that. So I put him on speaker while I look up the address and call him a ride. We stay on the phone while we wait for the car to come, and as always, his anger at the cards he’s been dealt in life turns to tears. He says the things he always says: that he never got a break, that he failed, that he should have been a betterfather.

“You were a great dad,” I tell him. “You stillare.”

We both know it’s a far cry from the truth, but my father has enough unhappiness in his life without adding mine tohis.

He’s still crying, still apologizing when the car arrives to take him home. I’m 26, but right now it’s as if I’m back in high school, juggling all the unhappiness afloat in my household to keep it from crashing down on us. And just like I did back then, I wait until he’s safely in bed before I let myself crytoo.

* * *

Imakeit through the next day on four hours of sleep, which is less than ideal as—at Rob’s insistence—we are meeting Brendan out for dinner. In theory, tonight will be a double date, though I’m not sure ifdateis really an accurate way to describe Brendan’s relationship with anyfemale.

Brendan and his exploits are the reason I no longer believe in things like soul mates and love at first sight. Because those were the things that went through my head the first time I ever saw him, climbing out of his brother’s truck over winter break our junior year at at ECU to help Olivia move. He was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, and every ridiculous romantic ideal became real to me the second our eyes met. Discovering what an epic douche he was—taking a different girl home every night, each of them stupider than the one before—cured me of it…eventually.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” I say as Rob parks the car outside the restaurant. “You’ve only had two nights off in weeks, and we’re spending both of them withBrendan.”

His fingers slide through mine. “We don’t have to stay out all night,” he says. “Just a quick dinner. Give him achance.”

“And is he actually bringing someone he knows, or is this is some girl he slept with last night and can’t shakeoff?”

“Erin,” Rob says with a raisedbrow.

“I bet her name is Bambi and she works as a spokesmodel. Or one of those girls at the auto show in abikini.”

“Erin.”

I could go on like this for hours, but we’re entering the restaurant. Inside, Brendan waits with a lovely, vacuous redhead, and I change my prognosis: Bambi isn’t smart enough to be a spokesmodel, although I imagine she performs pretty well with hermouth.

I realize it’s not fair to hate her just because she’s dating Brendan. If anything, that should make her an object of pity. But I resent women like her, the ones who trade on their looks and never bother to develop any otherquality.

We are introduced. Her name is instantly forgettable, so I don’t attempt to remember it. How could it matter anyway? She’s with Brendan. It’s not like we’re ever going to ever see heragain.

“So how long will you be in Amsterdam?” Brendan asksRob.

“A week,” Rob says. “But possiblylonger.”

The “possibly longer” part is new information to me, but before I can ask him about it, the waiter comes to take our order. Bambi, predictably, orders a salad with no dressing. A hundred bucks says she won’t finishit.

“Oh my God,” Bambi says to me after the waiter walks away. “I can’t believe you ordered steak frites. Do you realize how toxic thatis?”

“The toxins make it extra delicious,” Ireply.

“There’s literally nothing worse you could have ordered,” she says, proceeding to detail all the ways I just made the worst decision in the history of decisions—the fat grams, the omega-6s, thecalories.

Brendan and Rob are oblivious to the exchange as they recount the same adolescent stories they always tell when they get together. They met on the first day of middle school—Brendan, who had yet to undergo his staggering growth spurt, mouthed off to some 18-year-old walking by and was about to get his ass handed to him. Every single kid scattered except for Rob. They’ve been best friends eversince.

I’m not sure they would ever have become friends at all if it hadn’t happened, because they are very different people: Rob, conservative and pragmatic; Brendan, all about seizing the day. They’ve maintained their friendship in spite of it, but when the conversation turns to Brendan’s new tour company, I begin to question whether they’ll continue to doso.

“You sure you want to blow all your savings on a business, Brendan?” Rob asks. “A huge percentage of new businesses fold in their firstyear.”

“I’m investing in something that will make me happy every day. What else am I going to do withit?”

“You could sock it away,” Rob counters. There’s a hint of condescension in his tone that sets my teeth on edge. “Every penny you save will have grown exponentially between now and retirement. Worry about what makes you happy after you know you have what you need tosurvive.”

Brendan’s eyes darken slightly. As I recall, this isn’t so different from the arguments he had with Will back in the day. I doubt it’s any easier to hear coming fromRob.

“Look,” he says, “there are guys who want to do the same bland shit every day when they go into work. They’re the same guys too scared to ski black diamonds or surf a decent wave. They like a nice, hummable tune during their 45-minute commute home, but they never jump in the mosh pit. That’s not living. That’s watching life from a distance, like it’s a television show. And to me, that sounds like a deathsentence.”

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