Page 12 of The Idiot

“It just… hurts. You know? I could have been there for him all this time the way I have been for everything else, but… but he didn’t even give me the chance to. I feel… cheated.”

“Um… I can sit and talk with you when I get back,” Cheri hedges, making me realize I just said that painful truth out loud.

Great. My heart broke the filter between my brain and my mouth.

Laying her hand over mine, she gives mine a squeeze. “I’m just going to run toDairy Queen. I’ll be right back. Then you can tell me all about what’s got you so down in the dumps.”

It’s a nice offer, but no way am I telling her. I don’t care if Murph doesn’t trust me because clearly, he doesn’t if he waited until we were thirty to say something. I’m not going to break friend code, though.

Shaking my head out of its funk, I take a swig of my beer. Ugh. It’s warm. Ralph needs to check his cooler temperature.

“Nah. I’m good. Thanks. Sorry. Just talking to myself,” I assure her, digging a twenty out of my wallet and handing it to her for her efforts.

“Thanks Jesse. You sure you don’t want anything? Fast food always makes me feel better whenever I’m upset.”

Biting the inside of my lip, I hate the fact that Murph isn’t here to make our late-night junk food run that we do after a night at the bar. I was going to help him pick after lunch, but he didn’t say a single word to me the entire time after he dropped his bomb. Not a single word. We’re never silent when we’re together. He made it pretty clear he was fed up with me for the day.

My instincts told me to call him to come to the bar tonight when I couldn’t stand the sickening feeling of loss in my gut after I got home, like I’d lost him, but hello? Titty bar.

He’s been here with me a hundred times. It has me programmed into thinking he’d want to come. But how would it look if you ask your buddy to go to the titty bar the same day he tells you he’s gay? That seems like it would be an error of epic proportions. No way am I fucking this friendship up. That’s why I came alone—I need time to think, to re-evaluate our dynamic so I can figure out what I’ve been doing wrong to make him so wary of trusting me.

Easy. Right? Just… analyze every single interaction we’ve had for the last twenty-some years—every single interaction that I thought was between two best friends who were totally honest and comfortable with each other. Except, apparently, one of us wasn’t.

Fuck. I’m so stressed out, nowI’mhungry. Fishing out another twenty, I hand it to Cheri.

“Could you… get me anOreo Blizzard?”

“That’s too much. You already gave me a twenty.”

“No, it’s on me. You said so yourself—Sundays suck.”

ThisSunday especially. I don’t know if it’s my stress hunger, wounded pride, or Ralph’s warm-ass beer, but the sour feelingin my gut churns as I waffle between shame and hurt, recalling Murphy’s words.I’mnot the one who was acting weird.

He said he’s the same person but that I just didn’t know one thing about him. Well, it goes both ways. I’m the same person I’ve always been to him. The same old Jesse, just a Jesse that didn’t know one thing.

But now I do.

So, what? Nothing’s changed for me. Who’s not acting weird? This guy.

Murphy Malone is still the best damned friend I’ve ever had, and I’m not going anywhere. I guess I just need to get it through that thick beard of his.

“Oh, you’re the sweetest, Jesse.” I get a kiss on my forehead from Cheri for my offer to pay for our snacks.

Her sparkly nipple pastie scratches my eyelid as she hugs my head. Thank God I closed my eyes. The texture of that thing would be like a cheese grater on my cornea. Then I’d be a friendless loser wearing an eye patch.

Hopping up, her bare legs are a thing of beauty in that thong. I have no clue how these girls manage their pole tricks without leaving red friction marks on their skin. I tried once my first time here when stupid Murph ran off and left me to go play army. I was bored out of my freaking mind without him. It was amateur night, and I sure put the word ‘amateur’ into that phrase. I’ve been in awe ever since. Pole dancing is an art not for the faint of flesh. And I’m not sorry—The Dew Drop sure as shit beats Wenatchee Bowl-o-Rama. They have disco bowl night and play ABBA. Freaking ABBA.

Cheri starts toward the stage curtain but stops and turns back. “What size do you want?”

“Large.” I shrug so it’s not obvious that I’m in the mood to eat my feelings.

“You got it. Back in a jiff.”

Making my way to the bar, I set my warm beer down and wait for Ralph to finish helping Driver and Passenger, two old veterans who always set up camp at the end of the bar. It’s one more thing that makes me think of Murph. Charlie Driver is the big one who wears a leather biker vest. The other one is… Well, shit. I still don’t know his name even after all these years. Chuckling to myself, I pick at my beer label, recalling the night that Murph dubbed him with his nickname.

It’s common bar etiquette to holler someone’s name when they walk in. Kind of like you’re greeting a long-lost family member, so they know they’re welcome in the revelry happening. After everyone in the bar gave a cheery greeting of, “Driver!”, two seconds later, the other guy came through the door as usual. And, as usual, it was silent since nobody knew his name. Without missing a beat, Murph belted out, “Passenger!”

Everyone roared, even Driver and Passenger. It’s stuck ever since.

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