Page 9 of Fun Together
“But I just got a job this week. I can’t pay for rent yet.” I sound like a whiny, privileged asshole, and I know it. Asking Mommy and Daddy for help they can barely afford to give. I depleted my entire savings after losing my job, before returning to North Carolina with my tail tucked between my legs and nothing but fifty dollars to my name.
“You don’t have to move out tonight. I just want this to be something you’re keeping top of mind if any opportunities come up.” She places a reassuring hand on my forearm. “You’re smart and resourceful. You will always have our support. But you need to try a little harder.”
“She’s right, son.” Dad returns to the table and gives my hair a playful ruffle. “You’ll figure something out. You always do.”
4
Faye
One good thingabout Friday nights is the undeniable bliss of having an entire weekend ahead of you to do whatever you want.
Tonight, it’s just me, my couch, and the reliable presence of Jeff Probst in his little khaki shorts on my television. When I hear him say the words, “Last time on Survivor,” all my worries fall away. I’m watching him explain the rules of tonight’s immunity challenge when Rett breezes into my apartment in swirl of copper hair, black skirts, jangling bottles, and a waft of that mysterious perfume she refuses to name.
Her freckled face flushes from the effort it takes to haul her giant black leather purse onto my kitchen counter. She then proceeds to pull things out of the bag like some kind of fairy goth-mother. Two bottles of red wine, a bag of salt and vinegar chips, red nail polish, and what looks to be some sort of knife sheathed in leather. I don’t even want to knowthat’sintended purpose.
Then she takes out a lighter and a small bundle of herbs with tiny branches wrapped in twine.
“Are you about to sage my apartment?”
“Grandma told me to do this. She said it’ll help rid your spirit of bad vibes or . . . w.”
Honestly, I’ll take all the help I can get. “Alright, go for it.” I rummage around my kitchen drawers to find a corkscrew.
“I got the twist-top kind,” Rett says over her shoulder. “Assumed you didn’t have an opener.”
“Hey, I could have one.” I close the drawer I was sifting through. “Theoretically.”
I grab a couple of jam jars I use for water glasses and pour some wine for us. I watch Rett glide along the perimeter of my apartment and hand her a glass.
“I’ve been thinking,” she says after taking a sip.
I flop on the couch. “Oh no.”
“It’s time for you start dating again.”
I turn the volume up. “Is it?”
She waves her hand in a circular motion over me. “Thisennuithing you have going on is getting old.”
“I don’t have ennui.”
“Really? Because it doesn’t look like you’ve cleaned this place in weeks and earlier, I caught you staring off into the distance for five minutes, looking like you were in the middle of a factory reset.”
I look around my apartment. The pile of cereal bowls stacked in the sink need to be washed. The dust bunnies that have become my quiet companions in the corner of the living room beneath my front window. Maybe I don’t keep it as clean as I should, but it’s notthatbad. It’s hard to feel motivated to pick up after myself when it’s just me having to answer for my own filth. I wouldn’t call it ennui, though. I think it’s just that part of me wants to live amongst the rubble for a bit to make up for hurting Andrew the way I did.
“You’re doing it again.”
“It’s just—I think I might be a terrible person. Do you think he hates me?” She doesn’t have to ask who I’m talking about.
“Terrible people don’t worry about being terrible people. Relationships end every day, and you did nothing wrong.”
I appreciate the loyalty that only a best friend can provide, but she kind of has to say that, doesn’t she?
“What if my decision was wrong?” There are worse things in life than marrying someone you aren’t in love with anymore. Like death. Or being yelled at by a TSA agent.
“You and Andrew didn’t have a real relationship. What you had was a safety net.” She polishes off her wine and pours more into the jar. “Didn’t you say y’all were barely having sex?”
I lay back on the couch and cover my face with a pillow, vowing to never tell her anything about my sex life, or lack thereof, ever again.
