Page 15 of One for the Road
I scroll through my contacts to find Roxanne, but that won’t work either. She couldn’t come to April Showers because her fiancé’s band is playing a big show in another city tonight.
It’s not a big deal. It really should not be a big deal, but my breathing is getting faster and faster, and the names on my screen are starting to blur as I scroll through them over and over again. I’m so bad with names. I don’t even know who half these people are. I meet so many people. I’m always surrounded by people, but they’re justthere. Just like X. Just like every other fucking boyfriend.
I don’t know how long I stand there with my phone in my hands before I see the text alert. I open the message up and realize he sent it an hour ago.
It’s a meme. Of course it’s a meme. It’s some silly Zach meme labelled with a few English words I don’t even understand, but it makes me feel like the floor isn’t tilting so much under my feet.
He’s not the person I should be running to. I shouldn’t be calling him late at night. Besides a few parties with the rest of the staff, we’ve never even hung out somewhere that wasn’t work. I don’t know why, but it’s always been some kind of friendship line we’ve never crossed. I’ve always beensurenot to cross it. Not with Zach.
I slide down the wall a few inches as my knees start to shake. I never wanted to bethisperson in front of Zach.
You need too much.
I shake my head, trying to get X’s voice out of it. Another minute passes before I type the words, delete them, and then type them again before I hit send.
Hey, do you have a meme about a girl who doesn’t have anywhere to sleep tonight because she just walked in on her boyfriend screwing his ex?
The phone rings ten seconds later.
“Zach?”
My voice cracks when I say his name. I didn’t realize how full of feelings my throat is, how it barely has room for words.
“DeeDee, where are you? I’m coming to pick you up.”
Five
Zach
TWIST: a thin section of fruit peel that is added to a drink, often after being twisted over the beverage to distribute its flavours
DeeDee Beausoleil isin my apartment. It’s like seeing the queen of England at Wal-Mart; the image just doesn’t make sense.
“Uh, do you want, um, some water?” I ask as I make my way into the living room and drop my keys on the coffee table.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
As my mother would say in her rare moments of extreme profanity: jumping Jesus on a haystack. This is DeeDee, for god’s sake. Yes, she is one of the hottest beings to walk the planet, and yes, she is literally able to make me stop breathing with just a smile, but she’s also my friend, and she’s clearly not okay.
This is not the time to turn into a stuttering mess who can’t even ask her if she needs a drink.
“C’est bon, là.” She shakes her head at my question and does her best to turn the corners of her lips up. “I don’t need anything.”
She’s got her arms crossed over her stomach, hands gripping her elbows as she hovers on the mat by the door, and that sad attempt at a smile is all I need to snap me out of my daze.
“Come on, sit down. We can steal my roommate’s ice cream sandwiches. Don’t tell me you don’t need an ice cream sandwich. Everyone needs an ice cream sandwich.”
I gesture for her to take a seat on the worn leather couch in our living room. Paige can often be found claiming a corner of that couch with her knees tucked up to her chin, glaring at the world with her giant and very expensive headphones on. Honest to god, she kind of terrifies me, but luckily I know her soft spot for ice cream. I’m risking my life stealing some tonight, but if she could see DeeDee, I’m sure even stony-hearted Paige would spare her a sandwich.
DeeDee has never looked so small. She’s wearing the same jean jacket and crop top outfit she had on at the bar, but it’s like only half that girl showed up here. The flower crown is gone. The pink-haired phenomenon who seems to fill every room she steps inside is barely big enough to claim a corner of my couch.
“I’ll be right back.” I try not to look like too much of a spaz, but I totally sprint to the kitchen. My mom would be ashamed of all the frozen meals I have to sift through before I find the blue and white box Paige tried to hide at the bottom of the freezer. I’m surprised she hasn’t gotten a special ice cream storage unit to lock up in her room. She’s militant about this stuff.
“Here!” I toss the package at DeeDee like the idiot I am, and I’m thankful she manages to catch it. The last thing I need right now is to hit the woman of my dreams in the face with an ice cream sandwich.
I think that’s why I’m having such a hard time acting normal: this really does feel like a dream, like a moment I’ve imagined so many times I can’t quite connect it with reality.
Sure, I’ve pictured her under me on this couch more times than I’d like to admit, but it’s more than that. I’ve literally imagined what it would be like to sit here and eat ice cream with her. I’ve had conversations with her in my head about the cracks in the ceiling and the neighbours across the road you can see through the window. I’ve pictured the pink strands of her hair sliding through my fingers while we talk about everything and nothing all at once.
