Page 2 of The Two of Us

Tally is the kind of best friend that I definitely don’t deserve. When we were paired as roommates during freshman orientation, I did my best to keep my distance. The last thing I was looking for in college was new relationships. But when someone sits at your bedside for three days feeding you chicken noodle soup while you battle strep throat, they kind of carve a space into your heart. Even if it’s made of stone.

Her black Sentra pulls up to the curb fifteen minutes later and I climb in with my head hung in shame as if this isn’t a regular occurrence. The smell of her leather seats makes me gag, so I lean my head against the cool window.

“Couldn’t sleep again?”

I’m afraid if I open my mouth, the smell of the leather will infiltrate it, so I just grunt as a way of saying yes.

“You can always stay with me, you know that.”

I snort because we both know her comment is absolutely ridiculous and now I’m mad because I have to open my mouth to respond.

“If you brought me home drunk, Jeremy would have a conniption, and you know that.” Jeremy’s a health nut and one of those people who refers to his body as a temple. Cringe. But more than his tendency to casually drop words like “chard” and “clean eating” into every conversation, he has a knack for giving unsolicited advice on people’s health choices. But the joke is on Jeremy because his girlfriend dumps the smoothies he makes her down the toilet and hides Hershey Kisses in her underwear drawer.

“Besides,” I say, “the problem isn’t sleeping alone. It’s turning my mind off.”

Tally clicks on her blinker, making a smooth turn onto my street.“Mitsu’s accepting new clients, just say the word,” she sings.

My groan lasts a full five seconds. “Tally, what did we say about psychoanalyzing me?”

She rolls her eyes. “Only on Tues—”

“—only on Tuesdays, that’s right.”

“All I’m saying is, Mitsu’s like a laxative for emotionally constipated people. And you, my friend, are red in the face constipated.”

Mitsu this. Mitsu that.

You know who will change your life? Mitsu.

Blah blah Mitsu blah.

We roll to a stop in front of my walk-up and I peer out into the dark at my dingy apartment building. Something heavy settles in my stomach. I don’t want to be alone, but I don’t want to let Tally into everything I’m feeling. It’s the shittiest catch-22 I’ve ever experienced. I lean over the console to peck her cheek. “You’re a lifesaver. I swear this is the last time.”

“You know, I actually think you believe that.”

I wave goodbye with my middle finger and she laughs as I swing the door shut.

I begin my ascent upstairs and by the third floor, I’m on all fours, trying to drag my ass the rest of the way. New York City isn’t for the fainthearted.

When I walk into the kitchen, Cheddar’s perched on the sink, unmoving, and staring at me like an axe murderer. If cats could be axemurderers. I don’t doubt they could be.

“Hey, big boy,” I croon. “You enjoy the solitude while I was gone?” The fat tabby huffs at me and slinks away. Clearly, I came back too soon.

I pull a mini bottle of vodka from the freezer and head straight toward my room, chucking off articles of clothing along the way. It only takes a few swigs before my mind fogs over just the way I like. The way I need. And when I finally see the back of my eyelids, I’m grateful that the darkness doesn’t turn into the memories I desperately try to keep at bay.

***

The purring vibrations from Cheddar radiate throughout my skull and I groan out in protest. He has a nasty habit of nearly suffocating me awake to feed him, obviously missing the memo that only one of us has nine lives. I shoot my arm out, searching for his chunky leg, but he dodges my advance and skitters from the room. My eyes squint against the sunlight and I once again scold myself for choosing lace curtains over blackout shades. Flashes of last night trickle into my mind: a brilliant smile, the curve of a nose, my skirt bunched up around my waist, and a man by the name of… of… whatever. A man. I make a silent vow to ease up on the alcohol, and a small laugh escapes me.

Yeah right.

I wipe the stray hairs sticking to my sweaty forehead and throw my duvet back, crawling out of bed and making my way into the bathroom. I turn the creaky nozzle all the way to the right, praying for at least ten full minutes of scalding hot water this morning. The building is ancient and a shower past nine a.m. usually means you accept your fate of cleansing yourself with ice water.

I stick my fingers under the showerhead to test the temperature and it starts to warm.

“Yes, yes, yes. You can do it,” I chant, coaxing it along.

Steam fills the tiny bathroom and as the mirror fogs up, I yank the scrunchie out of my hair, the errant curls bending in different directions. I sigh. It’ll have to be a wash day.

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