Page 34 of Told You So
“Stop what? I’m the bartender. It’s illegal for me to over-serve someone.”
Bethany grabs hold of my arm and pulls me toward the door. She wobbles on her feet, but she’s too determined and angry with me to trip and fall. When we get into an empty pocket of the bar, she grills me. “What the hell is your problem? Why are you being an asshole?”
“I’m not being an asshole,” I say coolly, even if I’m not sure that’s entirely true. “I’m doing my job.”
“I’ve had a few drinks, so what? It’s not like I’m belligerent or something.”
“Or something,” I mutter. “Just have some water for a bit, Bethany, it wouldn’t kill you.” I turn to leave.
“Wait,” she demands and reaches for me again, her fingers tight around my forearm this time. “Is this some joke to you—are you getting back at me for walking out of class the other day?”
“No.” I take a step closer to her. “But what the hell are you doing? Why are you out with this creep and acting like—”
“Like what?” she asks sharply. Her eyes narrow on me. When I don’t say anything, she takes a step closer to me. “Go ahead, Nick. Say it. I know you and your friends have been stewing in resentment toward me for years now.” She flings her hand in my direction. “Why don’t you just get it out of the way. A slut? Trash? Homewrecker? I couldn’t possibly just want to have a fun night out and act my age like everyone else, right?” Her eyes glisten and her face reddens even more.
I’m not sure how to respond as I register the hurt in her eyes. When I don’t say anything, she peers around the bar, like she’s suddenly worried she’s making a scene.
“Thanks for ruining it,” she says, and without another word, she pushes through the door and disappears outside, the door swinging open and shut in her wake.
Bad Hair comes up behind me and glares. “Hey, dip shit, you just cost me my date.”
I stare at the door settling back into place. The look on her face confuses me, but the offense in her voice was real. I turn back for the bar. “Tell someone who cares.”
Fifteen
Bethany’s Journal
April 13th
So, I’ve been staring at my ceiling for a couple hours, trying to sort out what happened at Lick’s tonight. My night out waswassupposed to be fun. Isupposedwas supposed to go out with a flirty guy I met at the coffee shop and live with wild abandon. That’s how it is for most people my age, right? They go to parties andgoinggo dancing and live like they’ll never be twenty-something again. What makes me so different? Is it Nick and Lick’s? Is it this town and the past it holds? Is it a deep-seated shame I will never be able to shake because of my parents? Why is it so impossible to be happy for one fucking minute? -B
Sixteen
Nick
My head’s fuzzy, but the sheets feel like melted butter around me, and I don’t want to move. It takes me a moment to realize I’m only half asleep and someone’s pounding on the front door.
Peeling my eyes open, I force myself to sit up in bed. I’m tired and drained, and whoever is knocking on a Saturday morning is going to get a knee in the scrotum. I told Reilly I was sleeping in today, and, according to my alarm clock, it’s only nine. It might as well be 5AM after going to sleep around four.
More pounding scatters what remains of my haze, and with a curse, I climb out of bed. My apartment is dark, the drapes drawn and only a few slivers of morning sunlight filter in, illuminating a path to the door.
Reilly knocks again as I reach for the handle. “Yeah, I’m awake,” I growl and fling the door open. The sun’s like acid on the backs of my eyes, and I stagger back. “Jesus, could you—”
“Sorry, not Jesus. It’s me,” a bored, female voice says, and I blink my eyes open to see Bethany standing on the landing. She adjusts her book bag, slung over her shoulder, and offers me a tall to-go coffee. “Latte?”
“What the hell are you doing here?” I groan as last night comes flooding back to me. Then, I remember our study date. “Ugh, I’m too tired for this.” I step out of the way so she can come inside.
“Hence, the coffee,” she drawls and offers it to me again.
This time, I happily accept. “Thanks.” As she glances around my apartment, I take a sip of coffee and appraise her jeans and long sleeves. Her hair’s damp and she looks surprisingly put together for an early-ish Saturday morning. “How come I feel worse than you look?” I ask. “Shouldn’t you be nursing a hangover or something?”
“I wasn’t that drunk, you were just being an asshole.”
I laugh bitterly. “Yeah, sure, if that’s how you remember it.”
“Can we, just, not talk about any of that?” She bristles, and I walk into the kitchen to add a bit more sugar to my coffee.
“Fine. But, I thought we were meeting at the library.”
