Page 2 of Versions Of Us

“He’s a fraud.” I hear a faint sniffle and I know she’s lost the battle with her tears. “We all are. We’re all just pretending.”

“It’s okay, Em…” I begin to say, but I’m cut off by the dial tone.

She’s gone, leaving me guilty and helpless in a dimly lit room, staring out the window at the turbulent ocean below.

I wish I could do more to help her. The truth is that bearing the weight of the problems of others inches further toward impossible when your own load is already so heavy.

The clock on the wall tells me I’ve been here twenty minutes longer than I needed to be, but I don’t mind spending the extra time. Especially when it’s for Em. I love volunteering at the helpline, but I can’t deny that tonight the hours have dragged.

The chair wheels squeak across the floor as I stand and shrug on my grey, knit cardigan. I sling my black satchel bag over my shoulder and an exhausted sigh escapes my lips, capturing my supervisor’s attention.

“It’s eleven already?” I hear Jules ask from the back corner desk.

“Twenty past,” I answer, wishing the time had passed as quickly for me today as it seems to have for her.

“Big night planned?” she asks.

“Not tonight,” I answer.

Jules is in her mid-thirties and divides her time between volunteering here at the crisis centre and being a mother to a baby that barely sleeps. She often jokes about living vicariously through me. I hate to disappoint her, but at twenty-four, my life is just as lack lustre these days.

A few months ago, I might have been able to tell her something different. That I was meeting up with friends for a drink or spending the night with my slightly immature, fun-loving boyfriend, but I’m not nearly as social as I used to be.

Things change.

And I guess, so do we.

Sometimes people disappoint you.

After descending the stairwell that leads to the street, I’m hit with a warm blast of fresh ocean air; a welcome contrast to the dry air con I’ve been subjected to for the last five hours.

The esplanade stretches out before me, an air of loneliness in its wake as I follow the cobblestone path past the beach in the direction of my apartment.

Distant chatter fills the silence, as patrons from Steve’s Tavern gather outside, saying their goodbyes to each other as they call it a night.

The tavern has always been our one lively beacon of energy in this otherwise quiet town and although it’s been a while since I’ve been there, I smile at the memories it resurrects.

Of laughing with friends, wasting time sipping back burning liquid concoctions. The nostalgia stops me in my tracks, intense and overpowering.

I know it won’t be the same. Nothing will ever be the same again, but I crave the familiarity anyway.

What the hell. I could use a drink.

I turn on my heel and march toward the tavern’s heavy, wooden, paint-chipped door and shove it open, finding myself immersed in its humble atmosphere. It almost feels like home.

Almost.

Muscle memory kicks in and my feet carry me over to the bar. I clamber onto a stool at the end. I’ve sat in this exact position hundreds of times before, either waiting on drinks, or watching Liv or EJ, or Henley, play on the bar’s tiny, modest stage.

It’s late and it’s a weekday, so the tavern isn’t exactly overflowing with people. It doesn’t take much to get the bartender’s attention.

“You look like you could use a drink,” he says when he saunters to my end of the bar.

“I look that bad, huh?” I aim a weak smile in his direction.

“Are you kidding? You look terrible,” he teases with a lopsided smirk, earning an eyeroll from me. “I’m joking, obviously. You’re always gorgeous, Kristen.”

I shake my head at his mockery, though I’m thankful for the slight grin he’s managed to get out of me.

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