Chapter Seven
Rosalie
The cool fluorescents in the kitchen are a stark contrast to the dim, romantic atmosphere, separated only by a swinging door and an income discrepancy. I’m not skilled or friendly enough to be seen by the paying customers, so they stuck me in the back washing dishes. I don’t mind it, even if my fingers prune and my skin is dry and itchy by the end of the night.
Emily got me the job. She’s only worked here a few weeks longer than I have, but the manager wants to sleep with her, so a wink and a sly smile guaranteed my employment. We’ve agreed not to tell Mike about it. She doesn’t want him to worry, and I don’t want him to walk away with an assault charge.
A pimply boy scrubs plates next to me, handing them off for me to sanitize and dry. He’s humming along with the faint music that swells with every swing of the kitchen door, stealing glances at me during lulls.
“You smoke?” he asks.
“No.”
“You should say you do. They give you more breaks.”
The job is dull, but I prefer dull. At least it keeps my hands occupied, and the repetitive motions are soothing, though the sanitizer leaves my skin raw. I should be wearing gloves, but they never offered, and I don’t care enough to raise a fuss.
Before Emily got the job, Henry offered to take me here once. It must’ve been one of the first times I agreed to a date, but not the first time he asked. He’s nothing if not persistent. At least he waited until after graduation. In his mind, that was enough time to mourn my dead best friend and get back on the market.
I asked him to take me to a dive bar instead. We played pool and drank shitty beer and talked about nothing at all. I let him kiss me when he dropped me off at home. He smelled like a department store, but his lips weren't chapped. He opened my car door for me, waited until I got inside to drive off, ticked off every requirement for a nice young man. And he is nice. He's just not—
I swallow hard and turn my attention back to the dishes. Six months of increasingly non-casual dates with Henry. Two months spending four nights a week elbow-deep in suds and discarded protein. This could be the rest of my life, and that's fine.
After the kitchen closes and before the last stragglers finish their meals, we sneak out the back and linger near the dumpster. It reeks, but the kid doesn’t seem to mind, digging through his pockets. He slips a cigarette between his lips and lights it with practiced ease. I cross my arms and exhale, watching the smoke swirl in front of his face. “How old are you, anyway?” I ask.
“Twenty-six.”
I bark a laugh. “No way.”
He wiggles his brows, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a thick wallet with flaking leather. A receipt floats to the ground as he digs through it, procuring a too-thin card and offering it to me.
I glance at the picture, then at him, then at the name. “Rico?”
“That’s me.”
“Why do they call you Dom?”
“It’s a nickname.”
“For Rico?”
“For Dominic, which is a nickname for Rico.”
I recognize the twinkle of mischief in his eyes, the swallow hiding laughter stuffed in his throat, the shift of his feet. Lying to adults was one of Andrew’s favorite pastimes. “How much did you pay for this?” I ask, handing the ID back.
He taps it against his palm. “Made it myself. Impressive, yeah?”
I shrug. “You spelled Maryland wrong.”
His eyes widen so slightly as he jerks up his hand, holding the ID to the flickering light beside the door. His shoulders drop. “You’re fucking with me.”
My answering smile feels like trying on jeans that are too tight. “Returning the favor.”
The back door swings open. I flinch, but it’s Emily that bursts through. I’ve yet to see her in an outfit that doesn’t suit her. Even the ironed white button-down and black trousers hug every curve of her body, professional and picturesque. Her blonde hair is curled and tied in a neat high ponytail, pulling the skin around her eyes taut. It makes her look like a lioness prowling for her next meal. The blush on her cheeks might be artificial, or it might be from exertion. Either way, Dominic’s eyes widen when she throws her arm around him.
“Dom!” she trills. “Isn’t he just the cutest thing?”
I don’t have an answer, and she doesn’t expect one.
"Cute," Dom mutters. "I'll take cute."
Emily pinches at his cheeks and ruffles his hair until he swats at her hand. She takes a step away, palms out in surrender. To me, "Ryan's housewarming is tonight. You coming?"
I scrunch my nose. "Ryan With the Quiff?"
"No, Tall Ryan. He's like, eighty percent less of a creep than he used to be."
"Eighty percent," Dom says. "That's almost a hundred."
Emily jabs her thumb towards him as if to say, See? Here's a person thinking rationally. As if she can see the argument on my tongue, she adds, "He has a hot tub. And a home theater."
"I don't think—"
"And," she says, holding up her finger, "I'll cover for you if you want a souvenir."
It was more Andrew's gig than mine, stealing trinkets from house parties. Once, it was a sealed copy of a video game he already owned. Another time, a framed photograph of a comedian that neither of us recognized. I haven't abandoned the tradition entirely, pocketing odd silverware and occasionally a lighter or coaster, but I'm not nearly as daring as he was.
"I told Henry I'd spend the night at his place."
"So bring him."
There are a thousand more excuses I could use, but not a single one would be effective. The more I resist, the more she'll suspect that I'm not doing so much better, thank you, and the only thing worse than fielding her invitation would be fielding her questions. "I'll call him."
Emily claps once, ruffling Dom's hair once more in celebration. "Tell him to meet us here in thirty minutes."
"We're not off for an hour."
"Thirty minutes," she repeats with a wink, heading back inside. Over her shoulder, she says, "Dom can finish up for us. Right?"
She doesn't wait for an answer. Dom exhales once she's gone, resting a hand atop his head. "I'm going to marry her."
I decide not to tell Mike that, either.
Over the radio blasting glam metal, occasionally interrupted by the GPS announcing an upcoming turn, Emily and James bicker about whether the sandwich shop five miles back changed the font on their menu board. Since Mike is sitting between them, he's taken the role of mediator, chiming in with lighthearted jabs and jokes when their tones edge too close to true anger. I'm in the passenger seat, tapping my foot and staring out of the window to avoid Henry's pointed glances. He should keep his eyes on the road.
"Poor eyesight is hereditary." Emily leans forward to brace her hands on Henry's headrest. "Let your brother borrow your glasses, since he's apparently farsighted."
"That's not what that means," James huffs.
"You would know what that means."
"It's unnecessarily confusing," Mike says.
Henry offers, "If you're farsighted, you can see things that are far."
Emily settles back into her seat, tugging at her seat belt. "He's nearsighted, then."
"I'm not!" James twists to face her fully, leaning to see around Mike. "They've had the same menu board for six years."
"Last time we went, it was different."
James rubs his eyes. "Turn around. We'll go right now."
Henry says, "I'm not turning around," at the same time that Mike asks, "Are they even open?"
"They close at midnight," I mumble, barely audible over the music.
"We've got twenty minutes," Emily says.
"We're not going," Henry says again.
"He knows you're wrong. He's trying to protect your fragile ego."
"My—"
Mike leans over the center console, effectively blocking their view of each other. "Hey, turn it up. I love this song."
We arrive late, but it doesn't matter. People will be trickling in and out until the sun rises. The music is audible even through the closed car door; Tall Ryan's making quick work of turning neighbors into enemies.
The house sits at the end of a cul-de-sac, so debauchery has spilled into the street. I recognize some of the faces, mostly people from high school. I don't know their names, but they didn't know mine until Andrew died, so fair's fair. Emily points out a few of them to Mike with added gossip about what they're doing now— some with more venom than others. I suppose this is the closest to a five-year reunion that we'll get since Emily was also the senior class president and can't be bothered to organize anything outside of our group.
Henry drops us off in front to find a place to park. James and Mike head inside first, making a beeline for the kitchen to find drinks. Emily loops her arm around my elbow, leaning in so I can hear her when she asks, "You alright?"
"Yeah." I swallow. "I'm good."
It's not the first time I've lied to her. It's also not the first party I've been to without Andrew. It won't be the last occurrence of either.
"If you want to go, we can go."
"It's cool."
"Because I know how hard it is—"
"I said it's cool."
We walk arm-in-arm towards the center of the living room, peering over heads and around bodies. People greet Emily by name as they bump past, but since I'm attached to her, they don't stop to make conversation. A privilege of being the girl with the dead best friend is that nobody knows how to talk to me except to mention my dead best friend, and since that's not proper party etiquette, they duck their heads and avoid my eyes. Andrew would laugh himself hoarse and say that his pariah status infected me.
"An island," he'd say. "Exiled together. Three things."
I'd point to myself. "Me." To him. "You." Then I'd pause to consider. "A match."
"A single match?"
I'd nod, furrowing my brows, pretending to be lost in thought. "The first fire is the most difficult to start."
"And the easiest to extinguish," he'd agree. "But… I'm a thing?"
"The most useful thing," I'd say. "A source of food in the most dire of situations."
His eyes would spark at that. "You wouldn't eat me. You'd miss me too much."
Emily nudges me with her shoulder, snapping me back into the too-crowded room and my too-rapid breathing. "Do you want to go somewhere quieter?"
I'm not certain such a place exists, and even if it did, taking Emily there would create a paradox. "I'm fine," I say, convincing not even myself. "I'm just going to find a bathroom."
"Want company?"
I shake my head, a tiny movement, and force a smile. "Go find Mike. I'll catch up with you guys."
She complies, but not without a worried glance over her shoulder.
The first three bathrooms I find have people pressed against the wall outside them in what might be a line or might be a perverse attempt at eavesdropping, so I gather my courage and head towards the master. When I open the bedroom door, I'm met with shouts from the scrambling bodies on the bed. I'm halfway across the room when the tears I've been battling prove victorious. If I apologize, I don't hear myself speak, nearly sprinting towards the haven of white tile.
The hands that close the bathroom door are connected to the arms that have always been my arms, but neither belong to me. I lean over the sink. The marble is cool on the palms that might be my palms, the skin that must be my skin. The face that stares back is the one that always does, but I don't recognize her. Cracked lips, limp hair, swollen eyes, red nose— I'd ask her if she was alright, too. If I saw her anywhere other than in the mirror, I'd want to help her.
But I'm in her head, or she's in mine. I know what she did—what she didn't do.
"You couldn't have saved him." The voice jolts me awake. I nearly lose my footing turning towards its origin, shaking my head to clear it. A woman with short blonde hair sits on the edge of the tub with her ankles crossed, inspecting her nails. My own outfit isn't exactly glamorous, but she looks like she was on a midnight jog and stumbled in, summoned by the awful music and vagrancy.
"Sorry," I hear myself say. "I didn't think anyone was in here."
She doesn't look up. "There's nothing you could've done. People die sometimes. It happens."
"How do you—" I snap my mouth shut and exhale through my nose. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Fine. Armor up, I get it."
The haughty tone, the posture… I blink back into my body, recognition surfacing. "I've met you before."
"Oh, have you?"
"You were on the stairs. You kept me from—"
"Breaking your neck?"
"Falling."
"And what did you give me in return?"
I take a seat on the toilet, close enough to the door that I can bolt if her disdain dips into violence. "I wasn't aware that it was a transaction."
She laughs, low and quick. "Everything is a transaction, flower."
"So what do I owe you?"
She glances up at me like I'm a gnat she's determined to swat. There's something familiar in that glare, something I've worn: a loneliness that creeps into every breath, an admission that hides just behind her teeth. She says, "Keep yourself alive."
I straighten. "That's all?"
"That's all."
If I hadn't seen myself in the mirror, my denial might hold more weight. "I wasn't going to—"
"You don't have to lie to me. Actually, you can't lie to me, so save us both the trouble."
"What do you mean?"
She uncrosses her legs. "Oh, and don't move in with him."
"I… who?"
"The mousy one. Smells like stale wine, looks like he'd apologize to a chair if he bumped into it "
"Henry?"
She snorts. "He looks like a Henry."
"How do you know about that? Did he— Have you talked to him, too? Did you go to school with us?"
Another laugh, lighter this time. "So many questions. He's going to adore you."
"Who?"
She wiggles her brows and raises her finger to her lips. Outside, there's a chorus of shouts followed by glass shattering.
The questions I should've asked five years ago tumble out. "Why are you being so cryptic? Who are you? How do you know so much about me? Why were you in that stairwell? How did you know I was going to—"
The door swings open. Emily looks me over, panting. "You would not believe how many bathrooms this house has. Who are you talking to?"
I turn to her, mouth tight, and jab my thumb towards the smug woman.
Emily scans the room slowly. When she meets my eyes again, a strange expression twists her face before it's hidden beneath a grimace. "Okay," she chirps, too quick. "Anyway, did you know that James is hooking up with Ryan's boyfriend? Because I just found out. Guess who also just found out?"
From down the hall, a man yells, "Get the fuck out of my house!"
"Oh," I say.
"Yeah, oh." Emily offers me her hand. "I think we should leave."
The car ride home is almost silent, radio whispering over the hum of tires. In the rearview mirror, I catch James flexing his fingers, staring at his injured hand. He'll have a black eye in the morning. Not a new look.
Beside him, Emily thumbs a long paragraph on her phone. She tilts the screen towards Mike who reads it quickly, eyebrows low. He glances at me, frowning, then takes the phone and types back a response.
Great.
Henry clears his throat. A shallow scratch runs down the side of his cheek, collatoral damage from trying to break up the fight. "Is he nice?"
"Yeah," James says softly, a tone reserved for his younger brother. "Yeah, he's nice."
Henry convinces James to spend the night at his apartment, so I'm dropped off with Emily and Mike. I've been staying in their spare room for almost a year now. I needed to move out of my childhood bedroom, and they needed an extra income to help with rent. It's convinient, if a bit crowded.
Mike excuses himself to their bedroom, murmuring something about needing to shower. I'm about to do the same, but Emily puts her hand on my arm. "Want some coffee?"
I'm immediately suspicious; she never drinks caffeine after two in the afternoon. It was one of many rules she created for herself, a list that Andrew would regularly poke fun at. "Routine royalty," he'd say. "The stickler of self-care."
"Sure," I say.
She makes a pot in silence, tapping her foot until the machine stops groaning. Two mugs from the cabinet: hers is from a pottery class that she took a couple years back, the third attempt at making something with a useable handle, and mine is from a thrift store, the largest that we own with Happy Retirement, Janet! handpainted on one side. After adding sugar to hers and leaving mine black, she joins me on the couch.
"So," she says carefully, "how are you?"
"Fine." The response is automatic. "Good."
She nods, tapping her finger on her mug. "Good, good…" I've never known her to be at a loss for words. She hesitates, then says, "I'm… a little worried, I guess."
"Worried? About what?"
In the other room, the shower turns on. She glances in that direction and sets her mug down on the sidetable. "You."
I bristle, armoring up, as the woman put it. "I'm fine."
She shakes her head. "You get this look sometimes, like you're so far from everyone else. Like you're not even there. You barely eat, and I know you're not sleeping—"
"I stay up late sometimes. It's not a big deal."
"—and now you're talking to people who aren't there, and I'm just concerned, alright? I love you, and you're scaring me."
I blink. "What?"
"You're my best friend, and I don't want you to—"
"You couldn't see her?"
Her face crumbles. "Oh, Rose." She pulls me into a hug, nearly splashing the hot coffee on both of us. I freeze in her embrace, muscles locking, eyes wide. One thought overwhelms the rest, the only thought that matters, the only thought I'll have for the remainder of my life:
I need to talk to Andrew about this.