Wrecked(7)

Richard leans back against the door. “What I said about last night? That was stupid. I’m sorry. I was being . . . what do you call it? . . . glib.”

She doesn’t respond.

“This is the part where you say, ‘I accept your apology,’” he continues.

“I don’t know if I can be with such an insensitive dumbass,” she says instead.

“Sure you can,” he says. “Because you know I don’t mean anything by it. You’re just so damn indoctrinated by the PC police that you have to hate on anything that isn’t überenviro--feminist. It’s killing your sense of humor, Carrie. Do you even have one left? Seriously, what makes you laugh?”

Carrie’s eyes narrow. “A lot of things make me laugh. Here’s what doesn’t: hate speech. Words that promote violence against women. It doesn’t take a genius to understand that.”

He nods. “Even a dumbass like me gets that.” He thinks he detects a flicker of light in her eyes when he refers to himself as a dumbass.

“You know what?” she says. “When you apologize for the stupid things you say? It’s not because you get what you’ve said or you’re even sorry for saying it. You’re just sorry I’m annoyed.”

“Well, of course I’m sorry you’re annoyed! What’s wrong with that? Would you rather I enjoyed annoying you? Wow, pissing off Carrie is great! That’s one hell of a good time!”

“I so wish you weren’t such a Neanderthal.”

“Yeah, until you want a Neanderthal,” he mutters.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” Richard steps away from the door. He’s tired. He glances around the room for his clothes. He’ll leave while she’s showering. She never invites him to stay for breakfast.

He expects her to move to the unblocked door. But Carrie has more to say.

“Richard, do you not get what I do on Tuesday nights?”

He sighs. Of course. Her shift. Her all--important, saving--the--world--one--hysterical--girl--at--a--time shift, answering the phone at the college’s just--created helpline. Which is supposed to be a rape crisis line, but has turned out to be where freshmen females call when their underage roommates barf uncontrollably after drinking too many vodka shots. They call the helpline instead of campus security. Or an ambulance.

At least, that’s how Carrie described her first two weeks answering the line. She almost seemed disappointed that nobody was sexually assaulted on her watch.

His jeans are draped over the back of her desk chair. He pulls them on.

“I asked you a question,” Carrie says.

“I apologized,” Richard says evenly.

She stares at him. “Wow.”

He pulls his T--shirt over his head. “And yes, I’m perfectly aware of how you spend your Tuesday nights. Trust me: I’ve heard it.” He glances around the room for his sneakers. They were tossed near the dresser. As he yanks on his socks and shoves his feet into the sneakers, Carrie moves to the door. Hand on knob, she turns.

“So, this is the part,” she says carefully, “where I say ‘See you later.’ ”

He looks up at her. It’s a far cry from accepting his apology, but probably as good as he’ll get.

Then Carrie surprises him.

“But instead I think I’m going to say ‘See you never.’ ’Cos I’m done trying to explain basic shit to you.”

“You’re blowing this way out of proportion.”

She laughs. A short half laugh. “Am I? Richard, we’re always fighting.”

“Always? See, that’s an exaggeration. Right there.”

“Fine. Usually. We’re usually fighting. Whatever. I’m tired of being mad. And it’s not like this was ever going anywhere.”

Richard stops midlace. He straightens up and stares at her. “So that’s it? We’re breaking up? Just like that, over a stupid comment I apologized for?”

Carrie flashes him one of her vintage are--you--kidding--me? expressions. She turns the knob. “Breaking up? That assumes we were ever together.”

Richard has no words for this. If she had slapped him across the face, he wouldn’t be more surprised.

The door is open now, and he can see into the hallway. Mona walks briskly past, toward her bedroom. He wonders if she’s been listening. As she leaves the room, Carrie glances over her shoulder at him one last time.

Then the door closes with a soft click.





. . .


“Are you sure we can come?”

“Yes! He said to bring friends.”

“How do you know him, Jenny?”

“He’s in my economics class.”

“Brandon, right?”

“Brandon Exley.”

“Oh. Jenny. Wow.”

It’s not her dress. She doesn’t own anything like this. Black, with thick shoulder straps studded with rhinestones and sequins, a scoop neck. An airy fabric falls straight down in crumpled folds, floats around her body. Ends mid--thigh.

“Do you think I’ll be cold?”

“You look amazing!”

“Shoot, girl. I may have to let you keep it. Looks way better on you than on me.”

. . .