Written in the Scars(14)

“No,” I snort, watching her body stiffen. “I want to see how you are.” Her posture softens just a bit, and I decide to push a little. “I was thinking maybe I could swing by the house. We could talk.”

A million expressions grace her features before her gaze steels. “You know what?” she says, her hands hitting me in the shoulders, “Fuck you.”

My back hits the doorframe as she presses through. Her touch, even as hateful as it is, still causes a zing through my body that I instantly crave to feel again.

I want to reach out and grab her, kiss her, make her talk to me. By the time I get my wits together, the door is slamming in the kitchen.





ELIN


The beer is bitter and ice cold and tastes kind of like what I think urine would taste like. I’ve never been a beer drinker, but I’ve also never been a pool player. I’ve also never felt as nervous about being at Thoroughbreds as I do tonight.

“Wanna play again?” Jiggs asks, racking the balls. “I’ll take it easier on you this time.”

“No, you won’t,” I laugh. Setting the bottle on the table next to Lindsay, I look at my brother. “But, yeah, rack ’em. Let’s play.”

Lindsay picks the pepperoni off a slice of pizza. “I’m all for you getting out of the house, Elin, but you drinking beer and playing pool has me worried. I don’t even know you right now.”

“Yeah, well, me either.” I pick up the beer and down it and motion for Becca to bring me another. “I figure this is better than sitting at home and drinking alone. That’s what they say, right? Don’t drink alone.”

“So the point tonight is to drink?”

“No. The point of tonight is to get out of the house, but I can’t do that without some liquid courage.”

Lindsay sighs and exchanges a glance with her husband. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

Jiggs laughs, his eyes heavy with trouble. “I think it’s a brilliant idea. Elin wants to have some fun. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“But Ty . . .” Lindsay starts and then looks at me. “Are you sure you don’t want to go home and watch chick flicks? Jiggs can go get us junk food and we can just veg out.”

“No,” I insist, my hand flying to my hip. “Like I told you when I called you earlier tonight, I need to stop sitting at home and wallowing. I need to have fun. God knows Ty has been out gallivanting over the f*cking country.”

“That’s not true,” Jiggs says, but shuts up when I shoot him a look.

“Whose side you on, brother?”

“Yours,” he sighs, shaking his head.

I spin around to take the new drink from Becca and sway a bit. Grinning, I realize my head is feeling foggy. I like it. It’s quiet. Kind of numb. Why didn’t I do this before?

“Thanks, Becca,” I say brightly, yet even I know my enthusiasm is put on. Still, it sounds better. It sounds like what I want to sound like, so I roll with it. “How you liking your new job?”

“It’s okay,” she quips. “I’ve waited tables all my life, so I knew what I was getting into. The drunk jerks in the front are making my life a little hellish tonight, but nothing I can’t handle.”

“Who is it?” Jiggs asks.

She shrugs. “It’s really not a big deal. His name is Shane or something, I think, but don’t worry about it. I need to check on some tables in the back. Find me if you need anything.”

Disappearing in the back, I envy the ease with which she drops into new situations. It’s what I’m trying to do.

This is the first night of the new me. Or the first night on the journey to being the new me, I suppose. This is me getting out there, having fun, doing things on a Saturday night.

This is me trying to do it without having an anxiety attack. I take another swallow.

“You all right, Elin?” Jiggs asks, handing me a pool stick.

“Yup.”

“How many are you going to let her drink, Jiggs?” Lindsay asks from behind us. “She’s on number four.”

“Oh, hush, Linds,” I say, realizing there’s more of a slur to my words than I imagined there would be. “It’s beer. I’m well overage. And while you’re gonna be a mother, you’re not mine. Remember that.”

Jiggs laughs and cracks the cue ball against the others, the sound ricocheting through the little pub. It’s the local hangout, the place everyone lands on the weekends. Everyone from teenagers wanting to play arcade games in the back to fifty-something couples wanting a sandwich or a slice of pizza to the seventy-year-old men rehashing every sporting event of Jackson in the last century—they’re here.

He takes another shot before looking at his wife. “She’s a big girl, and I’m driving her home. Let her get wasted.”

“She’ll be sick tomorrow,” Lindsay objects.

“First of all,” I say, feeling myself sway a little as I try to line up a shot. “I’m right here.” I drag the stick through my fingers and miss the cue ball altogether. “And you have no idea how good this feels.”

“I’ve been drunk before,” Lindsay says. “It’s not going to feel so good in the morning.”

I stand quickly, teetering a little. “Well, here’s the thing. I wasn’t going to be feeling so good tomorrow anyway.”