Dreams of 18(39)

“I’m handling everything remotely.”

“So maybe your assistant forgot to mention that to me. When I had my chat with him this morning.”

“How do I know what my assistant forgot to tell you?”

“I’m not here to fight with you, all right? My daughter’s in town. I’m taking her and my wife out for a nice lunch. I don’t want to ruin my day.”

“Then don’t.”

“Good. I’m glad we’re on the same page. I want you to come in to school tomorrow so we can bring you up to speed, all right? I’d like my coach to get with the program. The one he’s supposed to have come up with himself.”

There’s a thread of sarcasm in there and it’s so thick that even I’m cringing.

I hear a sigh, a long one. I have a feeling it’s from Mr. Edwards.

“All right, look. The camp doesn’t start until next week. Which means I’ve got time. Just email me the program and I’ll go over it in my own time.”

“Do you think I’m stupid?”

Nothing except shuffling of feet and I can very well imagine that Mr. Edwards is either clenching his jaw at Richard or scratching his beard in a way that makes other people feel stupid.

“Yeah, I do. Why, haven’t I been clear enough about it in the past?”

“Graham, I’m going to level with you. I’ve known you a long time. You’re my friend, okay? I’m glad to have you back in town. Even though I don’t know how you live in this miserable house or how you’re still alive when you’re such a giant asshole that I want to kill you on a daily basis, I’m happy. But we’re not in high school anymore. Or at least, we’re not the ones going to high school anymore.”

“Yeah, I value our friendship too.”

“Now you listen to me, I’m not going to stand for any more of your bullshit. You show up for the camp, on time, fucking sober, okay?”

“Or what?”

“Or you’re fired. I’m not kidding around. I’ve tried to be nice. I’ve tried to be patient. I’ve overlooked your drinking on the job, your unprofessional conduct and the fact that you don’t show up or if you do, you show up late. And I don’t want to remind you but I’ve even overlooked what happened back in Connecticut. You were accused of having an affair with a student. A minor, Graham. I know it’s not true. I know that. But it doesn’t matter. It does not look good period. But despite it all, I gave you a fucking job at my school. I risked my reputation for you. Because you’re my friend and I wanted to help you. But it’s time for you to pay me back for that. It’s time for you to pay me back for the favor I did you. Because it was a favor, understand? Don’t make me regret having your back.”

The silence is slashed with heavy breaths.

A second later, I hear rapidly moving footsteps, followed by the loud bang of the door closing.

I’m glad it was loud. Otherwise I would’ve given myself away. My broken, loud sob would’ve told everyone that I was here.

Listening and hiding.

The girl who ruined Mr. Edwards’s life. The girl with poison lips and stupid teenage dreams.

He was right the other night. I took away his peace. I am a nightmare. A nightmare he can’t forget or outrun or out-sleep.

Not when he’s reminded of it at every turn. Not when he has to live with it.

Tears are streaming down my face, too quick for me to wipe them off. But I do. I do wipe them off because I didn’t come here to cry.

I came here to face him. To face his wrath, to face what I did to him.

I came here for him.

And he needs me now. I have to go to him.

In a daze, I come away from the wall I’ve been hiding behind. I climb up the steps in a trance. I walk down the creaking hallway that he took not ten minutes ago.

I reach the living room just as I hear another sound. Louder than the bang of the door. Shriller, higher. It’s the sound of something being smashed and wrecked into countless pieces.

It’s the sound of Mr. Edwards throwing his liquor bottle on the floor.

He’s standing at the kitchen island. The island that’s buried under tens and tens of liquor bottles. They are littered almost everywhere. On the counters, by the trashcan. The smell of alcohol hangs thick and heavy in the air.

When I look back at Mr. Edwards, I see he’s watching me. His chest is heaving and that burly body of his has somehow grown in a matter of minutes.

“Are you an alcoholic?” I ask in a small voice, knowing the answer already.

Each time I’ve seen him, he’s been with a bottle. He drank so much whiskey just now but hardly anything happened to him.

He looks sober. Except for the tangy, addictive smell and the dilation of his pupils, I can’t see any more effects.

Actually, no.

I’m wrong.

There are effects. He’s lost weight. That’s why his cheekbones look sharper now. There are even little pits under his eyes.

Now that I understand this, I can see him clearly.

I can see how he’s let himself go. How long his hair is, messy and dark. How untamed his beard is. How angular his jaw looks. How his collarbone juts out, how his entire body has been reduced to sharp bones and muscles. No room for any softness.

He looks savage. Beautiful but uncivilized.