The Other Side(46)

She nods proudly. “Killed him and buried him in the woods behind our house.”

I snort; it’s not a laugh but it’s close.

Which makes her laugh and change her story. “Okay, I didn’t kill him. But Melinda and I did publicly humiliate him when we both broke up with him at the same time during a pep assembly at school.”

“Good. For not committing murder and the breakup public humiliation style,” I encourage.

“What about you? Tell me about your first girlfriend.”

She hands me the bottle and I take a big gulp. “I’ve never had a girlfriend,” I answer truthfully.

Her head turns my way and the look on her face is incredulous. “Really?”

“Really,” I confirm. It’s true; I’ve never had a girlfriend. I’ve never been interested in having a girlfriend. And no one has ever been interested in having me fill that role. Fill other physical roles? Yes. But never the boyfriend role.

“But you’ve kissed girls, obviously.” She wiggles her eyebrows in an adorable cartoony villain way. “And there’s no way you’re a virgin,” she adds, shaking her head. “No way.”

“A gentleman never tells.” The tone of my voice was supposed to be serious, but it comes out teasing instead. I guess the vodka is starting to work its magic and loosen me up.

That makes one corner of her mouth lift in admiration. “Good answer, Toby.” Then she motions with her hand for the bottle and after taking another sip, followed by the same cringe, she asks, “Who was your first kiss?”

“I’m a gentleman, remember?” I counter.

Her features are softer, slackened the tiniest bit. She looks more approachable than anyone I’ve ever known. Even Nina. Like I could tell her anything and she would never judge me for it. “You are.” It’s sincere affirmation.

“Her name was Isabelle. She lived in the apartment across the hall from us.” My voice is quiet as I dust off the memories. I haven’t thought about her in years.

“How old were you?” she asks as she hands me back the bottle.

I pause to throw back one last shot’s worth and set the bottle on the nightstand because we’ve both had enough for now. “Fourteen, almost fifteen.”

She shifts to face me, propping her head up on the pillow. “How old was she?”

Reaching behind her I take hold of the quilt draped over the side of the bed and pull it over the top of her. “Thanks,” she whispers as she snuggles in.

“Older than me,” I answer vaguely.

“Seventeen?” she guesses.

“Close enough,” I answer. She was twenty.

She opens her mouth to say something but then stops.

I’m watching her closely because my thoughts and words are flowing freely thanks to the vodka and I’m worried this is where the judgment begins. “What?”

“Was it consensual?” she asks quietly like she fears my answer. Like she fears for me. For what I may have been through.

“Yes,” I answer honestly. “The first time she asked me to help her move a big chair she’d bought at Goodwill into her apartment. I did and she kissed me.”

“Was that the only time?” The concerned look is still on her face.

“No. It went on for a few weeks. And then one day she was gone. Evicted. I never saw her again.”

The truth is we had sex the second time I went to her apartment. And many times thereafter. I knew it was wrong. I knew it was illegal on her part. But at the time, it didn’t feel that way. It felt like an escape. It felt good to be needed. To be wanted. To make someone happy. I was always the invisible kid outside our apartment and the focus of my mom’s rage inside it. In Isabelle’s apartment, in her bed, I wasn’t either of those. She saw me and there was no rage.

“Did you love her?” The concern is still there. Not jealousy, just concern.

“No,” I answer without remorse because I didn’t.

“Did she love you?” she asks.

I pause for a few seconds because I’ve never thought about it. “No. I think she was just lonely. Like me.” It’s an alcohol-laced, free-flowing add-on.

She nods in understanding. “Have you ever been in love, Toby?”

Sadly, I don’t have to think the question over before answering. “No. Have you?”

“You mean other than Simon Le Bon?” she teases to lighten the somber mood I’ve draped over us.

I almost laugh. “Yeah, other than the Simon Le Bon lusting phase.”

She shrugs the shoulder that’s free and the quilt moves over it. “I’ve had three boyfriends and each time I thought I was in love. I thought they were the one,” she sings the words to emphasize how silly the idea was, “and that we would be together forever.”

“What do you think now?” I probe. My inhibitions have been freed; inebriation will do that.

“I think I lent my heart to boys who didn’t know how to treat it or me.” There’s a touch of melancholy in her voice.

“And they returned it to you worse for wear?” I don’t like the thought of Alice being mistreated.

She readjusts and tucks her hands under the pillow to get comfortable, and Alice’s confident side shines bright in the smile that peeks out. “I like to think they returned it to me wiser. Because I know I won’t settle in the future—that I deserve all of the effort, attention, and respect that I show them in return. It’s a two-way street. Love isn’t lopsided. Infatuation is.”