The Writing Retreat(3)
“Welcome, everyone.” Ursula’s agent, Melody, had a commanding voice and everyone quieted down immediately. As she introduced Ursula, I kept an eye on the crew. Watching them gave me an unexpectedly powerful ache. The friend breakup with Wren hadn’t just been between the two of us; I’d lost all our mutual friends too.
I should’ve known; it was unthinkable now that I hadn’t. After all, the night of Wren’s birthday had ended in arcs of blood, splattering black in the moonlight.
People were applauding. I shook myself and clapped along as Ursula strode across the stage in iridescent platform boots. “Guys, seriously, thank you so much for being here.” Her low voice was often sardonic, but now it was resonant with sincerity. “You are all amazing people and sometimes I have to pinch myself that I have such an incredible support network.” As Ursula continued speaking, I took another gulp of beer, realizing it was almost gone. I hadn’t eaten since lunch, and the alcohol was making me woozy in the overheated room.
“Okay!” Ursula raised her glass. “I know at book parties you’re supposed to read an excerpt and blah blah blah, but why don’t we skip that boring part tonight and just party?” She laughed at the ensuing wolf whistles. “Awesome. Let’s go ahead and mingle, then! Oh, and buy a book or three!” Amidst cheers, Ursula left the stage and the crowd dispersed, many making for the bar. I watched Wren’s crew join the signing line, still oblivious to my presence. If Wren was here, she’d be with them. So she wasn’t here. She must be traveling, at a photo shoot, doing something she was probably already posting about. And, no, I wasn’t going to immediately check. The confirmation made me relieved but also unexpectedly disappointed.
“This is wild,” I told Pete, attempting to distract myself as we joined the back of the signing line. “Ursula’s last reading was in the basement of a bookstore in Greenpoint with bottles of Two-Buck Chuck.”
“At least they had free alcohol.” Pete held up his own empty glass. “Want another IPA?”
“Sure.” Finally, I could relax. This called for at least another drink, maybe more.
Ursula’s publicist strode down the line with a stack of books. I bought two copies, one for Pete. The smooth, weighty hardcover showed a picture of Ursula on a vintage red-velvet couch. She sat cross-legged in ripped denim overalls, gazing unabashedly into the camera. A hungry, wolfish feeling reared up in my gut. What would it feel like to hold your own book in your hands for the first time? For it to be a physical object, a thing that people paid for?
I glanced up, feeling eyes on me. The crew was staring at me, surprised and faintly disgusted, like I was a racoon that had wandered into their living room. Only Craig was looking at someone else—
Wren. He was looking at Wren.
The world blurred, and for a moment it was just me and her. There was something glinting in her eyes, a reflection of the pain and loss that I so keenly felt. A sob rose up in my throat at the realization that she felt it, too, that she did miss me, that she, too, wanted nothing more than for us to grasp each other in a tight, desperate hug, pulled back together like two powerful magnets.
But then a wall came down. The pain shifted into something else, something darker: revulsion.
Don’t touch me. I’d been drunk that night but could still remember her voice with perfect clarity. How she’d hissed the words from between clenched teeth. How literally moments later she’d been lying in a spreading pool of blood.
I felt frozen, unable to look away. Wren turned and said something to Craig. He laughed and looked relieved. The others moved inward towards her, though Ridhi glowered at me a few seconds longer.
The beer gurgled in my stomach. I turned and raced towards the bathroom, making it to a stall just in time. Yellow liquid frothed in the bowl. I sat on my knees and wiped my mouth. I was still clutching the books.
Slowly, I stood and flushed the toilet. At the sink a pretty girl washed her hands and avoided looking at me. She must have heard my retches. I wanted to burst into tears but I kept them firmly down.
What had I expected? For Wren to smile and ask if I wanted to be friends again?
We were over. Forever. I knew that now.
A text pinged. Hey where are you? Can’t find you. Pete. Leaning against the sink, I wrote back with shaky fingers. I just saw someone I didn’t want to run into. Mind if we leave?
Sure! came the instant reply. Sounds like we need to get you another drink.
Chapter 2
My phone rang, a tinny guitar riff that made me grit my teeth. I rolled over in bed and groaned. I had a headache, the type that felt like hot metal spikes through my skull. I silenced the ringtone, noting the string of text messages from Pete.
3:00 a.m.: Let me know you got home safe
4:00 a.m.: Alex??? You okay?????
7:00 a.m.: Please call me when you see this, I’m serious
Memories from the night before poured in. Guzzling more beers at a pub down the street and feeling good, better than I had in days, weeks, months? Pete and I chatting with the bartender, an actual Irish dude who’d given us shot after shot of whiskey. Making eyes at him, even though he couldn’t have been more than twenty-two, and him grinning back at me as he poured, as if telling me he knew what I wanted and he wanted it too.
But then somehow Pete and I had ended up in a cab, furiously making out. We’d gone to his apartment, which was in Manhattan, stumbling straight to his bed, suddenly naked.