The Writing Retreat(4)
The next part was blurrier, but I knew that we’d had sex. Afterwards, I’d freaked out and left, wasted but determined to get home.
I pulled my phone closer and typed. Hey Pete. I’m okay. Thanks for checking in.
He started writing back, then stopped.
I moaned, burying my face in my damp, sweaty pillow. The one friend I’d managed to make after my excommunication from Wren’s coterie, and now I’d ruined that too. How was I going to be able to go back to work? How was I going to be able to look him in the face after forcing him to call me those names? Slut. Cunt. Whore.
I emailed my boss, Sharon, letting her know I’d woken up with a fever—untrue but close—and pulled myself out of bed to crack the windows. The radiators in the apartment were always tropical in the wintertime, no matter how far I turned them down. I stumbled to the bathroom and stepped into the shower, letting the water strip my greasy skin.
You like that, don’t you? Pete’s voice in my ear as he thrust into me from behind. You like that, you little…
“Stop,” I said out loud. When I got out of the shower, I felt a little better, though my stomach still roiled. I made ginger tea and settled onto the couch, grateful that my roommate was over at her boyfriend’s. I had a voicemail notification from the night before: Ursula.
“Al!” Her voice was barely audible over thudding music. “Where are you? We’re out at Simone’s! Right by you. Anyway, I’m with some people…” Her words melted into mutterings as she spoke to someone else. “They’re telling me you were at the book party but bounced? And that you and Wren still aren’t talking? What is this, middle school?” Craig’s laughter in the background. “Anyhow, I want you here, so you should come immediately. Also, I have to tell you something cool: I just found out from Melody, my agent… say hi, Melody!” A warm “Hiiiii.” “Get this: Melody knows Roza Vallo’s agent! Isn’t that amazing? I’m trying to finagle a visit to Blackbriar… oh, okay. I have to go; they’re telling me I have to go. Call me or text me, okay?” More sounds of music, laughter, screams, then nothing.
I smiled, remembering nights out at Simone’s, a dirty dive that turned into a dance party after midnight. It would get hot and sweaty and disgusting, but we didn’t care, because we were more often than not absolutely sloshed. Wren and I would find ourselves there if the earlier parts of the night had been a bust, meaning we hadn’t yet met cute boys. There were always boys there, reliably attractive, though maybe that was due to the hours of drinking beforehand.
I called Ursula back.
“Hey.” Her voice was subdued, a marked contrast to the voicemail.
“Hey.” I stretched out my legs. “Just got your voicemail.”
“Voicemail?” She chuckled. “Oh my god, yeah. We were at Simone’s and I really wanted you there. Where were you?”
“Yeah, I’m sorry. I got wasted and ended up making bad decisions with a coworker.” I blew out my breath, attempting to sound breezy. “Anyway, I wanted to call and say congratulations! I am so proud of—”
“Hold up, who’s this guy? They said they saw you there with someone.”
“?‘They’? You got the full report from Wren?” The thought gave me a flash of unease.
“Well, Craig.” She coughed and said a soft thank-you, presumably to her girlfriend Phoebe, then sipped something. The sound buzzed and crackled. “Missed you last night.”
“I’m really sorry.” Shame washed over me. “I wanted to see you, obviously, and celebrate with you. But then I saw Wren and kind of freaked out.”
“Okay.” She sighed. “So this is really still a thing? Because of what went down at her birthday? I don’t get it. That was an accident. Horrific, yes. But an accident.”
“It was.” Which wasn’t exactly true. I pushed the growing panic down into my core.
“And you guys were so close. I mean, I’ve grown apart from people before. It happens. But you guys were like sisters.”
“Yeah. It was pretty unexpected.” The recurring ache reared up in my chest, all the way to my throat. I swallowed, driving it back down. I didn’t want to think about this, much less talk about it.
“I told Wren you guys should get a third-party person and sit down and talk about it,” Ursula went on musingly. “Maybe couples counselors do that. Or I could even do it if you wanted.”
“You told her that?” I asked, my curiosity piqued. “What’d she say?”
Ursula paused. “You know what? I do not remember.”
“Listen.” I forced a smile. “Enough about our drama. Really, it’s fine and we will both survive. I want to know about you: living in LA, book events… I’m really excited to read your book, by the way!”
“Yeah, let me know what you think. I feel like they rushed it and I had to write the last two essays in, like, a day.” She snorted. “Things are good. Some podcasts and interviews and whatnot coming up, which still make me feel awkward. But I guess that’s the writer life. I actually wanted to ask you: How’s your writing going?”
“Good,” I lied, bright.
“Did you apply for that fellowship I sent you a few months ago?”
“I did,” I lied again. The shame returned, heavy and damp. Another topic to make me feel horrible about myself. Then, to change the subject: “Also, wait, you were talking about Roza Vallo last night? Your agent knows her?”