Seven Days in June(41)

“Do you have amnesia?” Genevieve said, smirking.

“Yo,” he said, “my short-term memory is so fucked.”

“Ketamine is a terrible habit.”

“Life is a terrible habit,” he said, a reckless glint in his eye. “Wanna go down to the pool and get fucked up?”

Before she could answer, Genevieve’s phone buzzed again.

“Yes, let’s go swimming!” she said quickly. “But what about your cast?”

“Saran Wrap,” he said with a shrug. “Will swimming hurt your head, though? I don’t wanna make it worse.”

Genevieve rested her chin on his arm. She gazed up at him with a soft expression, a trace of a smile playing on her lips.

“No one ever asks,” she said quietly. “I’ll be fine. But how fucked up are we getting? What if we drown?”

Shane couldn’t respond. He was tangled up in her face. He lost track of the conversation completely, hopelessly captivated by her onyx eyes, her languid energy, the buzzing warmth of her skin against his.

What if we drown?

He already had.

Genevieve’s phone buzzed again. This time, she shot Shane an apologetic look and yanked the phone from her backpack. From the bed, Shane saw the name LIZETTE flash across the screen. She muted the phone and tossed it on the chair. And stood there, rubbing her temples with her knuckles. Her mood had changed. She was radiating anxiety.

“Does your friend have anything for pain?” She sounded vague and far away. “I don’t have my pills.”

Shane reached under the bed for Annabelle’s stash and crawled out of the bed, handing Genevieve the baggie labeled NUMB. “Yeah, I sold her most of this shit. I’ll just restock later.”

“Thanks.” With downcast eyes, she grabbed a switchblade-sized pouch from her backpack, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Preoccupied, she started scratching her inner arm, the skin blazing an angry red.

“Genevieve. You good?” he asked, moving closer.

“No!” She raised her hand, stopping him. “I mean, yes. I just…need to…use the bathroom. Give me a minute.”

Nodding, he said, “Whatever you need to do.”

Genevieve walked across the buffed-to-perfection wood floors to the adjoining bathroom, the interior of which was outfitted in Burberry-plaid wallpaper and gold fixtures. She shut the door behind her.

He knew what she was doing in there. He wanted to stop her, but it was none of his business. On the one hand, they were currently sharing a space. But on the other, it would be hypocritical of him to dictate which destructive behaviors were or weren’t appropriate.

Clutching the vodka, Shane knocked on the bathroom door. “Can I just stand here? On the other side of the door?”

The silence lasted too long. Shane wondered if he could break down the door if he had to.

“Why?” Genevieve’s voice sounded weak.

“So you’re not alone.”

“Really?” She paused. When she spoke again, her voice was closer. “Yeah, I guess.”

Shane leaned his back against the door. Scratching his jawline, plucking at his bottom lip, cracking his knuckles. “You wanna talk, or…”

Just then, he felt a Genevieve-sized pressure on the other side of the door.

“Okay.” She sounded close enough to touch. “Let’s talk.”

“Twenty questions,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’ll go first. What kind of French are you? Haitian? Algerian?”

“Louisiana.”

“Your dad’s from Louisiana?”

“My dad’s unknown.”

“So’s mine.”

“Ever wonder who yours is?”

“Nah, I’m good. The concept of ‘father’ just feels made up, like Santa or the Easter Bunny.” Shane tapped the bottle against his leg. “Never believed in those niggas, either.”

“When I was little,” said Genevieve, “I wished he was Mufasa.”

Shane paused. “I’m gonna say something controversial.”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t seen The Lion King.”

“It’s just…victors write history, right? What if Mufasa was the bad guy? And we don’t know, ’cause he’s the star of the story? ‘Circle of Life’ feels like propaganda to put working-class animals in their place. Like, shut the fuck up, you’re meant to be eaten. Maybe I’m buggin’.”

“You’re not buggin’; you’re a psychopath,” she said, but he could hear a smile in her voice. “My turn. Do you know your mom?”

“Nah. Orphan. You got a mom?”

Her silence felt heavy. “Sometimes.”

“Better than nothing, right?”

“Debatable,” she sighed. “My turn. Any hidden talents?”

Shane tapped his bottom lip, wondering if he was going to admit this to her.

“I can sing,” he confessed haltingly. “Really sing. On some smooth R&B shit. Like, no matter the song—it could be ‘Happy Birthday’—my voice comes out sounding like Ginuwine. It’s fucking embarrassing.”

Genevieve wailed with laughter. “Sing something! A big song, like ‘End of the Road.’ The ‘Thong Song.’ ‘Beautiful’ by Aguilera.”