Unbreak My Heart(4)

I press my hands together, turning myself into a beggar. “Yes, and I will. But for now, I could use a snack.”

My brother’s good friend—one of his closest friends—dips her hand into her pocket and glances around the living room as if sweeping the home for spies.

She takes out a Ziploc bag and presses it into my palm. “This is all I had handy at the hospital, and I could lose my job, so don’t say a word.”

“I’m a vault, Trina.”

“People say that . . .”

“But it’s true in this case. Only the dog knows my secrets, and she doesn’t talk.”

“Let’s keep it that way.”

I mime zipping my lips. “I’ll administer them sparingly.”

She narrows her eyes. “You better. I swear.”

Trina has been friends with my brother since they went to high school together. Since she helped him in science, and he helped her in history. Now, she has an MD and a soft spot when it comes to the dead’s younger brother.

Lucky me.

She heads to the kitchen, pours a glass of water, and thrusts it in my hand. “Just take half. I already split them.”

“Bless you and your pill-cutting skills.”

I fish around in the bag and find half a tablet. I swallow it, chasing it with water.

“I’m a good boy. I took all my medicine,” I say, but she doesn’t laugh.

She shakes her head. “Your brother would kill me.”

“He would understand. Trust me.” I’d hit his stash, but it’s long gone. Kate cleaned up quickly. That was the only thing she cleaned up quickly. All the other shit is up to me.

I gaze out at the pool, a sea of glistening flesh and fun. The problem is there’s no secondhand high from my friends. But maybe, just maybe, a welcome pharmaceutical haze will kick in shortly and . . . help me fake happiness.

“I need to go,” Trina says, with a reluctant smile.

“I love you madly. You know that?”

She laughs, shaking her head. “You don’t love me. You love my degree.”

I walk her to the door and open it. “Drive safely, okay?”

That’s easier than saying other things. Like, I hope you don’t lose your job and Thank you from the bottom of my cold heart. I hope it conveys my meaning as best it can.

She nods. “Bye, Andrew. Feel better.”

I wait till she’s inside her beater car, a ten-year-old Honda she hasn’t replaced yet since med school loans are sky-high, and once she’s gone, I turn around.

I could join the party.

I could jump in the pool.

I could crash a car, smash a model airplane, leave a restaurant without paying.

I’ve done all those, so tonight I choose something new.

I go up the stairs. I hear the noises from outside, the splashing and the laughing, the sounds of cans opening and voices rising in the celebratory din of the end of an era for most of us, as we nab our JDs and MBAs and finish our MDs, and then the sounds fade when I close my door, crank up some tunes, and tug off my T-shirt.

The room’s feeling fuzzy and warm, just the way I like it, because Dr. Trina’s goodies are kicking in.

I flop down on my bed, toss the goodie bag on the nightstand, and ask sleep to come visit me.

But sleep doesn’t come.

I close my eyes and see Holland, the woman who’s been back in town for the last several weeks.

I was supposed to forget her when she moved halfway around the world three years ago. I was supposed to let her slip from my mind.

I mostly did.

But then she returned, and the first day I saw her again, reading a book about Sandy Koufax to a too-skinny Ian since he was too tired to turn the pages, my heart tried to claw its way out of my chest and fling itself at her.

Now, courtesy of a text asking me if I want pie and a haircut, I’m replaying our greatest hits, as I have a thousand times since she returned a month ago. Mornings at the beach, afternoons in the pool, nights tangled up together. One perfect summer.

That was the deal. We both knew the score.

We went in with eyes wide open, with promises not to fall in love.

And we did it anyway.

Then we split, and she started to fade to black-and-white in my memories.

Now, she’s in technicolor again, and I love it, and I hate it, and I love it.

Her wavy blonde hair, her sky-blue eyes, her lips tasting like strawberry. Her smell—all pure, perfect, blonde California girl. Her laughter, throaty and rich. Her smile, radiant and a little sneaky too, like she knows all your secrets. Hell, she knew mine. She knew one nip on my ear, a hand around my waist, and I’d be ready. I was so fucking easy.

We were twenty-two then. All we wanted was each other. Images of her flick before my eyes—her skin, her lips, the curves of her body—but I don’t feel like jacking off.

Even that requires too much effort.

I watch the movie of her and imagine she’s riding me, her hands linked with mine, her hair tickling my face.

That’s nice. Yeah, that’s something.

My pulse beats faster, and it feels fantastic like this with imaginary Holland. Like I’m alive again, like I’m real again, like the earth is rotating around the sun again.

I’m aroused, and I’m half tempted to take care of this, but only half.