Birthday(44)

I guess my instinct was to call Eric. My stomach voices its displeasure even more at that. Now that I’ve purged my system with adrenaline and pain, I feel pretty clear-headed and rational, at least compared to a few minutes ago. The things I said to him are actually starting to sink in. I was cruel to him, and what if that was the last straw? What if he doesn’t want to see me again?

My hand starts shaking. I have to apologize. I start dialing his number, trying to think of what to say that could possibly make this better, but the point is moot since the call goes to voice mail. He probably screened it because he’s mad at me.

Except I know what he’s doing tonight. I picture my name glowing on his cell as it vibrates pathetically on his nightstand. Either way I feel more alone in the universe than I ever have. I notice the voice message is still recording and suddenly it’s all too much to bear. I drop my phone on the concrete, raise my good foot, and stamp it until the screen goes dark.





ERIC



Susan presses her face into my shoulder and lets out a soft, muffled giggle as I unlock my front door, filling my body with warmth, most of the night’s stress and shame happily melting away with the smell of lavender and mango. I’d picked her up at her house, all smiles and bouncy ponytail. We drove back to mine, noticing both my parents’ cars are still gone from the driveway.

“Is anybody home?” Susan whispers so loud I’m sure the neighbors can hear her.

“Nope,” I say as we step inside. Dad was at the game, and then went out drinking with his work buddies. Mom is at one of her book clubs, which really just means she’s drinking white wine with her friends.

My girlfriend throws herself over the couch with a happy squeal and kicks her legs, then fixes me with a half-lidded, flirtatious gaze.

“Well then,” she says as she slithers off the back of the couch and leans against the arm, her eyes glittering. “How about I give you your present right here, right now?”

I sit on the arm of the couch, cup my hand around the back of her neck, and kiss her deeper than it feels like I ever have, trying to transform all my sadness from watching Morgan break down into something else. This can be something else, I tell myself. “Let’s go upstairs.”

Once we’re in my bedroom, Susan shoves me lightly and I fall back on the bed, where she crawls up and hovers above me, her face a silhouette against the lamp above. Then she climbs on top of me, slowly unbuttons her shirt, and casts it aside.

We’re really doing this. Okay. Okay.

My mind buzzes, every other thought I’ve ever had in my life cast aside. My body feels like it’s on fire. I want this, and I can tell Susan wants this too.

“Go slow,” she whispers, and all I can do is nod.



* * *



It feels like a blast furnace in my room. I wipe sweat from my face and rub the back of her neck.

“I need water,” she says as she rolls to the side. “Could you be the best boyfriend on earth and get me a glass of water?”

“Your wish is my command,” I say. I slip on my boxers and head to the kitchen. My heart is still pounding and I can’t help but think that was amazing. When I return, I find Susan sitting cross-legged on my bed, my guitar across her lap, strumming at the strings.

“You never play anymore,” she says. “How come?”

“I dunno. I guess I grew out of it.” I take the guitar from her and it’s dusty from being stuck in a corner for at least a year. I palm a few chords and hum, the pleasure of playing coming back to me.

“That sounds good,” she says, her eyes hooded. “You look good too.”

I feel my cheeks turn red and smile sheepishly. She reaches out her hand and I take it, placing the guitar against my bed. Susan curls into me, lying down and pulling my hand across her chest, her head facing the window. I join her and we lay in silence, her back pressed against my chest, just listening to the sound of our breathing as we drift to sleep.

I’m almost completely unconscious when I hear my phone buzz on my nightstand. I grab it and see a text from Mom and, further back, a missed call from Morgan with a minute-long voice mail. My phone must have been under the blankets or something, because I wouldn’t have screened him. I listen to the message, but it’s just static rustling that ends in a sickening crunch—What the hell?

I listen to it again, trying to get a sense of what happened to Morgan, why he called in the first place. Anyone else might think this was a butt dial. But it feels weird. Wrong.

Susan’s asleep on my arm, so I use one hand to text him back. You good?

Ten minutes later and there’s no response. I try calling him and the phone goes straight to voice mail. I watch the ceiling fan go around and around. Counting the minutes. I call again. Still no answer. That old, ominous pressure crawls up the back of my neck, like every nerve ending in my body is banging at the door to my head, demanding that I pay attention.

Susan rolls over and looks at me, her eyebrows quickly coming together in sleepy concern. “What’s up?” she asks.

I pause, unsure what to say. “I think there’s something wrong with Morgan.”





MORGAN



One of my teeth feels loose. I feel my face to see if something’s wrong. My hand comes away streaked with red. There’s rum and gin at home under Dad’s bed. That’ll help.