The Art of Losing(81)

Six shots and three beers in, when his eyes lost focus, I decided it was time for me to go to bed. I stood, but Mike reached for me. As I skirted his outstretched fingers, he grabbed the hem of my shirt, stretching it. I twisted away futilely until my shirt had risen farther up my stomach than I was comfortable with. I pushed at his hands, but Mike slid them up my bare skin instead, squeezing my breasts while his friends laughed.

“Doesn’t Harley have the best boobs?” he said. “It’s because she’s not skinny. My girl has meat on her bones.”

I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment. “Stop it,” I hissed, slapping his hands away.

But his large hand gripped me tightly around the wrist, and I squeaked in pain. “Don’t be like that, baby,” he slurred, sliding his free hand up my stomach again.

“Stop it!” I said as I twisted out of his grasp. “You didn’t think my boobs were the best when you were kissing Sofia.”

Mike’s friends shouted things like “Damn!” and “Burn!” and laughed at us, the drunk couple fighting at the party. I didn’t want to be part of that couple. I wasn’t even that drunk, but the alcohol was fueling the fire of my anger.

I headed for the kitchen. Mike followed me, but we didn’t get far enough away from everyone else before he accused me of being “no fun” and “focusing on the past.”

“I don’t give a shit if you think I’m fun,” I said through clenched teeth, knowing everyone was listening. “You’re wasted, you’ve been embarrassing me all night, and now you’re acting like an idiot.”

“I’m not an idiot,” he slurred. I hated the way he sounded when he was drunk. His mouth would get all twisted when he talked, as if there were silent syllables in the words, and he was tripping over each one.

“You are right now,” I said, turning to go to the bedroom we were sharing.

Mike wanted to keep arguing, but Ryan walked up behind him and distracted him long enough for me to make my escape. I shot Ryan a grateful look and he nodded, apology reflecting in his dark brown eyes.

Later that night, Mike knocked on the locked bedroom door and then started pounding on it when I ignored him. There was no point in talking to him when he was that drunk. He wouldn’t remember what he’d done the next day anyway. But I would.

Eventually, I heard Ryan convince him to sleep on the couch, and I made a mental note to buy Ryan all the iced coffee he could drink for the next year.

Something changed after that weekend. Mike grew less interested in hanging out in my parents’ basement watching movies, especially when he could be somewhere else, drinking. And I wasn’t at all interested in being where he was when he was drunk.

It was a widening chasm that would have soon been too wide to bridge. But not soon enough.





Chapter Nineteen



I drove the familiar route to Mike’s house with a knot in my stomach. He’d sent me a text in the middle of the night, just a Hi, but it was enough to make me act. I needed to tell him that I wasn’t fooled, that I knew he wasn’t sober and didn’t plan to be, and that I didn’t want to be a part of his life. I wasn’t looking forward to his reaction.

“Oh, Harley,” Ms. Baker said as she opened the door. “I was worried I might never see you again. How are you?”

“Okay,” I said. Ms. Baker held the door open for me and tried to pull me in for a hug on my way in, but I pulled away, apologizing.

“Don’t be sorry,” she said, closing the door and sealing in the cool air. “I know my anger can’t possibly compare to yours, but honestly, sometimes I can’t bear to even look at him.”

I tried not to look as taken aback as I felt. This was her perfect son she was talking about. I’d never heard her have anything but praise for him.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be telling you this,” she said. Her eyes misted with tears, and I finally opened my arms and gave her a quick hug. She sighed gratefully.

My throat was clogged, full of anger and sadness and pain. I was practically choking on it. But she didn’t wait for me to answer. She wiped her eyes and ushered me inside.

“I’m sure you’re not here to see me. Michael is downstairs playing video games.”

There was so much I wanted to say to her. To yell at her, really. But instead, I just watched her back as she headed toward the couch, settling in to watch TV.

From the top of the stairs, I could hear the sounds of the first-person shooter game Mike was playing in the basement. He was shouting at someone somewhere else in the world, something about “flanking his left.” I’m not sure even he knew what he was talking about.

I stepped around the couch until he could see me in his peripheral vision, but he did a double take anyway.

“Harley!” he said, dropping his controller. His eyes flew back to the TV as his character was violently shot, multiple times, in the head. I heard several groans through the earpiece. “Sorry, guys,” he said to the team he was playing with. “I gotta go.”

“Wow,” I said as he pulled off the headset and stood. “It used to take hours to get you to quit playing.”

He shrugged. “Maybe I’ve changed.” He smiled then, that glib, knowing smile that meant he knew he was doing something I wouldn’t like but was going to let him do anyway. I almost shuddered. How I had ever fallen for his charm, I couldn’t understand.