I Feel like a Giant Fool(s)—
an old-fashioned English dessert made with tangy gooseberries and sweet custard, served with a hangover that I wish was amnesia
Ow. Fucking ow.
My head feels like it’s one of those tin cans strapped to the back of a wedding car. My body is pulsing with the faint thumping of my dead heart and my torso is made of stomach acid. The extra time I gave myself this morning to beat Wilder to the bakery was pissed away by a sluggishness that can only be matched by a sleeping sloth. And so here I am, sitting in my car outside the bakery wondering if I stand, will I puke? And if I puke, will it be a relief or will I just lie down in it, making an art piece of myself to fulfill the townspeople’s expectations? My only solace is that the sun has yet to rise and mock me with its cheery rays of fuck you.
I peer at myself in my rearview mirror, only to discover that I look exactly the way I feel, and then I go about easing myself out of the car like I was nine months pregnant.
I’m never drinking again.
In fact, no one is. I’m burning down the bar. Both of them. Fuck all y’all.
I laugh halfheartedly. But the sudden movement hurts and I immediately return to cursing everyone I know and mostly myself. I make it through the door of the bakery with a distinct lack of elegance. And as I head around the counter and push through to the kitchen, the memory of my last conversation with Wilder hits me with stunning clarity.
“Don’t,” I say, as he turns around with a knowing look. “I can’t.”
His eyes smile, but he doesn’t breathe a word. He just turns back to his mixing bowl and leaves me to my misery. At my station, or at least the place on the counter where I was baking yesterday, there are two small black capsules and a giant glass of water. My eyes flit to Wilder in surprise, but the motion makes me queasy. I don’t bother asking him what it is; I just shove the vitamin-looking things in my face and down the water.
Jake holds my hand as we walk down the row of cars lining either side of Matt Mazzeo’s private dirt road. Matt lives in one of those big old farmhouses (that his dads transformed to have a gorgeous beachy interior) on the edge of town, tucked away behind a mess of trees that act as natural soundproofing for his parties.
Jake opens Matt’s front door for me, heat and music spilling out into the cool air. I lift my chin, pulling Jake in with me and wrapping my arm around his waist, replicating a shadow of the closeness we shared earlier, pleasantly surprised by how easy it all is. It’s not that I expected it to be awkward; it’s just that I thought it would be a bigger deal, weighty the way it had been with Wilder. But then again, Wilder and I only had sex twice. We didn’t rush, we were careful, and we made it mean something. Only that was absolute bullshit; it meant exactly nothing, as evidenced by him breaking up with me a couple of weeks later.
“Beer?” Jake asks, smiling down at me with his arm around my shoulders.
“You read my mind.”
He heads for the kitchen, and I pick my way through the living room, saying hellos and politely declining when Jenna waves me over to join her group on the dance floor. And for a flash of a moment, I miss Liv immensely. She was barely home this summer. Not that I can blame her for going to Europe with her Yale friends instead of hanging out with me in tiny Haverberry. But still, it feels like she’s a million miles away.
I sigh, some of the thrill of the evening dissipating, replaced by a wisp of anxiety. And that’s when I spot Wilder leaning up against a window chatting up some girl who will most likely become girlfriend number four this year, each relationship shorter than the last. For a moment, my anxiety blooms into something more, but I stuff it down, telling myself it’s fine and that I’m fine. And as though he could sense I was looking at him, he turns, halting whatever he was saying like he lost his train of thought mid-sentence.
Without breaking eye contact with me, he apologizes to the girl and maybe says he’ll be back? It’s hard to be sure because I can’t hear him over the music.
But when he takes a step in my direction, I pivot so fast that Jake doesn’t get a chance to announce his return, and I wind up smacking into his chest with a small yelp.
“Whoa there,” he says with a chuckle, rebalancing the cans of beer he’s carrying.
“Perfect timing,” I say, as I grab a beer and immediately chug it. When I don’t come up for air, he looks at me questioningly.
“Everything okay?”
I finish the beer before answering. “Of course, why wouldn’t it be?”
Jake’s eyeline drifts over my shoulder and back again in a way that makes me think he, too, sees Wilder. Only he’s not scowling, which means Wilder must have changed his mind about coming this way.
“Because you just crushed a beer in like ten seconds flat?”
I shrug. “I was thirsty.”
“Apparently,” he says, but when I don’t immediately offer up an explanation, he doesn’t pry.
“I’m going to get another. You good?” I ask, and when he nods, I stalk toward the kitchen, determined to get rid of this unsettled feeling any way I can.
I set to baking, gently and methodically pulling down ingredients and measuring them out. The only sound in the room is the clinking of spoons. Wilder and I work at our separate stations with our backs to each other. And slowly, after three glasses of water and about ten bathroom trips, the pain eases. At which point I deem it safe to speak.
“Thank you,” I say, turning away from my mixing bowl and the words feel odd. “I think that stuff actually helped.”
“Not a problem,” he says facing me. “Charcoal. It works wonders on hangovers.”
I reply with fake shock. “Am I to understand that Wilder Buenaventura has actually experienced the uncouth state of being hungover?” Besides the fact that he was an anti-teenager for the most part, (I’m pretty sure he popped out a mature thirtysomething?) not one to revel in bad alcohol mixtures or keg stands, he also seemed to just digest the stuff well. Even if he dared to get drunk, he woke up the next morning like it never happened. Deeply unfair.
“Awful things, really,” he agrees. “I believe I swore off drinking the last time.”
I grunt. “Yeah, that seems to be a thing . . . a thing that happened to me on my way here. I even considered burning down the town as retribution.”
“Well, now I’m doubly glad I brought the charcoal. I quite like this place.”
“Of course you do.”
He seems surprised by that. “And you don’t?”
I shrug, quasi-regretting starting this conversation; in a way, it feels too easy, even my attempt at distancing myself from him feels familiar in a way that makes me nervous. “I’m looking forward to leaving, if that answers your question.”
He watches me for a long second. “I remember you once told me that there was no place better. That traveling was great, and having experiences was everything, but that you’d always feel compelled to come back.”
Now it’s my turn at surprise; that was practically verbatim. “A lot has happened since then.”
“Maybe,” he says like he’s not sure he believes it.
“And I’m not convinced you love it as much as you claim,” I continue, even though I know I could fall back into silence and he’d do the same. “Haven’t you spent most of your adult life in Europe?”
His eyebrow lifts like he’s pleasantly intrigued. “Been keeping tabs on me, DeLuca? Seems like an odd thing to do with someone you dislike so much.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say, but it comes out more like a joking dig than a real one. “My parents gave me updates on you whether I wanted them or not.”
“Ah, forced updates,” he says with a light chuckle. “I’m certain that you told them you didn’t want to hear about me, and they just kept forgetting.”
My mouth opens because there is no way to refute that without looking foolish. “And what about you? First a ride home and now charcoal? Better be careful, Wilder, or I’ll think you’re actually trying to be nice to me.”
“And what if I am?” Wilder pauses like something just occurred to him. “Does that mean you or my sister won that bet?”
“Oh God,” I blurt out, feeling the acute pain of embarrassment all over again. “That’s not . . . I was drunk.”
He looks much too happy about my reaction. “So it would seem.”
I scowl at him. “You know what? I take back my thank you.”
“Noted.” But his eyes still smile, and despite my better sense, I feel drawn to them, like the mouse that dove greedily into the pudding and perished.
“At least one of us is amused,” I say, trying to regain my footing.
“I would venture to say both of us are.”
I stare at him, hesitating to continue this conversation that feels far too close to the banter and rapport we once shared as teens. But even sober, part of me is curious. “Okay, that’s it. Are you being friendly because you plan on poisoning my coffee later?”
His laugh is so real that we’re both caught off guard by it. “We’re working together—long hours and early mornings. I’m just trying to ensure you don’t stab me with a cookie cutter when I’m not looking.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I’ve considered it.”
“See,” he replies, holding his hands out. “As I said.”
“Hmmph,” is all I say, and after a beat, we both silently agree to go back to our work. But every once in a while, I feel him looking at me, and I catch myself looking at him, too.
I sway from my perch on Matt’s kitchen counter, surrounded by alcohol and a group of girls from my calc class.
“Preach,” I say with a hiccup as one of them makes an offhanded comment about how we need a fresh pool of guys in this town.
Noticing my cup is now empty, I attempt to slide off the counter, a motion which is neither smooth nor easy. I knock over a vodka bottle, just barely catching it before it rolls off the counter, but lose my footing in the process. Thankfully, someone steadies my arm before I do an imitation of a cartoon character on ice.
“I think we should get you some water,” Jake says, who I now realize is the one propping me up.
I grin at him. “I hear that stuff is overrated. Gets in the way of getting drunk.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” he says, looking like he might be concerned. “I think you accomplished that like a champ.”
“I did, didn’t I?” I say, hiccupping again and also sliding again.
Jake scoops me up then, just picks me up like it’s nothing.
I stare accusingly at the floor. “You know, it’s really not my fault the floor keeps moving like that.”
Jake chuckles, carrying me out into the hallway. “Totally the floor’s fault.”
I nod as we ascend the staircase, my head bobbing in rhythm with the steps, making me dizzier than I was a second ago. I press my forehead into Jake’s shoulder, trying to subdue the queasy feeling.
But as we enter the upstairs hallway, a voice cuts through the noise, “What do you think you’re doing?”
I lift my head to find Wilder blocking our path. I try to make out what he means, but I’m at a loss. And I’m vaguely annoyed, but I can’t remember the details of why.
“That would be exactly none of your business,” Jake replies, a hard edge in his tone.
Wilder doesn’t move. “You’re not taking her into one of those bedrooms, Jake.”
I blink. Huh?
“For fuck’s sake, Wilder,” Jake growls, now pissed off. “You really think I’d—” he stops short. “She needs to lie down and drink some water. She could barely stand in the kitchen.”
I look from one to the other.
“Then you won’t mind if I come with you,” Wilder says, not backing down.
“I do mind,” Jake snaps.
“Well then you’ll just have to get over it,” Wilder replies, opening the door to what looks like a guest bedroom.
Jake’s so tense that I can feel his shoulders lift, but he doesn’t continue the argument. He just steps through the door and lays me down on a baby blue bed.
“Ohhhh,” I say, finally catching up as my head sinks into the fluffy pillow. I turn to get a proper look at Wilder, who’s hardcore frowning. “You were worried?” I say like it makes no sense. “That Jake and I . . .” I laugh, but no one laughs with me. “Well, you can rest easy ’cause you’re about four hours too late on that one.”
It’s as though someone pressed the pause button, freezing everyone in place. Wilder’s face drains of color, and he looks so upset you’d think I’d smacked him.
I try to sit up, but the motion overwhelms me and the world sloshes back and forth in my vision. “I think—” I start, the queasy feeling returning tenfold. And suddenly I’m moving, tripping my way toward the bathroom. Someone helps me. Two someones? I don’t know.