Liam and I were still avoiding each other. It felt like the breakup all over again. We were casually aloof, taking conversation elsewhere if our clusters collided at Clementine’s, brushing hands like a formal handshake if we swung toward each other in the ballroom. Though I’d felt relief through his fingers the first time he saw me there, he must’ve backed off thanks to the guilt over our last conversation I returned in exchange. He might’ve been waiting for me to call off my demand for space.
So, every chance touch after that, he tucked an unspoken question into my hand: How about now?
But I always replied, Not yet. Until one night, I didn’t. Rather than let go, I held onto his hand. It might’ve been the heat of the dancers around us, or just the fact that neither of us had made a bad decision for a hot minute. I couldn’t tell who thought of it first. As we held each other’s gaze, circling, we leaned in close.
Then I thought better of it. At least, I hoped it had been me. I let go. Neither of us went far, still dancing together. He’d never moved this well in life, no longer inhibited by his size, unafraid of toppling anyone over as he weaved and bobbed weightlessly. Everyone nearby sensed to give us a wide berth, and I could feel when to lean away and close back in, matching his waving hands and swinging feet.
We were so in tune, we didn’t want to part. Usually, that meant I’d found my partner for the night, and we’d get a room. Instead he asked, “Wanna grab a drink?”
I spirited us straight to Clementine’s. We didn’t stop dancing through the crowd, getting real smashed so fast, already stumbling and laughing like we were approaching the end of a long day and even longer night, years ago.
I considered apologizing for our last talk. But nothing I’d said had been untrue. I also didn’t exactly want to remind him and bring the mood down. Just showing up at all might’ve been enough of a concession for him.
“Nice of you to finally join us,” he said. “I missed the old you.”
“Right back at ya.”
I’d nearly forgotten he’d gone off and gotten married, not to mention had a kid. It felt like no time had passed at all. As if we’d never stopped partying, or even playing.
I didn’t mind pretending that our last conversation had never happened. Let alone the last few years.
“Let’s go back,” I said, grabbing his hands.
He must’ve felt what I meant, through my touch, but still needed to ask. “Uh, where?”
Back in time to the band house, shotgunning beer in the backyard, or crowding around the slightly lopsided pool table in the basement of our favorite dive bar, or wandering around shouting and laughing on the streets of a strange city as we searched in vain for someplace to eat in the wee hours of the morning. Those places felt the closest I’d ever come to finding a home. Even the strange streets, as long as I walked them with my family.
Though the floor-bound mattress of a certain nearly empty little apartment came pretty close. Just like the rest, I couldn’t go back there.
“We’re good right here,” said Liam.
“It’s not the same.”
As much fun as I’d been having, I meant it. Drinking didn’t feel the same without tasting the burn of alcohol, waking up with no consequence the next morning. Fucking didn’t have the same thrill, knowing the other person’s thoughts, love bites and bruises disappearing all too soon. And I couldn’t call any of the other partygoers family.
“You’re right,” he said, like he meant it. “It’s even better.”
I did my best to hide a shudder. “You sure?”
“This is what we’ve always wanted,” he said, with a light in his eyes that I recognized from the old days. I’d always thought of it as the reflection of our stars rising. “We’ve got no attachments, no responsibilities, and no more hangovers.” He took my hands and swung us around. “It’s a party that never ends.”
As much as I wanted to go along for the ride, something still weighed me down. “What about your folks?”
Siblings always grew up and went their own way, even if they were supposed to come back together in times of joy and grief. But he’d started his own family, baby and everything. They’d depended on him.
His shrug made my stomach twist in unease. “What about ’em?”
“You haven’t been checking in?”
He gave an incredulous shake of the head. “Why would I do that?”
I had to swallow down a wave of nausea, my guts writhing. “Don’t you care how they’re holding up?”
He didn’t look so carefree anymore. There was tension along his jaw, darkness in his eyes overtaking the light. “What could I do about it? They might as well be the ones who died, not me. Isn’t moving on what I’m supposed to do?”
He had a point. I’d been trying to do the same.
We stood helplessly for a moment, all but wringing our hands for want of a drink to hide behind. As if possessed, we both sought immediate distraction—which happened to be each other’s lips.
That sated some of my longing for old times, as well. He tasted the same as ever. But no matter how hard he fronted, he still cradled the memory of his wife in the back of his mind. I could almost taste her myself.
We broke apart again.
“This isn’t working,” I said.
He shook his head at me sadly. “I keep forgetting we’re so much better with some space between us.”
“We never should’ve dated.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” That took me aback. “Just because we didn’t stay together, that doesn’t mean it didn’t matter. You weren’t the one, but who’s counting?”
He probably meant for that to be comforting. I didn’t expect how his words landed, like they’d knocked something loose in my chest. It choked me, until I had to cough it up.
“I never met the one.”
At least, not while I lived.
“There is no ‘the one,’ ” he said. “You had lots of ones.”
Except I hadn’t stayed with any of them for the rest of my life.
“What about your wife?” I asked. “Isn’t she the one?”
“She could’ve left me, or died first, and maybe I would’ve been too depressed to try and date again, especially as a single dad, but then what if I bumped into somebody at the grocery store? Or if my baby’s kindergarten teacher turned out to be hot? Even if I remarried, it’s not like I would’ve been happy about my first wife being out of the picture. Or that I’d wish we’d never even gotten together, especially since our baby wouldn’t exist. And I never would’ve met my second wife if all that hadn’t happened. Or I wouldn’t have been ready to love her, if I hadn’t learned from all my other ones—especially you.”
He’d clearly put a lot of thought into all that.
“But you’re the one who died,” I said.
“Why do you think I’ve been beating myself up over this? I might not have been the one for her. And that’s fine. Like I said: Who’s counting?”
“I can’t help it,” I said. “It must be easy for you to ignore the numbers when you did settle down with just one person. I didn’t.”
He looked at me with what might’ve been envy. “You were considerate enough to die alone.”
Ouch. After our last conversation, I’d deserved that. But it killed my buzz stone-dead.
* * *
It must’ve been winter by then. I couldn’t feel it, but I could see it. Frost rimed the dead leaves on the walls. Snow found its way inside, gathering like dust under windows and through cracks and holes in the ceiling, and in the cold of the dark, it didn’t leave. At Clementine’s, drinkers came in heavily padded, and struggled to find a home for their coats if they wanted to dance. They were playing all the usual seasonal songs on the jukebox.
None of the other ghosts acknowledged the time of year, except in their disdain for the music. I think it took them back, in a bad way. Whenever I ended up half naked in the upstairs bathroom again, trying to distract myself with someone I couldn’t call a stranger anymore even if I still didn’t know their name, their memories weren’t exactly a turn-on. It felt like flipping through a photo album I’d found, decades of living rooms full of families around the tree, except I could hear the same songs playing on their old radios and record players and stereos through the walls. We gave up trying to change the jukebox. We weren’t the only spirits trying to command the music.
More of us had family still living than I would’ve thought, some not far from joining us, and others they’d never gotten to meet—children grown up, grandchildren who would hear stories about them. We were drinking more than usual, dancing harder and fucking faster, trying like hell to forget.
I didn’t care much for the holidays. My mother had never gotten me anything I wanted, and no matter how much I tried, how long I crafted or how much I saved up, she’d never been impressed with any of my gifts, either. I did miss celebrating on the road with my bandmates, trying to crack each other up with the worst gift-shop kitsch we had time to find, wrapped in the same brown paper bags we got from the liquor store.
Cris and I had a no-gift rule. I’d been broke when we reconnected, and too prideful not to reciprocate any presents. Instead, last Christmas Eve, she bought the takeout, I brought the booze, then we watched It’s a Wonderful Life. After that, I’d told her to give Mom my loathing, and she’d steeled herself for dinner without me while I polished off the rest of the champagne.
If she wasn’t doing so well, there wasn’t much I’d be able to do for her, unless I could find another medium who I hadn’t strung along then promptly abandoned, and figure out just the right words to say to keep her from floundering. Besides, I’d just gotten to a stage of grief that I rather enjoyed. It wouldn’t do to backtrack. I tried to ignore the urge to cheat, check in on her just the once, natural cycle be damned.
But one night, I spirited in to find it empty at Clementine’s. Rather, there were no breathers, the bar closed. The piano still rattled away upstairs, laughter the living wouldn’t be able to hear echoing in the rare silence. It had to be Christmas Eve.
I’d have no shortage of company tonight, even if we’d be having a dry evening. As I lingered in the relative quiet of the empty first floor, I couldn’t help but wonder if it was just as silent for Cris. Whether she’d be on her own tonight, unable to go home.
I half-expected to find her drinking alone in her apartment, keeping the bottle all to herself without me. But when I spirited to her, she wasn’t home. I found myself at another party.
Somebody had decked out a sleek, minimalist condo with miniature white and gold trees and big silver ornaments hanging like disco balls from the ceiling. All the milling and laughing and dancing guests broke the monochrome color scheme wearing their holiday best, plenty of flamboyant red and green, a good bit of white trim fringing bared skin. I wished the host luck with the post-party cleaning bill, watching a girl spill her cocktail on a white couch as she climbed up to dance.
I almost didn’t recognize Cris. She’d made up for her Halloween costume by going all out with Santa-inspired crimson velvet, complete with a hat. I’d never seen her wear a dress so short, even with the striped tights underneath.
And I’d rarely seen her so cozy with a guy, either. The blandly handsome white guy with an arm stretched behind her on the couch was dressed more modestly in a regular black suit, boring in comparison to everyone else. Their knees were touching. She didn’t do that even with established boyfriends, always leaving room for Jesus.
Vicki approached in a matching dress, though on her the neckline plunged way further out. A giggling, green-haired girl trailed behind her, hand in hand.
“I’m outta here,” said Vicki. “Don’t forget to text me.”
Cris all but rolled her eyes. “Sure, Mom.”
Vicki pointed a finger at the guy. “Treat her right and make her come at least twice, or I will find you.”
He burst out laughing. If he hadn’t taken it well, I would’ve been suspicious. That was probably why she’d said it in the first place.
Cris hid behind her hand, going red. Vicki blew a kiss and waggled her fingers before sashaying away with her friend in tow.
“Friend of yours?” asked the suit.
“She’s my roommate,” said Cris, still red-faced.
So she’d moved out, after all. She could do worse than living with my ex. Even before we’d gotten together, she’d looked out for me. Always checking in to make sure no one had roofied my drink, holding my hair back whenever I curled up sick around the toilet, fetching me water and aspirin in the morning.
Maybe if I’d stayed with her, she might’ve slowed my spiraling better than my bandmates had. More likely, I wouldn’t have listened to her, either. But my sister wasn’t as much of a handful as me.
“Looks like she won’t be home, then,” said the suit.
Cris sounded breathy with nerves. “Guess not.”
He reached to brush a strand of hair out of her face. She let him. He leaned in, and she permitted that, too, closing her eyes. I turned away as they locked lips, not wanting to see any more.
She wasn’t doing too bad, after all. Apparently, we were in the same surprisingly enjoyable stage of grief. We just weren’t meant to share it.