Memphis was a drag. All I wanted was to jump in the car and drive up to Derby...and see Logan.
Vera suggested we “dump Memphis tomorrow and go and check out some National Parks, like what you’re really supposed to do on a road trip, and make our way slowly up to Derby.” I didn’t need much convincing. We spent a few hours checking out Beale Street which, when you’re not looking for guys, gets old quick.
So we bought ourselves some beers and ready-made sangria and played Spin The Bottle in our motel room instead. I know, I know, how can you play that with two people? Well, the point was getting drunk, and being lovesick, which Vera did better than I thought I could.
When Vera’s tongue got loose, I got all the low-down and dirty skinny on her and Jake, and what really happened.
Wow. Girl’s in trouble. We lay on the carpet looking up at the spinning ceiling and she went on and on about how he took her shopping and took her to the mall and bought her jewelry and had someone prepare dinner for her, then they spent the night in bed and did it four times—“Four times, Ky!”—before finally passing out and doing it again every hour, on the hour until six AM when room service brought them breakfast and then they did it halfway between their meal.
I didn’t tell her me and Logan had surpassed that record.
“But I don’t love him,” she said. “He’s cool. And he’s a country singer, damn it. I mean, that’s hot, isn’t it?” She looked over at me, as if needing my approval. And I said, “It’s hot, Vera,” not really meaning it, but the smile on her face was worth it.
“I don’t know,” she said. With all the liquor she had pushed down, it came out as I djone know. “He was cool. He was nice. He was... Why can’t I stop thinking of him, Ky? Why, damn it?”
I didn’t want to say this next thing, but I had to. I had to. And for Vera, I’d do it. “You wanna go back?” I asked reluctantly. “To see him?”
“I can’t!” she howled. “He has a friggin tour or something.” She turned her body to its side and put her head on her palm. It fell. She tried again. It fell again. She tried one more time, and somehow managed to lean her cheek precariously on her palm. “Did he tell you he loves you, Ky? Logan?” Didjee tchell-you ee luvzhoo, kayee? Luggin?
I wasn’t that drunk. I’d had only a few beers. “No,” I said, looking up at the ceiling.
Vera swayed. Then: “Why not!” She was angry, real angry, and somehow I think it wasn’t about me and Logan.
I turned to face her, something dawning on me, something I wasn’t sure of but which was the only thing which made sense. “You told Jake you loved him, didn’t you?”
Vera’s eyes lolled left and right. I waited for my statement to make it through her liquor-induced haze. After what felt like a millennium, she said, “I told him I love him, y’know?” As if I hadn’t just asked that. “Because I did. I mean I do—did—do. Urgh. He was so in control with me, Ky.” Show in conchtrol wiff mee, kayee. “He was kind and, fuck it, I liked him, damn it. And I’d praise his Jesus for him. I don’t care. I could do that, y’know. Praise tha lawd!”
“I don’t think that’s how it works, Veer. That’d be a little hypocritical.”
“Oh, who gives a shit about hippo—hippo—hippo...” She burped. “Hippo-crick-i-ckal!” And then she laughed, and the conversation was forgotten, Vera repeating hippo-crick-i-ckal, hippo-crick-i-ckal, hippo-crick-i-ckal! and laughing in between. “Hippo-crick-i-ckal!” She fell onto her back, laughing, repeating the word, laughing, laughing, laughing.
I had heard Vera laugh many times before in the past. But not like this. And it wasn’t just the booze. It was something else.
Vera’s cynical. She does what she does because she doesn’t believe the world has anything better to offer her. She doesn’t believe in True Love. Maybe that’s why she and I became friends. Her jokes were always snide, always tinged with a sense of hopelessness that she had resigned herself to. Yet, she never let that cynicism get her down. She gives people a chance. She doesn’t believe people can be trusted, and expects to be stabbed in the back, but she’ll always give someone a chance. I’m not sure if that’s because she wants to prove her theory that the world is full of shit after they eventually betray her, or if she secretly hopes, inside, that she’ll be proven wrong and that good people really do exist.
I think it’s the latter.
Maybe we became friends because by that time I was already broken (I’m starting to see that Logan was onto something here). Maybe, by that time, I was secretly cynical myself. I found comfort in her. We went out for a few drinks, made fun of guys, girls, both of us believing There Is Nothing Else and secretly hoping there was.
A thought strikes me, and the thought is suddenly disturbing. I want to ask Vera about it, but she’s too drunked up to answer.
If she did tell Jake she loves him, what did he tell her?
I feel suddenly protective of my best friend, suddenly angered by the possibility that Jake didn’t return her affections.
Worst of all, I’m suddenly concerned that he didn’t do it...because of me.
He had his hand on my leg first.
I get up from the floor, realizing maybe I am a little tipsy, pick up my phone, and step outside into the warm three AM morning.
I scroll through my numbers and find myself scrolling past J...to L.
What is he doing now? And why am I suddenly so afraid? I trust him. I do. But that little negative voice keeps chattering in my head.
I scroll back up to J for Jake. Down again. L for Logan. I stare at the name for a bit, thinking how so out of this world my little time was with him. I find myself smiling despite myself. I trust him. I do. I trust him completely.
The little negative voice is disappearing, and I’m feeling braver, more confident, more sure of myself.
I go back to J for Jake, and I send him a message. I’m not sure if it’s a drunken text, but I send it anyway. What are your intentions with my friend?
Wait. Did I just send that?
I giggle quietly.
A guy appears out of nowhere on my right, no shirt, ripped, hard, tanned skin. He grins at me, grins at me expectantly.
I look away, ignoring him, leaning forward against the railing and looking down at the parking lot below me.
There’s another text I need to send, and I’m certain now the texts I’m sending are indeed drunken texts and maybe I should send this one when I’ve sobered up a little.
But I can’t wait. I can’t.
I need answers, and maybe it wasn’t a memory. Maybe it was just a combination of confusion and longing and desire for a mother that should have loved me, a parent who should have loved me and told me everything was OK when Matt shattered my heart (which, also since Logan, I have come to admit affected me deeply and maybe is indeed the reason I stopped believing in love.)
Maybe there’s no reason at all. Maybe I simply want to know. A daughter should know what happened to her mother. And her father should tell it to her.
I scroll up to D for Dad, write the text, a long text. I don’t even check it, just send it.
I regret it instantly. Not because it said anything bad, but because it’s opening things up I think I’ve held from myself. And if it really was a memory...then maybe I never looked at it before because I was too scared to face the truth of what happened.
Maybe.
The text said:
Dad. I love you. But we need to talk. We need to talk about things we’ve both held back for years. You’re my father. And I’m your daughter. And all we have is each other. I have questions, questions I’ve asked you before, but which were never answered. If you love me, if you truly love me, you’ll answer them honestly.
I didn’t notice the sexy guy approach me. I didn’t realize he was next to me until his body was so close to mine I felt claustrophobic.
His chest pressed against my shoulder.
I reacted.
I reacted instantly.
All those Krav Maga lessons Vera made me take because of Vince came into action.
Two things happened:
I thrust my knee up into his crotch.
And my phone fell over the railing to the first floor and smashed on the concrete.
The dude groaned and crumpled next to me.
My first thought was to say I was sorry, but hey, he did make an assumption there which he shouldn’t have. Hell, doesn’t he know I have a boyfriend!
Do I?
The thought makes me smile.
Yes, I do. Technically, yes. A crazy long-distance impossibility of a boyfriend but, hey, if he says he’ll be faithful, and I say I’ll be faithful, doesn’t that make it official?
I look down at the black-haired dude on his knees next to me.
He looks up at me, pain in his eyes. “You fucking bitch,” he says.
I smile.
Yes, I am. But I’m one man’s bitch, not yours.
I run down to grab my phone, and then I head into the room, lie down next to my friend on the floor. And I think about...my boyfriend.
We’re driving west on Route 400 which offers little in terms of scenery except flat green land on either side which goes on forever, and the occasional outdoor billboard advertising either FAMILY MARKET or JOEY’S HUNGRY ROUTE STEAKHOUSE.
We’re in Kansas, and I’ve been thinking of The Wizard of Oz and stupid jokes like, Say we’re not in Kansas anymore as soon as we crossed the state line. No doubt Vera’s thinking the same thing.
Six hundred miles to go, and I feel like a kid waiting for Christmas.
“So what are you gonna do?” I ask Vera.
“About?”
“Jake.”
She doesn’t immediately answer, which tells me she has no clue what to do. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Yeah, nothing.”
“But you like him.”
“It’s over. It was the booze, the jewelry.” She looks at the new bracelet around her wrist. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. You like him.”
“Just forget it, Ky. It was nothing.”
I stare out at the road, which is boring as shit right now. We can’t even find any good music on the radio. “Look, I’m willing to forget it, if you’re willing to forget it. But something tells me you aren’t.”
“It’ll never work. He travels, he’s almost thirty.”
“He’s almost thirty? That’s your excuse? Dude’s like eight years older than you, so what?”
Her grip tightens on the steering wheel. She sighs, looks out the window. “Just forget it, OK?” I think the steering wheel’s about to snap.
“Fine. OK. I’m just trying to help.”
She’s silent for a bit, a long bit, but then her shoulders sag. “It’s just that...I don’t trust him. Bigshot musician. You saw those Desperate Housewives at Gits, and the teeny boppers. I just...I’d like to keep my eye on him, and I can’t, and I don’t want to be made a fool of.”
I can totally understand her.
“I’m amazed you’re taking this risk on this Logan guy,” she says. “I don’t mean that in a bad way. I just... It’s not like you.”
“I know.”
She looks over at me. “But you trust him.”
“Yeah.” The answer is quick. And the little devil voice in my ear has been silent since I crushed that dude’s balls in Memphis.
“You see?” she says. “There’s no doubt in your voice. Which means he can be trusted. I can’t say the same about Jake. It’s...a gut feel.”
“A gut feel, or an irrational fear?”
Vera’s green eyes are bright and wide when she looks at me. “Well hello, miss expert.”
“Hey.”
“Hey you!” she laughs. “Damn.” She looks me over. “Damn, you’ve changed.”
“Have not.”
“Have too. Damn damn damn.”
“Stop it.”
She’s smiling now, which is always good on a road trip, especially when the scenery is so bad. My mind flicks again to the Wizard of Oz, and I imagine what a tornado might look like on this road. Nope. Bad idea. Bad idea.
“Well, is it?” I repeat.
“What?”
“A gut feel, or an irrational fear?”
“You think that shit exists?”
“What?”
“Irrational fears.”
“Sure. Y’know, shit from our pasts that affects how we think in the present.”
“Are we talking about me or you?”
“Both, maybe.”
“Aha.”
I say nothing.
“C’mon,” she says. “Spit it out.”
I look at the flat land next to me. “I don’t know. This thing with my mom. I always thought it was Matt, y’know. Actually, I didn’t even think it was him. I had completely occluded that pain. But Matt did hurt me. He did. But when I remembered...or sort of remembered that maybe something terrible happened to my mom... I just figured that was a deeper pain, something more fundamental that maybe explains...why I’m so afraid of...losing people. Or...” I bite a nail. “Or...getting close to them. But it’s irrational, isn’t it? I mean, the one has nothing to do with the other. And every time I got close to a guy, I’d get this fear, this little voice in my head saying Don’t do it. You’ll get hurt. You’ll lose him. Stay away. Don’t get close. I always thought it was a gut feel. Now I’m not so sure.”
“I think it was a gut feel,” she says. “Let’s face it, from what you tell me about Logan, he seems like a dream. Maybe it was a gut feel with all those other guys. They were pricks.”
“Maybe.”
“Well... I think it’s a gut feel with Jake. I just do. I mean, damn, he had his hand on your leg before he and I hit it off.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“Please. We both know who’s hotter here, so you don’t need to apologize.” She means she’s hotter, which she is, we both know it. And my boobs look like saucers next to hers. “But for some reason he chose you first. And I don’t care that he did. But I want the guy I’m with to choose me first, y’know.”
I put my hand on her leg. “I know.”
“Hey, Ky, you hinting at something?”
I take my hand off, slap her shoulder.
“You know I’d do you, don’t you?” she says.
“Just drive, damn it.”
Even if I wanted to text Logan, I can’t. But he won’t find it strange, because we agreed that we wouldn’t talk until after his fight. The reason I haven’t gotten a new phone is because I’m a little afraid of the answers I might get to my drunken texts. Maybe Jake didn’t like Vera the way she liked him, and if he told me as much in a text, I’d be hiding something from her and she’d pick up on it, ruining the next few days of our trip. And then there was the message to dad. I was feeling brave when I sent it, but now not so much.
“I’m thirsty,” Vera says, which is actually Vera-Talk for I want to get drunk. I pull out the small list of spots Logan gave me that he usually frequents in Denver, not with any hopes of seeing him, but because I’ve never been to Denver and I’d rather go with a recommendation than finding something on Yelp. There’s only three names on the list, numbered one to three so I’m assuming the first one is his favorite, which probably means I’ll like it too. I type in Williams and Graham into the GPS.
When we arrive, the bar is dark and looks like an old-time saloon with black chairs and books on the shelves and black and white photographs on the walls. Part of me secretly hopes Logan will be here, but I doubt he will. He’s probably ‘psyching himself up’ for the fight to keep his head clear.
Vera orders a beer and I go with one of their in-house cocktails. The place is packed, and we struggle to find a place to sit.
Vera crashes on a chair and guzzles half the beer down in one shot. OK, maybe she was thirsty. I sip on my cocktail and look around the dim-lit room...when I see something that can’t be true. It can’t. It just fucking can’t. But...
My eyes squint to focus.
I’d recognize his back anywhere, anywhere, and the short hair.
And the ink on his arms.
I almost drop my cocktail glass.
Vera must see something in my eyes, and I’m sure my face is pale because it feels like I have no blood left anywhere in my body.
“What?” she says, and then she turns her head, and sees what I’m looking at.
The woman in a red dress, black tights, dark brown hair, looking hot, maybe early thirties, laughing, laughing madly. Laughing...like she knows him.
What Vera doesn’t see is what I saw a moment ago, his arm around the woman’s waist, as if they’ve known each other for years. And the way he was looking into her eyes, that smile he gave her... Damn it.
“Ky,” Vera says. “Ky, don’t jump to conclusions.” Vera gets up suddenly. “Fuck this, I’m gonna—”
I snap out of my chair, grab her wrist. My eyes tell her No!
“He needs to be told off, Ky. He needs to be—”
“No,” I whisper, fighting violently to keep the tears down. “No. Please. It’s...bad enough. I just...I just wanna go. Please, Vera. Please.”
Vera’s scowl could wither daisies.
“You need to let him know you’re here, Ky. You must. He can’t think he can get away with this shit.”
“He already has, Veer. He’s gotten away with it already.” And he doesn’t care about me. All of it was a lie. All of it. So why bother making myself feel worse when he wouldn’t even give a shit? “Take me home,” I say, not even realizing what I mean by home. “Just get me out of here, Vera.”
She hesitates a second, but only one second.
As we step out of the bar, I hear that bitch’s voice, hear her fucking laugh. That should be me laughing, me goddamnit, under his arm, being looked at the way he’s looking at her.
When we get outside, what I had been holding inside me shatters, and I can’t hold it in anymore.
The world falls apart. Tears dim my vision. I hear myself screaming and weeping, but worst, worst of all, I feel the pain, actual pain, deep, deep in my chest and it threatens to eat me whole, to swallow me up forever into a black chasm of empty hate and anger.
But none of the hate and betrayal and pain I feel can stop the watershed of tears pouring from my eyes and soaking Vera’s shirt.
“C’mon,” she says. “C’mon, I’m taking you home.”
I can’t move, can’t move at all.
So we stand there, that bitch’s laugh ringing like the toll of death in my head.
I am dead.
I am shattered.
I trusted again.
And I am dead for it.
I spend the rest of the night weeping in Vera’s arms, inside a cheap motel room. I think of Logan’s fight tomorrow, and how he probably arranged for the brunette slut not to be there so he could have his time with me instead, juggling between us. I should have known, damn it. A guy like him—urgh, what was I thinking!
And interspersed between thoughts of that horrific scene at the bar (for it was indeed horror that I felt when I saw him with her), are thoughts of my mother, my father, Christ—even thoughts of Dave, damn it. Thoughts of how he fucked me and how I let him do nothing but fuck me for months. What was I thinking? Had my self-esteem really dropped to such a low point after Matt that all I believed I could have with a man was a goddamn lay?
Yes. It had.
And what had Logan done with me? The same. But it’s worse. He warned me. He freaking warned me...and still I fell for it. Still I fell because I had new theories about ‘gut feels’ and ‘irrational fears.’
Bullshit.
It’s all bullshit.
Men are just fucking assholes.
Weeping, weeping, weeping, howling.
Fucking, painful, inconsiderate, bastard assholes...who we no less love.
I admit, again, that I loved him. That I love him. I believe he was being sincere when he told me all those things about me and him, about trying and seeing how it goes.
I believe he was.
And I believe he tried and failed. Men and their cocks.
How fast did he fail? Did he fuck her the moment he left Nashville? Did he pick her up on the side of the road and do her on the spare bed he keeps in the back of his truck and then brought her here because he’s such a Panty Dropping Fighter? Or is he together with her? Do they know each other for longer? They looked...intimate, close.
Fuck it. I need to stop thinking about Logan. I must stop thinking about Logan.
But I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
When the sun comes up, I’m staring at the window but not seeing it. Vera fell asleep a few hours ago. I haven’t slept a wink. My eyes are swollen. My face hurts. My lips hurt.
But my tears are empty.
I won’t cry for him anymore.
I won’t.
I don’t know what I’ll do—but for him, I won’t weep again.
Even as I say it I feel the tear forming. But it doesn’t come out.
I am dry.
I am dead.
I need to see my dad.
As far as men go, my life might be shit, but I can have answers about my mother, about my family. I might not be able to solve men, but I can solve that. I want those answers and I won’t leave until I have them.
Vera will understand. She’ll take me to New York.
Vera always understands.
Why can’t I find a man like her?