Asking for It

Page 113

I’ve said things like this to myself before. But tonight is the first time I realize what I sound like.

I sound like my mom. I sound like Chloe.

I sound like someone working very hard to deny the truth.

We get to Geordie’s apartment complex. As I put the car in park, he says, “Thanks, luv. Sure you won’t come up? Oh, no, that’s right, it’s all Jonah now, isn’t it?”

Jonah’s name feels like a lash against my skin. Yet I stay focused. “Geordie?”

“Yeah?”

I take a deep breath. “You drink too much. ”

He laughs. “I told you—”

“I know what you told me. But you’ve been drinking harder the past few months than you ever did before. You’ve been drinking alone—and not, like, a glass of wine with dinner. Drinking hard. ”

Geordie groans. “Ah, Christ, the morality police. ”

“Listen to me,” I plead. “Geordie, we may not be in love anymore, but you know I still love you as a friend. I care about you, and I want good things for you, always. So I have to say this. ”

“Say what?”

Telling the truth is terrifying. It’s a leap off a cliff. I’m going to hit the ground hard. All I can hope is that afterward, Geordie will think over what I’ve said and listen.

So I look him in the eyes as I say, “You have a drinking problem. ”

I expect him to laugh at me. Instead Geordie only stares. He’s not used to my being that blunt; that makes two of us. Only now am I finally learning how to be honest even when it’s hard.

“Please,” I say more softly. “You’re the most incredible person. You can have a wonderful life and do so much good in the world. Don’t let this own you. Stop and think about what’s happening. Get some help. And know that I’m behind you no matter what. ”

A long moment of silence passes, one in which I imagine him laughing at me, or cursing me. He does neither, only sighs deeply as he buries his face in his hand. “Christ, Viv. ”

“I wouldn’t say this if I didn’t love you. ” Only as the words come out of my mouth does it hit me that the truth can be a gift of love. That no other gift can possibly compare.

But Geordie simply steps out of the car and slams it behind him. He trudges into the apartment complex without ever looking back.

Even our greatest gifts sometimes come too late.

Thirty-three

After dropping Geordie off, I don’t return to the studio. My concentration is shot. Instead I head home, take a long shower, and go to bed early. Since Friday night, I’ve been riding various adrenaline rushes, from desire to terror to fury; by this point, I’m ready to drop.

I slide into bed and turn out the lights, but sleep eludes me at first. Too wired. So I lie there on my side, wearing an oversized T-shirt from a charity 5K I ran two years ago, exhausted, unsexy, and very much alone.

Alone isn’t the worst thing, I remind myself. My sister is probably lying in the same bed as Anthony right now. I’ll take my fate before hers any day. Besides, at the moment, I need the kind of silence only solitude provides.

Someday soon, I’ll figure out what to think of all this. I’ll come to terms with losing Jonah, and find out if my friendship with Geordie is going to survive, and hold my own within the new dynamics of my family. Doreen will help me. So everything’s going to be okay.

I tell myself this. For the most part, I believe it. But I remember how I fell asleep the night before last—how safe I felt in Jonah’s arms. It seems as if I’ll never feel that safe again.

Right now he’s in his fancy downtown apartment, as alone as I am. I wonder if he’s already taken down my etching.

Probably he has. Yet I hope he hasn’t. That way one thing I gave him—one message straight from my soul into his—that would live on.

•   •   •

My phone rings not long after four A. M.

Fuck, I think grumpily. Just when I’d fallen deeply asleep. If this is a wrong number, I swear to God—

But then I remember Dad’s surgery. Panic grips me as I lunge across my bed to snatch my phone from its charging dock. Dad could be okay—Chloe could be calling just to yell about Anthony, or maybe this is Geordie telling me to sod off, or—or it could be Jonah—

None of the above.

Frowning, I answer, “Arturo?”

“You were asleep, weren’t you?”

“At—four seventeen in the morning? Strangely enough, yes. What in the—” My voice trails off as I realize the answer to my own question.