Page 9 of Make My Heart Malt

I huff out a deep breath and shake my head. “I doubt more time is what she needs.” But I'm out of options. I rap my knuckles on the counter. “I’m going to take a shower.”

“Leave your clothes outside the door and I’ll throw them in the laundry,” she calls over her shoulder. The oven door creaks as she places the cookie sheet inside.

I hike up the stairs two at a time to the second floor and to the bathroom across the hallway from my bedroom. After I strip out of my clothes, I deposit them outside the bathroom door and turn on the hot water. Steam billows from the top of the shower curtain, filling the room. As I climb inside, the hot water cascades down my body and swirls into the drain, kind of like my failed attempt at an apology. With a sigh, I scrub my hands down my face, defeat washing over me.

Dessa hasn’t been this mad at me since the time in middle school when I ditched her to play kickball with the boys. She wouldn’t speak to me for a whole week, and it was the worst seven days of my entire life. She thwarted allmy efforts at giving her notes in class by tossing them in the garbage before even reading them. Every time I tried to sit with her at lunch, she left to sit somewhere else. Finally, I got her to talk to me with a peace offering of my mom’s chocolate chip cookies. It worked all those years ago. Maybe it will work again. At this point I’m willing to try anything.

SIX

L IS FOR LOSER

Dessa

Yesterday after leaving Porter’s, I drove around aimlessly, still in disbelief that Garrett fucking Dawson is in Harbor Highlands. Never did I expect to see him in person ever again. As soon as I saw his boyish good looks, but with a rugged charm, an entire gauntlet of emotions smacked me across the face. Hurt. Anger. Betrayal. Surprise. Anxiety. Excitement. And back to anger. So much anger. It was information overload, and I blacked out. Luckily, Lach caught me before I smashed my head against the floor. Seeing and speaking to him is what did me in. Ten years of rage bubbled out of me. Anger I’ve been holding on to for so long erupted like a volcano. Garrett was the target. Rightfully so. It was all his doing from the start.

Eventually, my mood evened out. When I arrived home, I made myself my favorite drink, a vodka gimlet.Then I set off to create new drinks to calm my anxious nerves, but based on the wicked pounding in my head, it didn’t help. I’m pretty sure I did more drinking than mixing. I rest my forearm over my eyes to shield the blinding sunlight, willing my stomach to jump off the merry-go-round.

The last I heard, Garrett and his brother weren’t speaking, but again, that was years ago, so maybe they’ve made amends. It’s been a few years since I’ve talked to Tony. We were civil after our breakup, but it still left a strain on our friendship. We rarely talked, only a passing like or comment on social media. For the most part, he stayed on his side of town, and I stayed on mine.

On a groan, I slide out of bed because rolling is not going to help my stomach situation. I pluck my bathrobe off the hook on my closet door, shrug it over my shoulders, and secure the tie around my waist. I trudge into the kitchen and open a cupboard door to find half a sleeve of saltine crackers. Something is better than nothing since I thought a liquid dinner would be a sufficient meal last night. On my way to the other side of the counter, I make a pit stop at the fridge and grab a bottle of water. I plop down on a stool and dump half the contents of the sleeve onto the laminate countertop. Picking up a cracker, I bring it to my mouth and nibble on the corner. Crumbs fall to the counter like snowflakes. I brush them into the sink and swallow the now cracker paste. My stomach clenches at the intrusion of food. Now is not the time to revolt. You need substance. No alcohol.

A muffleddingsounds from somewhere in the kitchen. Without moving my head too quickly, I glance around the counter and over at my dining room table, but my phone is nowhere to be found. It chimes again and I stand to follow the noise. I lift a couple of notebooks on the counter, pushan empty bottle of cranberry juice to the side, but nothing. I freeze for a moment, willing it to sound again, but it’s like waiting for the dying battery of a smoke detector to beep—it never happens when you’re actively listening. Tired of waiting, I round the corner of the counter, but before I can sit, my phone chimes again. On a huff, I stroll back into the kitchen and pull open drawers and cabinet doors until I find my phone sitting next to a bottle of tequila. Seems like an appropriate place for me to leave my phone. Still better than the one time I found it duct taped to the side of a box of wine in my fridge. I must have figured I wouldn’t lose the wine, so might as well make sure my phone was close by.

I unlock my phone, and a parade of messages floods the screen.

Rylee

Lach told me what happened. Well, half the story, so you need to fill in the rest.

Lach

Just wanted to check on you and make sure everything is okay.

Rylee

Why are you not answering?

Jake

Are you coming to work today?

Rylee

Pick up your phone.

Rylee

Answer Me.

Rylee

Okay. I’m coming over.

I hit respond, but before I can type a reply, a banging on the door startles me.

“Dessa, open up!”

I slide off the stool and groan, my body refusing the movement as I stumble to the entryway. Twisting the lock, I pull open the door and Rylee barrels across the threshold.