Page 30 of Dead of Summer
“David?” Orla’s voice wobbles. Her body goes weak with relief.
“Jesus Christ, Orla, let me in.”
She pulls the door open a crack. He stands in the shadows of the doorway with a cocky smirk on his face.
“Orla! Did I wake you?” His voice sounds teasing, like showing up at nearly two in the morning unannounced is normal behavior. She pulls the door fully open. He takes her in, scanning her ragged pajama bottoms and baggy T-shirt. He raises his eyebrows, amused when he gets to the poker. “Oh, were you just about to club me? Glad I knocked.”
Asshole,Orla thinks. So full of jokes even when he knows that he terrified her. She lowers the poker slowly. Her heart is still racing.
David gives her a grin, rocking back confidently on his heels. His shirt is damp and unbuttoned partway, exposing a V of skin on his upper chest. His chin is covered in uncharacteristically messy stubble. He has a brand-new bottle of something in his hand.
He moves toward her, and she braces herself for a hug but instead he brushes past her into the house.
“Oh, did you want to come inside?” Orla asks sarcastically, glancing back at the dark empty street behind him before she shuts the door and locks it. He is nearly to the kitchen by the time she catches up with him. She can smell booze on him, mixed with the lingering aroma of some kind of expensive aftershave.
“Yes, thank you.” David thrusts the bottle out at her.
“What is this?”
“Tequila. Let’s have some,” he says brusquely. He walks into the dining room. Orla trails behind.
“No, I meant what are you doing here?”
“Can’t a man pay a visit to his dear old friend?” he asks, a sarcastic edge to his voice. He leaves the dining room, moving past her farther into the house, going from room to room, searching for something.
Finally, he spins unsteadily back toward her. “Where is your bar?”
“We don’t have a bar. We are normal people. We keep our glasses in the kitchen,” she says, trying to give him a hard time though her voice is shaking.
“Of course.” David chuckles. He sways as he puts his fingers up into air quotes. “Normal people.” Looking at him closer Orla wonders if he might be on the verge of some sort of breakdown. His eyes are webbed with angry red lines. He teeters on his heels like he might fall over. She recognizes the signs of someone who is sleep-deprived and stressed.
Orla leads him into the kitchen and pulls a lowball glass out of a cabinet. She hesitates, knowing she shouldn’t, and takes out a second glass as well.
“Oh, Orla, I’ve missed you,” he says, leaning back against the counter as she drops ice into the glasses.
Orla’s heart thumps, wanting him to shut up and to continue talking in equal amounts. She opens the bottle and tips a generous pour into her glass and a slightly smaller one for him.
“You were always my best friend on Hadley. So strange without you here all these years.”
Orla tries not to let the compliment affect her, but it does. David Clarke was always good at flattery. It was the kind of thing that could make a person start to get ideas about themselves; if they weren’t careful, they might even start to think that they were special. Orla moves away from him, going back into the living room with the drinks so he can’t see the sudden flush that’s come into her cheeks.
David drops onto the couch and makes himself at home, leaning back and propping his feet across the coffee table. His shoes are dripping wet. Thick clumps of sand break free from the treads and land on the wood.
“Cheers.” He reaches his glass out, clinking it with hers.
How many years had she imagined it like this, minus the dirty shoes? David Clarke and her sharing a drink with no one else in sight. Orla’s fingers tremble as she tilts the glass back, letting the tequila flow against the back of her throat. It is smooth and delicious. After the spike of adrenaline, it tastes like pure relief.
“So. What are you doing here?” she demands, dropping into the chair across from him.
“That’s not very nice,” he says, pretend hurt. He was always a bit of a baby when he was drinking. She’d forgotten that about him until now.
“You’re wasted,” she says with a snort.
“I thought you’d be glad to see me. Can’t I come visit an old friend?” He swirls his glass arrogantly.
Orla glances at the grandfather clock in the corner. “At one thirty in the morning?”
“Well, you ran off at the beach. Didn’t let us finish the conversation. What was I supposed to do?”
