Page 49 of Wide-Eyed
Jason really wanted to know what Oz had said to set Mike off, and eventually, Mike reached his limit.
“What is it with you lot tonight—is it interrogate Mike night?” His loud voice was starting to draw the attention of the other pubgoers. “Let’s just say, Oz made a crack about my loose virtues and I’m sick of people talking shit about me.” Mike pushed to his feet then drained the rest of his beer. I quickly counted the empty bottles in front of him and was impressed that he could stand without swaying. “Everyone here acts like they don’t know me. They do. I’m Mike, and I’m a fucking hoe bag, right?” He hiccupped. “Once a hoe bag, always a hoe bag.”
“Mike,” Kevin scolded. “Don’t call yourself a hoe bag.”
“Why? It’s better than?—”
“No.” Kev looked uncharacteristically stern. “You’d never say that about someone else. I don’t want to hear you saying it about yourself either.”
“Whatever.” Mike curled his hand around the empty pistachio shells that had spilled on the bar and dragged them into his other waiting hand, before dumping them in the empty bowl for Jason. Even shit-faced and grumpy, he was thoughtful.
“I’ve had enough of an interrogation for one day,” he said, dusting pistachio off his hands. “Dean, you’ll give Lyssa a ride home, yeah?”
“Sure,” Dean said, “but what about?—”
“I’ll walk. See you clowns later.”
With a salute, Mike pushed his way out of the bar and onto the street.
I wanted to go after him, but Kev shook his head. “Let him go. Fresh air is good for him when he’s agitated. Let him walk it off.”
The three of us stayed to finish our drinks, but Mike’s absence was as loud as his company usually was. I stared at the bowl of pistachio shells, lost in thought.
It was late when I climbed in the back seat of Dean’s car. Kev and Dean carried on their conversation about the hotel building—apparently the Woody was built the same year as the hotel Dean owned and renovated.
After Mike had left, Dean had told me a bit about Hannah’s boudoir photography business. It was hard not to feel envious of Caroline for having this whole world here in New Zealand, full of people who loved her. The more I got to know them all, the harder I found it to understand why she didn’t want this for herself. It was all I wanted.
My phone dinged, and it was the specific sound of a messaging app I only had a few contacts on—just the people who weren’t likely to send me things like, die bitch.
It was a message from Caroline. Thinking about her must have sent a mental beam through the cosmos.
I’d barely read her first message before the subsequent ones came through.
Carolicious Angelface
That evil piece of shit.
Lyssa, that man is rotten. An evil waste of oxygen.
Caroline had finally watched my livestream.
I will make sure that everyone I know blacklists him. We will ruin his life like he tried to ruin yours.
He did ruin mine.
Still, Caroline’s immediate and fierce support pushed tears to my waterline as instantly as pulling a ripcord.
When I’d first lost my internship at Bossi, I’d kept a stiff upper lip and thrown myself into my own social media. After a few weeks of this, I’d had the idea to do the livestream. That’s when I’d imploded my entire fashion career.
Most people who had watched the livestream thought the worst of me. The sentiment in the comments confirmed it. Only a few people didn’t—either die-hard fans who thought I could do no wrong; or women who had had Pauls of their own. Now, my best friend had joined the meager ranks of people who believed and supported me. It made me short of breath and made me miss her with an intensity that was physical.
I didn’t have a lot of friends. Honestly, I only had space in my head for one friend at a time. I’d been that way since childhood. I’d made some sort-of work friends at Bossi (when you worked twelve hours a day, it was impossible not to bond), but they’d all blocked me now.
You’re sweet to say that, Caroline, my sweet honey badger. But it’s clear from the stream I’m the one in the wrong. I’m the one who is screaming verbal abuse.
Knowing that I’d been wrong to do what I did was one of the reasons I’d left the livestream up on my page. #Accountability.
Your delivery is … passionate. But your points are still valid.
