Page 129 of Fault Lines
I lifted mine, even though the words burned a little going down.
“To not drowning,” I said, and clinked hers.
Rachel grinned, not missing a beat. “I’ll drink to that.”
We finished the night with bad TV and better cookies, and when I finally left, the city was colder but my head was clear.
I walked home slow, every step like waking up from a long, strange dream.
∞∞∞
We spent the next night pretending to be normal, which meant ordering Chinese and working through the battered stack of card games Nate kept in a shoe box under the couch. He claimed there was a system to which game you picked (“War for hangovers, Rummy for breakups, Poker if you want to lose money and respect”), but I suspected he just liked the illusion of structure. Tonight it was Crazy Eights, which Nate said was the only game where the rules changed every round and “nobody wins, not really.”
He dealt the cards, his hands steady but his eyes glassy in a way I’d learned to dread. He’d already poured us both “gingerale,” the bottle sweating on the coffee table, but his glass was darker, the fizz slower to fade.
We played in silence for a while, tossing cards into the discard pile with more force than necessary. I watched the muscles in his forearm flex and relax, the veins standing out pale against his skin.
He’d just hit me with a draw four and was smirking like a cat. I was laughing, caught off guard by a dumb joke he’d made about a secret society of rogue eights, and I let my guard down.
“You’re such a dick, Cam,” I said, still giggling.
The word hung in the air, ice-cold and perfect.
Nate froze. His smile died on his face.
“What did you just say?” His voice was flat, but I felt the rumble underneath.
I clamped my hand over my mouth. “Sorry. I meant— I don’t know why I said that.”
He dropped his cards. “You don’t know?” He stood up so fast the table rocked. “Because he’s still in your head, that’s why. Because he’s the real winner here. Right?”
I tried to backtrack, but it was useless. “It was a slip. I’m sorry.”
He stared at me, eyes red-rimmed and wet. “I don’t care if you want him. I really don’t. But don’t fucking lie to me about it. Don’t sit here and play house and pretend like you’re not still wishing you’d never left.”
The anger came on all at once, hot and sudden. “That’s not fair, Nate. You know it’s not fair.”
He laughed, sharp and brittle. “Nothing’s fair, Livi. Not for people like us. You think I don’t see what you do? You watch your phone in case he might text about “sorting out affairs”, like some lovesick teenager with her first crush.” He cut himself off, fists clenched at his sides.
I stood up, the couch digging into my calves. “At least I’m not drinking myself to death just to get through a Thursday night.”
He winced, but didn’t deny it. “Yeah? You want me to stop? Fine. I’ll stop.” He grabbed the glass and flung it at the sink. It missed, hit the tile, and shattered. The ginger ale—whiskey, really—ran in little rivers across the floor.
We both stared at the mess, breathing hard. Somewhere in the building, a dog started barking.
“You happy now?” he said.
“No,” I said. “But at least I’m not the only one pretending anymore.”
He stormed out, slamming the bathroom door. I stood there for a long time, listening to the old pipes rattle, watching the whiskey ooze between the tiles.
Eventually, I cleaned it up, piece by piece, drop by drop.
He didn’t come out for an hour. When he did, his eyes were swollen and he’d changed into pajamas, even though it was barely eight. He climbed into bed, faced the wall.
I lay down beside him, careful not to touch.
He spoke after a long silence, voice small and cracked. “I’m sorry I lost it.”
