Page 125 of Backslide
“My problem?” he scoffs, pointing at me. “I don’t have one. You, though. You have a problem.”
He is drunk and slurring and I should ignore his stupid ass. But I can’t help myself, so instead I say, “What’s my problem? That you know so much about?”
“I thought you were engaged,” he says, in place of answering me.
“Oh,” I say, looking down. “Well, I’m not.”
He stares at me with bloodshot eyes. “I never took you for a liar.”
“Well, I always took you for one.” It flies out of my mouth before I can stop it. I am the old me. The sparring me. The me who says the thing. It is unwise; it is not helpful. But, if I’m honest, it feels good.
He squints at me, considers me. Like he’s seeing me in a new light. And then he smiles, which I think I like less than his frown.
“You always called it like you saw it,” he says, almost appreciatively. And, for a moment, we both watch Ben attempt the Kid ’n Play because we are old as fuck. “It’s nice to see that side of you again. I thought you’d gone soft. Ironic, though. That you’re so sure about who’s a liar.”
I roll my eyes. “And what’s that supposed to mean? Who’s the liar? That’s what you want me to ask, right?”
He just shakes his head at me. “I can’t believe you fell for that shit—again.”
“Fell for what?”
“For Noah.”
“Who says I fell for—?”
“And the thing is,” he steamrolls over me, “I tried to warn you. Back in the dayandthis time. I tried to tell you, but—just like everyone else—you’re so on his jock that you can’t see.”
“Excuse me. I’m not on anyone’s jock,” I say. “Partially because no one has said that since 1994.”
But there’s a fluttering starting to rise in my chest, an unease that sets everything at an odd angle. Feeling at sea, I scan the dance floor, the space, the bar, looking for Noah. I just want a visual on him, so I can remind myself that I know who he is, no matter how his supposed friend is trying to gaslight me.
I am not back on that couch, at that awful house party, watching Noah disappear before my eyes. I am not back where I started.
Damien laughs loudly. Only it’s not really a laugh. It’s more like a jolt, a stab, a punch to the gut. “You sure looked like you were on his jock back by the barn…”
My cheeks go hot. I’m sure I turn red. Maybe even purple. Because I am embarrassed. Of course I am. But I’m alsorealmad.
This feels like an invasion. A corruption of something good. Like he’s stolen something from me.
I turn to face him, willing myself to discard the humiliation and go with the rage. “What? So now you go around spying on people?”
“Well, honey,” he says, smug as fuck, “if you don’t want an audience, then get a room.”
I shoot to standing, so that my chair topples over behind me with a loud crash. I glower down at him.
“You know, I never liked you,” I say, above the pounding in my chest. “I never trusted you. I put up with you, faked it, to keep the peace. I watched you plant toxic seeds in Noah’s head, try to plant ideas in mine. You were always so fucking jealous of him. And you still are.”
And now it’s Damien’s turn to flush, his pale skin going blotchy and heated. “Jealous of Noah? Please! Why? Because he had everyone fooled? Thinking he was so fucking charming when he was really just fucked up. I wasn’t jealous. I was disgusted. It was pathetic.Youwere pathetic. And you still are.”
Inside me, the pendulum has swung so far. It’s impossible to imagine that only minutes before, I was awash in a love fest with my best friends, relaxed and free and literally crying with gratitude for the wonderful people in my life. And now, this asshat has corroded everything, coating it with a layer of tar and grime.
And I think I’m more angry about that than anything else. How dare he ruin this incandescent memory for me?
“Just stay the fuck away from me,” I say, and turn to escape—to anywhere else. Adrenaline tsunamis through me.
But now he is on his feet, following close behind me. “Wait, Nellie. Please. I’m sorry. I’m drunk. Don’t fucking listen to me. I don’t think you’re pathetic. I never thought you were pathetic.”
I turn to face him, my heart thundering in my chest. “You don’t get it: I don’t give a shit what you think.”
