Page 51 of Backslide
Sabrina opens the tin, struggling a moment with the child proofing, and then places a gummy in my palm. It looks innocuous enough.
I throw it in my mouth.
“Maybe start with half—” she begins. But it’s too late. I have already started eating the whole thing.
It’s sweet and tangy. See? No big deal.
“You can still spit—” Sab says. “And you swallowed.”
“That’s what she said,” Noah and I both respond.
I turn to Noah and give him the finger.
“Oh boy,” he says.
And though I’d never admit it, I am thinking the same thing.
Two hours later, I am questioning my choices. Not just about the gummy or about forgoing the gallery crawl with Sabrina and Rita to go wine tasting with Damien, Cara, and Ben. But also about my career trajectory, love life, and the dress I’m wearing, which keeps slipping down so my cleavage is on parade.
Perhaps most of all, I’m wondering how I could possibly have sanctioned sitting at this picnic table in the direct sun, baking like a hot dog in a floral bun.
Cara and Ben seem unaffected—in fact, they’re joyous. For one thing, Cara is, of course, slathered in sunscreen because she’s responsible like that. She has surely made sure that Ben is too.
No one hates this kind of heat like I do—being out in the elements like this. I am sweating balls. But also the two of them—on their side of the slatted wooden table—have been in constant hysterics for the last thirty minutes about the convoluted tasting notes in the wine. And it has devolved into the kid-friendly version.
“Hmm,” Ben is saying. “I taste top notes of gluten-free chicken nuggets and burnt broccoli that assault the palate with an aroma of full-bodied ketchup, but of course not touching the chicken nuggets or the broccoli.”
Cara is literally sobbing with laughter and, despite a hand to her mouth, very nearly about to spit-take a gulp of a crisp Riesling.
I wonder how long it’s been since they’ve had extended time alone together, without the kids.
Damien is oblivious. His pupils are so blown out from that high-intensity weed tincture, his once-frosty blue eyes so obscured, that he may have left the planet. It hasn’t seemed to matter at all that I’ve been drifting in and out of listening while he talks about how day trading is like a metaphor for life—or maybe life is a metaphor for day trading. I can’t keep track.
If I’m honest, I only kind of know what day trading is.
Besides, all I can think about is how my body temperature is so high that soon I am probably going to throw up and pass out simultaneously.
How there’s a child with his family at the next table who I will traumatize for life. I can picture him as an adult, sitting on his therapist’s couch, talking about how he can’t even smell wine without flashing to the woman with the giant hair and overflowing boobs, sweating profusely into her vomit.
I want a glass of ice water so badly instead of the wine sitting in front of me, which is growing warmer by the second, but I no longer recall how to make that happen. Surely, I am not expected to stand up on my own, walk to the bar inside, and order from a total stranger! My mouth is glued shut. I can’t even remember how money works.
Money. Money?
Where is my bag?Shit!Where is my bag? I left my bag. I lost my bag! The child at the next table stole my bag!
Nope. My bag is slouched next to me on the bench. Where I left it.
I heave a sigh of relief like something actually happened and place a hand on my purse so it doesn’t flee.
“Anyway,” Damien is saying, “you get it.”
I nod. Yes. I totally get it. Whatever the hell he’s talking about.
“And you always get it,” he continues. “Or, I guess, I feel like you’ve always gottenme. Which is why I’m so glad that I got you alone for a minute—well, sort of.”
He gestures with his chin toward Cara and Ben, who are too busy concocting plans to build a tower out of beer-branded cardboard coasters to notice anything else.
Damien looks at me expectantly, from under his blond lashes, like it’s my turn to speak. “Yes,” I say. Because I don’t have other words.
