Page 11 of Holiday Love
She follows my pointing finger.
“Saline and morphine.”
“Morphine!” I jerk upright and am rewarded by a stab of pain in each arm. “I don’t want that.” I knowwaytoo many friends hooked on that stuff. That and Oxy and ketamine and a bunch of pharmacological names I wish I didn’t know. I’m a stupid guy. I get drunk. Rarely I get stoned, but never that stuff. I’m scared of that stuff. Seen people waste away on it.
“You need it. For your leg, but mostly for your ribs,” says my maybe-not-a-ghost, because who would dream about having IVs in their arms?
“My ribs?” I repeat, dumbly.
“You broke seven ribs, you idiot,” says Helen, as she glowers down at me. Now I see that sheismad at me. Furious. Her jaw set tight and her hands balled into fists. Angry tears glisten like diamonds in her eyes. “Seven ribs and your leg’s broken. What were you thinking! You could have died!” She’s yelling by the end, her face flushed red.
I cast my mind back, baffled by her rage.
It comes to me in pieces.
A house party.
Ourhouse party.
We throw a lot of them, my roommates and me.
A memory of Gina coming on to me. “What happened, Teddy?” she asked, lips pressed into a pout that used to undo me.
I remembered. I’d bitten that lip right as she came on my fingers. But we hadn’t been like that in almost a year. The other women had given up on me, which was what I wanted. Not Gina. It probably didn’t help that she was my co-worker at the barandmy housemate, with her bedroom right next to mine.
I was stupid to get involved with her.
So dumb.
“I know there’s no one else slipping into your bed.” She trailed a red-tipped finger down my chest, over the buttons of my shirt, slowly like she was daring me to stop her.
“We’re better as friends,” I’d told her, guilt sour in my mouth. I felt bad I was upsetting her, unable to be what she wanted. I’d been clear we were casual, nothing more. I’d repeated that sentiment every time we hooked up, but still, I shouldn’t have gotten involved.
She opened her mouth to argue, but I shoved past her and stumbled out the front door. I hadn’t realized how much I’d had to drink and smoke until I fell down the long, steep set of stairs that lead up to our worn-out Venice beach house. Jamie, my best friend since I was twelve, owns the house, a gift from his loaded but neglectful parents. They never care who lives there with their son, turning a blind eye to our debauchery, the constant parties and chaos. Jamie rented out three of the bedrooms to his closest friends for cheap, and I was lucky enough to be one of them.
It was a sweet deal. Right on the beach. I’d fall asleep with the window open so I could hear the rhythmic pounding of the waves. I’d wake up with a fine layer of sand in my bed, tangled in my hair, blown in from the wind overnight.
“What happened?” Helen’s voice brings me back to the present. To what I now recognize is a hospital room. She stands with her hands on her hips, glaring at me.
“I don’t remember,” I tell her truthfully. My mind is blank after I took that tumble. Maybe I hit my head? Blacked out? “How’d I get here?”
She blinks at that, and a flash of disappointment crosses her features, like she thought I would give her all the answers.
I sigh.
I’m used to disappointing people.
“They found you in the ocean.” Helen starts slowly, eyes searching to see my reaction.
I keep my expression blank, which isn’t hard. I have no memory of the ocean after the party.
“A surfboard was a little way down the beach, bobbing in the waves. It looked like you went surfing in the middle of the night. There was,” she pauses before saying, “alcohol and marijuana in your bloodstream.”
“Shit.” I close my eyes, worried I’ll see accusation in her gaze. “We had a party.” I sway, the effect of my injuries and the medicine hitting me. Helen hurries to my side. She does something to the back of the bed, adjusting it until I can lean back comfortably. “Thanks,” I tell her, then continue, “I left the house and fell down. Hit my head. I don’t remember anything after that.”
Helen frowns and moves closer. Her hand shifts through my hair. It’s heaven, her touch. I lean into it. The medication loosens my inhibitions enough that I confess, “That feels really good.” I smile up at her, my eyelids drooping.
No smile back for me. Instead, she frowns, her fingers dig into my scalp, and I yelp at the tender spot she just hit. “Ow!”
