Page 43 of Holiday Love
“Fancy, but no thanks.” Anthony takes a seat in the chair next to me while Jamie sits down on the couch beside me.
“I really appreciate you both bringing my stuff,” I admit, knowing it’s true. “Especially my board, Jamie. I owe you.” Seems like I’m always in Jamie’s debt. For letting me crash at his place, for answering my call whenever I need help, for back when we were twelve and he was the only friend who’d listen about my dad.
“Sure.” Jamie gestures at my broken leg. “How’s it going? You know, since your dramatic rescue and all.”
I smirk. “Ah yes, myBaywatchmoment. Except with less slow-mo and more vomiting seawater.”
“Sexy.” Jamie laughs.
“I’m as good as can be expected, given all this.” I motion vaguely at my cast, then to the bruises mottling my ribs.
A pause stretches between us as I once again desperately search my memory and come up blank.
What happened to me?
“Still trying to piece things together.” I glance at my housemates, attempting to keep it light.
Anthony shrugs lazily. “You were wasted. Doubt you were thinking rationally.”
“You didn’t hear anything, right? Didn’t see me?” I ask Jamie.
“Sorry, man. I was pretty lit, too.” His mouth twists down at the corners.
I turn my attention to Anthony. “How about you? See or hear anything?”
“Nope, sorry.” He pauses, his eyes darting toward the balcony like something out there suddenly caught his attention. For a second, I think he’s remembering. I lean toward him, waiting, but then he just shrugs, forcing a quick grin. “Guess I was too busy trying to not puke at that point.”
I sigh, disappointed with their answers, but even more with myself.How could I havebeen so stupid?
I slump back into the couch and stare at the ceiling. My ribs ache. My leg itches under the cast, and I haven’t shaved in days. There’s a heaviness hanging around me now. Depression flickering in my periphery. It’s always there, ever since the accident, just beneath the surface. Waiting to slip in the second I stop pretending everything’s fine.
Anthony gets up and stalks around the condo, brushing his fingers over the potted plant on the table, flipping through the medical textbooks piled on the counter. Something about it bothers me, watching him touch Helen’s things like he has the right to do it. Jamie notices too—his gaze follows the movement, lips pressing into a thin line.
Finally, Anthony turns back to me. “Swanky place. I can see why you left the rest of us behind.” His tone is teasing, but there’s a resentful edge underneath.
“Hey!” I protest. “It’s not like that. I didn’t even know where Helen lived when I agreed to come here. I just knew there wasn’t any way I could manage the stairs at the Venice house, that’s all.”
Anthony shrugs, too casually. “Classic Teddy.” He aims the words at Jamie instead of me, like I’m not even in the room. “Even when he screws up, he lands ass-backwards into something better. Like this.” He sweeps his hand at the condo.
“Seriously?” I snap. “What the fuck, Anthony? What crawled up your butt?”
“What?” He throws his hands up, voice sharp. “It’s true, isn’t it? You screw around, you bail, and somehow you end up with the doctor, the condo, the—” He cuts himself off, jaw tight.
“That’s not what happened,” I argue.
“Yes, itis,” he insists. “This is how it always goes with you. Remember Willie Needlemyer and his buddies back in high school? You ran your mouth. We all got dragged into it. You came out without a scratch, and I got a black eye. Or the time we were working in that bar down by the pier, we werebothhungover and late for work, butIwas the one they fired. Not you.”
I start to protest, to tell him none of his bad luck was my fault, but the words dry up because…maybe some of it was. My recklessness, my lack of responsibility, other people have paid for that. People I care about. I never let myself see it before, but looking at Anthony’s clenched jaw now, I can’t help wondering how long he’s been keeping score. The worst part is, he has a right to be upset with me. That stings more than any punch Willie Needlemyer ever threw.
Maybe Gwen’s right. Maybe it reallyistime to grow up.
“Hey,” I say, more softly. “It’s not like it’s been all bad. Remember when you got fired, I quit too?”
“Because you hated that job,” Anthony mutters down at his feet.
“No,” I say, telling him the truth. “I didn’t want to work there without you. That’s what made that place fun. You and me, picking the playlist to blast over the speakers, making up our owndrink concoctions. Remember the Anthony special? Tequila, club soda, a splash of grapefruit juice?”
The corners of his mouth twitch up. “That was pretty good.” For a second, I almost think we’ve smoothed it over, but then his eyes cut away, sharp and shuttered. Like even the good stuff is spoiled. Like it doesn’t make up for the rest.
