Page 30 of Steadfast
Christ. I was such a user. Of drugs, and now of people, too.
On this grim thought, I did something weird and reflexive, something only an addict would do. I looked down into the glass I was holding, wonderinghow come I can’t feel a buzz yet?
Because it was a glass of soda.Right.
Sigh.
Dinner was delicious, as always. I helped wash dishes afterward.
“What can I do?” Sophie asked as I scraped odds and ends off a cutting board into the compost bin.
The kitchen was pretty crowded. “Have another cider. Or ask the twins if they need help setting up dessert? They’re probably making homemade whipped cream. And they’re usually looking for someone to take a turn with the whisk.”
Sophie gave me a curious smile. “Okay. I’m on it.”
I watched her walk away. She was wearing a pretty plum-colored top that was just a little bit see-through. But I didn’t need sheer fabric to picture the smoothness of her skin. I wore the memory of Sophie like an imprint on my soul.
May caught me looking. “It’s good that you and Sophie are patching things up,” she said quietly.
I turned to look her in the eye. Addicts get really fucking good at eye contact. It’s a great cover up.I’m staring you down, so I couldn’t possibly be lying right now. “Not really,” I said. “Tonight is just a fluke.”
She squeezed my wrist and plucked a dishtowel off its hook. “You never know. Maybe you two need each other.”
“Don’t say that,” I muttered. “Nobody needsthis.” What Sophie needed was a train ticket to New York. I still hadn’t asked her yet why she wasn’t already there. I was afraid to hear the answer—that somehow I’d fucked that up for her, too.
May snapped the towel at my ass. “That’s my Eeyore. Always looking on the bright side.”
“It’s my specialty.”
“Wash faster,” she said. “They’re going to cut the pies soon.”
* * *
We stayedthrough a single round of Who Am I—the game where someone tapes a little slip of paper to your forehead with a famous person’s name on it, and you have to ask questions of the other partygoers to figure out who you’re supposed to be.
It was just the sort of game that I’d usually begged off from when I’d lived here. But May and Sophie ganged up on me.
“Fine,” I caved. “But I get to pick both of yours.” So I put “Miley Cyrus” on Sophie’s forehead and “President Obama” on May’s.
May wrote mine, but Sophie taped it on. When she leaned over me, I got a whiff of green apple shampoo.
“Am I Eeyore?” I asked immediately.
May rolled her eyes. “Too obvious. Try again.”
“I need another piece of pie to play this game,” I said. “Anyone else?”
They both claimed they couldn’t eat another thing, so I helped myself. Zach stood at the dessert table, a scrap of paper taped to his head. It read:Zac Efron.
“Let me guess. The twins did yours?”
Zach grinned. He was a man of few words.
“At least yours is flattering. Mine is some asshole, right?”
He shrugged. “Don’t ask the former cult member for help with cultural trivia. But I’m pretty sure yours isn’t cool.”
It took me a single lap around the room to figure out that I was supposed to be Donald Trump. And when Sophie figured hers out, she came over and threw the scrap of paper at me. “Miley Cyrus?You made me the worst singer to ever sell a million records? You aresucha shit, Jude Nickel.” She slapped my arm.
