Page 46 of Best Friend Burden

***MELODY***

“We did it!”Kalle was absolutely beaming.

Once the first customer came by, the dam began to burst and, as the lunch rush grew larger, we got more and more people to give us a try. It was exhilarating and exhausting. It was more than we could have anticipated and, as a result, we ran out of jackfruit. By the time we closed, we were nearly out of tofu, too and though it was a full 10 hour day, Kalle and I both still had so much energy that we needed to do something with it. So I invited everybody from the food court over for an impromptu party.

I didn't expect so many of them to actually come by.

And, sure, in retrospect, things got out of hand, but it wasn't every day that you got to open your food truck and see that success was imminent.

As happy as I was, though, Kalle was over the moon.

“I knew the food was good,” she said, “but... I mean, no offense, but I didn't realize it was going to be that big of a hit.”

“Sometimes,” I said, “you just need to have faith and let the food speak for itself.”

It was almost a little concerning. People had a tendency to talk and tell their friends about good food — which is what we wanted, of course, but I didn't know if I could deal with every day being like today.

But I guess that's why I had Kalle to help me out.

Part of me wondered if her excitement would wane in a few months time after the honeymoon was over, but that was tomorrow's problem. Right now, we were on top of the world, looking forward to the future we dreamed of coming true and celebrating with our new friends.

Or at least that's what we were doing before Kiefer made it home. And, because I deserved it, I had a celebratory drink. Or possibly two. Maybe more than that, but who counts drinks other than alcoholics? I could handle myself and knew when to stop.

Sure, things were starting to get a little blurry, but I still had control over my actions. The world may have been in a fog, but my mind was still working at 100%. A little slower than usual, but it wasn’t like I was a different person or something. I was still the same old Melody as before, and I wasn’t doing anything that sober Melody wouldn’t have done.

At least that’s what I kept telling myself.

In retrospect, maybe I did have one drink too many, and I got more drunk than a responsible adult should have. But that was only in hindsight.

It’s not like I was the only one who handled that situation badly.

When the door opened and Kiefer walked in, you could almost feel the air leave the room. Or maybe it was just in my head. Maybe nobody else even noticed him — though a guy like Kiefer can’t go anywhere without people noticing him.

Even from the other side of the room and through my somewhat intoxicated state, I could tell he was in a mood. And when he was like this, nobody around him was allowed to be happy. It only made things worse for him.

I tried remaining focused on Kalle, hoping Kiefer would ignore everything and just go to his room, do whatever he needed to do to get in a better mood, then come out and join us when he was ready.

Of course, that's not what happened. Instead, it was exactly like being back at that club when we first got together. Kiefer wasn’t happy just being miserable. No, when he was miserable, he had to ensure everyone else around him was miserable, too.

To ensure his mission was a success, he made a beeline for me, practically jumping in front of Kalle, cutting her off mid-sentence.

“You need to get everybody the hell out of here,” he said. It felt like he was shouting, with each word a percussive blast at my face. His voice was definitely loud. Maybe he just wanted to be heard over the music. But he didn't need to bethatloud. It pierced my skull like an icepick — each word more painful than the next.

I hate being yelled at. It tenses me up almost immediately and sends tears straight to my eyes as I quiver and freeze, as though somebody had flipped an off switch in my brain. There were times when I was younger when somebody yelled at me, and I couldn't even force words out of my mouth. It's like my body completely shuts down.

As I grew older, and after dating a serial screamer in my early 20s, I got better at dealing with men and their loud voices, but I never became completely comfortable with it and vowed to never put myself through that again.

“Right now!” he yelled.

I closed my eyes and focused, through the dense brain fog of both anxiety and inebriation. I’d trained myself to do this over years of dealing with shouters, and I found the inner strength I needed to respond to him.

“You can't talk to me like that,” I said. The words barely sounded like me. In pushing them out, they slurred so much that I wasn’t sure he’d even be able to understand them. My East Texan accent always got thicker with a few drinks, but this was ridiculous. It practically sounded like another language. I repeated my words slowly, trying to make them clearer, but my mouth would only cooperate so much. “You can’t talk to me like that!” I said, with each word feeling as viscous as syrup.

He didn't lower his voice. “You're throwing a party at my apartment without my permission, and then lecturingmeon my tone?!”

It wasn’t a lecture. It was a request. I truly didn’t know the strength of his addition, and the way he reacted to it. Also the fact that his reactions triggered my own inner issues so much. But, if he cared about me even a little bit, he’d realize by my reaction how much he was hurting me and hopefully stop it.

“And there are drinks everywhere,” he said. “You know I can’t have that.”

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