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Dane scratches under his arm. “Want me to leave?” he says.
I…I…
I don’t know what I want. Well, yes I do, but I can’t have it. So.
“Nah, come on in. He won’t bite.”
“Glad to hear it,” says Dane snarkily and pushes past me into my place.
“Hey Dane,” says Matthew. I can read on his face how much he can’t stand Dane, but to anyone who doesn’t know him like I do, his feelings are pretty well hidden.
“Dude,” says Dane, and holds out a hand for Matthew to slap.
There’s a totally uncomfortable silence. I’m looking from one to the other, and they’re just staring at each other, and yowee the room gets cold.
“Um, can I make you guys something to eat? Coffee’s made, if Matthew hasn’t drunk it all. I could make pancakes or something. How about some waffles?”
“Not hungry,” says Dane, his eyes narrowing at Matthew.
“Got any fruit?” asks Matthew.
Matthew was always nuts for fruit. When our parents married, my mom used to tease him all the time about how he ate a whole bunch of bananas in one sitting, or an entire bag of apples. I guess a guy who works out that hard needs food, right? I go into my little efficiency kitchen and start on some fruit salad. Then I see right on the counter, right next to the coffee maker, the rolled-up dollar bill left from the night I did blow with Dane.
It was three weeks ago now, but I’d left that rolled-up bill there as a kind of reminder, something to trigger the awful feelings that rolled in once I was coming down—I left it there as a kind of stop sign, if that makes sense.
And now, without a doubt, Matthew has seen it. You don’t get to be a detective without noticing stuff.
Fuck. Can you just imagine the lectures coming my way now? I’m wondering why he hasn’t started in already, the moment he saw the damn thing.
I come out of the kitchen with the big bowl of fruit salad and three bowls and spoons. “I’ve got some cream, anyone want me to whip some?”
Matthew and Dane are still staring at each other and the room is like walking into a freezer.
“Did you say whipped cream?” asks Matthew, grinning. He reaches for me and pulls me over to him. “I sure love having a great cook in the family,” he says warmly, slipping an arm around me.
What? I haven’t had an arm around me like this in…a long time.
Dane is sitting on a stool and seems to shrink in Matthew’s presence, who makes him look skinnier, sicker, pastier—what I’m saying is, it’s like Matthew being there makes Dane seem d
ifferent to me. But I mean, who’s not going to look shrimpy next to Matthew? We can’t all be gym gods after all.
I pull myself away from Matthew and go over to Dane. He turns those big brown puppy dog eyes on me, and what I read in his look is: get rid of the cop for fuck’s sake.
I press my lips together and give him a quick nod, and go back in the kitchen to whip the cream. I hear some low talking, then the door opening.
“Hey Nic, I gotta run! Catch you later!” And Matthew is gone. I’m standing there holding the stupid bowl of whipped cream looking at the closed door, just standing there feeling crappy and sorry that he’s gone even though I’ve been telling myself that’s what I wanted from the minute he showed up.
“I brought you a present,” says Dane, with a sly smile. He needs a shave. When you’re as skinny as he is, the stubble look is not sexy.
He reaches into his jacket, which has stains all down the front like he’s never heard of a washing machine. And then opens his palm to show me a pair of little white envelopes, cute little miniatures, neatly folded.
I back up a few steps. “Unh-uh, Dane. I’m not doing that again.”
“Come on, party with me! I’m sharing.”
He sits down on the sofa and makes space on the coffee table. “Give me a credit card, willya?” he says, shaking out the white powder into a tiny mountain.
I told you I’m weak. I go to my bag hanging on the back of the door and fish out my wallet. I hand him my bank card. And I watch him cut lines on my coffee table and snort one up, and then he hands the rolled-up bill to me.
4
I DIDN’T EVEN want to do it. I told myself, I’ll just do one to keep Dane from pestering me about it, just a quick line to show I’m not a prude and that’s it.
Ha. Yeah, right.
The rest of the day and night are a total haze. At some point we went out—middle of the night—to score some more, and it was weird as shit being out on the street high like that. I felt like nothing bad could happen to me, like I was in a protected bubble or something. And later when I came down I saw what a load of crap that was, and how much trouble I could have gotten myself into. It’s not like we were hanging out with kindergarten teachers, ya know? We were looking for street dealers in the worst part of town, where people got mugged all the time. What better target than some idiot high shithead with a pocket full of cash looking to buy more? Desperate to buy more?
Anyway, we came home and snorted away last month’s paycheck that I was saving for a downpayment on a car. And finally at about six in the morning I fell asleep, forgetting to set my alarm.
Late for work again.
The owner didn’t even bother to take me into his office. He just showed up at my station as I was cutting potatoes into cubes and told me I had one more chance. And if I blew that one chance, not only would I be fired but I could forget getting any kind of rec from him or anyone at Hole. So like, out of a job and no way to get another one.
I’m just going to say this one time and one time only. It’s true that for the hours of being high, of snorting that shit up my nose—it’s fucking good. I mean, obviously. Half my neighborhood wouldn’t be circling the drain over it if it was meh.
But the thing is, the pain it numbs? It’s right there when you come down. Only it’s bigger. Like it’s grown three eyes that follow you wherever you go, and pointy sticks to poke you with, hard, every time you try to chill.
I mean it this time. No more.
I’m working lunch, trying to make this pile of potatoes like the most awesome thing in the world. The chef is going to come when he sees how beautiful they are, how exactly the same size, perfect. My eyelids feel like they’re covered in glue and my stomach is churning, but I stay focused on the spuds, on my glittering knife, on everything but my fucked up life.
Usually there’s a radio going in the kitchen. Salsa, mostly. But today of all days, while I’m at my station doing my best to stay engrossed in the potatoes, a bit of news comes on. Local. Talking about a huge drug bust, in the works for months, fifteen people arrested, a few people shot.
A chill falls over me, I don’t know why.
It’s not until I get home from work, dead tired and sore, that I get a call from Dane. He’s in jail, rounded up in the bust, and he wants…he wants everything. For me to get him out, to make it all better. He’s got a certain tone of voice to match the puppy dog eyes and he’s using it to the max. And tired as I am, I can’t leave my boyfriend in jail. I put my coat back on and head downtown.
I’m riding the bus when I think of Matthew. I hate the idea of asking for any kind of favor, but hey, it’s not like I have money for bail or even understand how the system works. He could be really helpful if he chose to be. So let’s just see how much this idea of family he’s always droning on about really matters to him.
