four
My best friend, Marlena, has cocktails in hand when she opens the door.
“Texts that read,Fired today and banned from mall computer store, warrant drinks. Let’s do this, my bestie!” She grabs my arm and yanks me into her West Hollywood apartment.
Marlena is always dressed to slay, but it’s as though she does so with ease. Not like my sister. Of course, it is easy for her to achieve perfection because her natural beauty is staggering. No makeup, no fuss. Always so pretty and fresh. Her straight blonde hair is pulled back into a slick bun, and her black leggings and aqua stretch top make even me want to jump her.
The tequila shots that she pours are generous. Precisely what I need right now.
There’s no hesitation before I slam back everything that she offers me. It takes a few shots before I wipe my mouth and randomly say, “I hate your perfect eyebrows.”
Marlena raises our next shot glass in toast. “And I love your perfect pout.”
“Thanks. I’ve been working on being a sulky bitch for years.”
“Nicely done.”
We are silent as she pours us two more shots.
It’s not that long before I am basically hanging backward in an upside-down mess from her remote-controlled lounger. “Why the fuck did you think this was a good furniture choice? I can’t even see you. Or anything besides this wall behind me. And you need a bit of a drywall patch. And a vacuum.”
“Well, you’re not sitting in it rightly. Properly. Whatever. Hit the…thing.” Marlena gestures so adorably. “The thing that makes you sit up. There’s a big button!”
It takes a bit of fumbling, but eventually, I’m moving. “I FOUND THE BIG BUTTON!” I manage to right myself into a normal position.
Marlena is clapping and doing some kind of weird dance that miraculously works with the music she’s got blasting. It’s during her dance that she calls out, “So, fucked up day, yes?”
It takes another shot before I can confide that, yes, today was all sorts of terrible. I reveal yesterday’s quinoa-night debacle that was followed by the work and mall debacles. How I was fired. And escorted out of the computer store. That I am unemployed andE-key-less.
My girl spins around and stops, ridiculously and dramatically pointing her finger at me. “But!” she exclaims. “That is not all! Whatcha leaving out, girl? Your mood is not about a job or a laptop.”
There is not enough alcohol for this line of questioning. “F-key you. And I need another drink.”
“F-key you back.” She plops onto the sofa and begins fussing with something on the table. “Spill. Shit it all out right now.”
I hate and love her for knowing me so well.Fuck. “My mom,” I say with an undeniable slur, “still owns our house in Vermont. Obviously, she’s had someone keeping an eye on it—to a degree. Paul. He was my dad’s best friend. But now, she’s being pushed to update it and sell. She’s melting down. I’m melting down. But it’s fine.” It’s a struggle not to cry, and I crawl out from the horrid lounger and pace the floor.
“Wait, what? She never sold the house? How did I not know this?” Marlena grabs my hand and pulls me close. “Okay, that’s weird as hell, but why areyoumelting?”
“The idea of selling it? I mean, I hardly remember it, right? Why should I care? She moved us out of there like the wind. Like, a few days after my dad’s service.”
“Holy crap.”
“Oh yeah. She told me and Erica to pack up whatever we could fit into two suitcases and a carry-on, and that was that. We hopped on a plane and landed in Los Angeles.”
I’ve never told anyone about this, about the aftermath that I’ve been swallowing for years.
“ Smoke up. Gummies are way popular, but I’m still all about old-school shit.”
Marlena has rolled us some giant joints, and I could not be more grateful. I’m not usually big on weed even though it’s legal, but I’m all in tonight. And when it hits, it hits hard.
“I think…” I realize something for the first time. “I think that she ripped us out of that house and that it pretty much hasn’t been touched since. Like, whatever was left when the three of us flew to LA? All our stuff is there still. Oh my God.” I feel sick, thinking about our abandoned house. Our abandoned lives. “After that day? I don’t know. We weren’t supposed to talk about my dad. His death. Anything to do with life in Vermont. Life with him. It’s why I don’t remember much.”
“Maybe you remember more than you think.”
I sniff and try to breathe through this alcohol-and-weed haze that’s taken over. “Well, I have flashes,” I admit. “Of our house. My old life, before…with Dad. God, it was this tiny place. Wake, Vermont.”
“What else?” my friend asks.
