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But every time you stab your enemy, you feel less satisfied.
Every time you stab, you’re the only one left bleeding.
“Sure,” I say dryly, ignoring all the uncertainty now trying to claw its way out of me. “Why not. Maybe I am blaming you.”
“You can’t be fucking serious, Lance.”
“Why not?” I shrug carelessly at him. “You were even in one of my gym classes. You saw them shoving me into the lockers each and every day. You saw them stealing my clothes, or laughing at me, and what did you do, except continue to get dressed in silence and look the other way? Just like everyone else.”
Tears are coming to Billy’s eyes. He’s mad, and he’s hurt.
I already feel remorse. I don’t need to say anything else. I have recklessly and arrogantly peeled open ten-year-old scabs, and I feel terrible, and yet somehow I can’t bring myself to stop.
I can’t bring myself to drop the fucking weapon.
Billy squints against his tears. “There was a better way …” he starts to say, irritably wipes away a tear that tries to fall, then continues: “… a much better way that you could have told me all of this, Lance. A less hurtful way. But not here, and not today, and not like this.”
“Sorry,” I say, not sounding it in the least.
Billy stares at me for five long, anguished seconds. Then, with a shake of his head and a sigh, he tosses his outfit on a nearby rack, turns, and exits the store, the bells jingling in his departure.
The second he leaves, the face I was upholding collapses.
I feel terrible.
Why did I say all of that? Why did I get so ugly?
Am I really this inconsolably bitter about my childhood …?
Will I ever be able to let go of this slippery dagger …?
Without even saying anything, Mindy comes up to me and, also without waiting for any sign of my permission, hugs me. I let her squeeze the crap out of me, feeling like I deserve very little of her consolation right now—especially after how I just treated her supposed best friend.
She brings her mouth to my ear. “Don’t worry, Lance. He’ll get over it. He’s a strong guy. And …” She sighs. “I guess really, all of us should take a little of that blame. I knew the wrestlers had this tiff with you back then. I just as well could have said something. I could have done something. I didn’t. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me too,” Whitney decides, having heard every word despite Mindy whispering, followed by a, “Me too,” from Elissa, and a hand-wringing Nadia mumbling, “I could’ve done something about it, too.”
After another few seconds of tight hugging, Mindy separates from me, then gets a look into my eyes. “Hey, what’s a high school reunion without a bunch of unresolved drama resurfacing, right?” She lets out a strained laugh, then faces her friends. “Maybe at the reunion tonight, Virginia and I will face off, finally admitting we despise each other’s guts for our junior-year kerfuffle over Steven Baker, the biggest cheating loser in Spruce history. Not to get your hopes up,” she adds cheerily, lifting her hands, “because there is probably something far more interesting fated to happen tonight.”
The women laugh, all the tension broken, and they each have about a dozen examples of all the possible different dramas that could erupt tonight among their former classmates.
And while the four of them are busy postulating their peers’ pending misery, I glance back over my shoulder at the door and the glass windows. There is a deep, bottomless abyss in my chest. It truly feels like a literal wound where I stabbed myself with that totally-figurative weapon. My stomach is unsettled to the point that I’m regretting going for that extra crepe.
But Billy aside, I still have someone else to deal with.
Chad.
And I think I know what I need to do at the reunion tonight.
I won’t enjoy it at all, of course, but I’m going to have to do it. I have a feeling that if I don’t, I’ll be carrying this burden forever.
Suck it up, Lance. You can do it.
Of course, first things first: “Ladies, you wouldn’t happen to know where in town I can procure some athletic gear, would you?”
7
That Whole Reunion Shindig
I check my hair for the twentieth time.
I tug on my vest and straighten my bowtie.
I’m going all-out with my getup for this reunion. Maybe too all-out. But if the ladies are going to dress to impress, and the men are going to follow suit, I need to make sure every eye in that place sees me and drops jaw.
Every single piece I’m wearing, from my bowtie, to my vest, to my perfectly-tailored trousers, are my own design. I even strap a small and stylish satchel over my shoulder I constructed from the same specialty leather my belt is made from, in which I keep my wallet and phone (and a few other surprises) so as not to bulge my pockets and ruin my silhouette.
