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It’s the most godawful straight liquor ever made, I swear, but I’ll do anything to make this woman feel at ease tonight. Ironically, it’s the same damn liquor I utilized several nights in a row after breaking up with Maria in high school.
I’ve never liked the shit since.
On the plus side, if I’m passed out in the bathroom, my dick will be much more likely to get the memo. This isn’t about him, much to his dismay. This is about Maria. About her sister. About the grief she so obviously made herself bury when she lost her.
The body is tricky with emotion. It holds it and stores it and wears it even when we don’t realize. There’s a reason and a need for a purge, so that we can function without the weight.
Maria was never a drinker in high school—and though we were only in high school, that was a rarity. As I found out tonight, however, it seems that part of her never really changed. Her first glance at the bottle when I explained that my sister was going to watch Izzy and we were going to imbibe was not one of a woman who felt completely comfortable with the plan.
But I didn’t push, and within a minute of consideration, all of that swung in the other direction. She grabbed the bottle from my hand, reaching back to grab me with her other, and we left Winnie’s house with determination.
The ride to her apartment was made mostly in silence, but I can’t blame her for that. Tapping into a part of yourself you’ve kept hidden for this long is beyond scary. You just never know if you’re going to be able to stuff it all back inside.
Upon arrival at her place, we quickly found home bases on the floor in front of the couch and started swigging. Up until now, that’s felt like enough. We haven’t chatted or delved deep or even mentioned her sister’s name. She’s been dealing with her emotions privately, and I can respect—
“You know the last thing my sister said to me before she got on that helicopter?”
I pop my eyes open, the unexpected beginning enough to scare a man sober. I’m glad she’s talking—so fucking thankful, honestly—I just never imagined this would be the place we started.
I shake my head, murmuring only a soft “No” into the space between us. She nods then, smiling long enough to steal the bottle back and tip it for another swig.
“She said, ‘I’m pretty sure Orlando Bloom is going to be at this party. If you send your tits with me, I’ll have him sign.’”
I blink one, two, three…sixteen times. And then, I burst out laughing. Out of the myriad of things I expected her sister to have said in their last moments before her death, this would come in last place.
“You always expect it’ll be something deep, you know? Something with meaning you can take with you in their absence, something to apply to your life.” She giggles hard. “And all I have are Orlando Bloom and my tits.”
“Well, I can’t speak for Orlando Bloom personally since I’ve never met the guy. But I have seen your tits, and Ria, they’re not a bad thing to be left with.”
She laughs again, and I can’t help but smile as she snorts. She’s in a deep vortex of messy feelings, but I’m glad to be here with her.
“I honestly forgot how funny your sister was,” I admit then. “But she was always making me laugh when we were kids. You both were.”
“We loved to cut up, that’s true. Oliver always said he was going to record us and submit it to a stand-up comedy competition.” She rolls her eyes. “He never did, obviously, because he was a man, and, no offense, but as a whole, your follow-through isn’t the greatest.”
I put up both my hands in surrender. “None taken.”
“We were supposed to start doing Lamaze together—all three of us,” she says with a shake of her head. Her gaze is longing and distant as she reaches through memories she’s long since locked away. “Man, I’m sure that would have been the talk of the town. A sight to see, really. I can just imagine all of New York society gossiping about Oliver and his harem.” She cackles. “He was so conservative. He would have died.”
Her face straightens suddenly at the unsavory play on words, and my eyes widen in return. She bursts into laughter then. Completely unbound, uncontrolled, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest-style hilarity.
It’s a great sound. One I know is laced with pain, but necessary. If she doesn’t get it out, that’s what will be festering inside her.
When her laughter slows, she takes another pull of tequila and dives right into another story. I make sure the bottle finds its way back to upright on the carpet and listen intently.
