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"Can you believe she said that?" Aria's voice cracked, her words punctuated by sniffles.
"Unbelievable," I echoed, but my attention snagged on the canvas looming like a silent accusation. I'd poured every fucked-up feeling into that painting—a visceral scene straight from the darkest corners of my mind, full of blood and betrayal.
Not exactly the backdrop for a heart-to-heart.
"Excuse me for a sec," I muttered and lunged for the couch. My fingers fumbled with the plush blanket—some overpriced shit I bought in a moment of retail therapy. In one swift movement, I yanked it free, nearly toppling a vase in the process. Who gives a damn about décor when your best friend's world is crumbling?
"Sorry, what were you saying?" I asked, draping the blanket over the painting. The edges billowed before settling down, hiding the grotesque painting from view. No more murder scene; just an innocuous lump against the wall. Nothing to see here.
"Nothing, just... how could she do this to me?" Aria sucked in a breath, looking as lost as a virgin at a sex expo.
"Because she's a grade-A bitch," I spat out, making my way back to her side. "You're better off without her crap."
"Easy for you to say," Aria grumbled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. "You've stopped letting anyone get close enough to screw you over like this."
"Damn right," I shot back, "because I'm not signing up for that bullshit anymore. People are only as faithful as their options. You want loyalty? Get a vibrator. At least when it fucks you, it's because you asked it to."
Aria snorted, the sound mingling with a sob, and I knew I'd hit the mark again. Humor, dark as my soul, was the glue keeping us from falling apart. We were just two messes in the Windy City, clinging to each other amid the chaos.
Inudged the wine bottle's neck into the glass, watching the red liquid cascade like a waterfall of regrets. "Here," I said, thrusting the glass into Aria's trembling hands. "Drink up, buttercup. It's cheaper than therapy."
Aria managed a watery smile as she took the glass, her fingers brushing mine—a silent thank you. I poured one for myself and collapsed beside her on the couch, the cushions sighing beneath us. The wine was bitter on my tongue, but it was nothing compared to the acrid taste of fear lurking at the back of my throat.
"God, what I wouldn't give to be balls deep in a problem that booze could solve," I mused aloud, tipping the glass back and letting the alcohol burn a path down my throat.
"Like your non-existent sex life?" Aria joked, a glint of her usual fire sparking in her eyes despite the tears. Trust Aria to call me out on my shit.
"Ha-ha, very funny," I shot back. "At least when I'm alone in bed, I know the only asshole there is me." I kicked off my socks and tucked my legs under me, trying not to think about how my own blog was filled with fantasies that would never see the light of day.
As we sipped our wine, the silence stretched between us, comfortable but charged with unspoken words. My mind wandered back through the years, to all the times Aria had been there for me—when I got that god-awful pixie cut in sophomore year and looked like a reject from a punk band, or when I drunkenly confessed that my heart didn't just beat for the stereotypical tall, dark, and handsome. No, my desires were darker, twisted; they scared even me sometimes.
"Remember when I came out as Bi to you?" I asked, swirling the wine in my glass. "You didn't even blink. Just hugged me and said, 'Fuck anyone who's got a problem with it.'"
"Because fuck them," Aria affirmed, her voice stronger now.
"Exactly," I agreed, clinking my glass against hers. "Fuck them."
We drank to that, to all the fucks we didn't give and to the bond that had formed from a shared history of middle fingers raised against the world. Her laughter bubbled up, mingling with mine, creating a symphony that echoed off my apartment walls, briefly overpowering the whispering shadows of my fears.
"Who needs dick when you've got wine and a best friend who's seen you puke after too many tequila shots?" I declared, raising my glass in a toast to the fucked-up tapestry that was our lives.
"Damn straight," Aria slurred, leaning into me, her head resting on my shoulder. And for a moment, just a heartbeat in time, everything else fell away—the hidden painting, the blog, the gnawing loneliness. It was just us, two souls stitched together by the scars of past betrayals and the quiet understanding that no matter how jagged the edges, we fit together perfectly.
She hiccupped, a sad sound that tugged at the strings I pretended weren't attached to my demented heart. "I just—" She paused, shaking her head. "It hurts, Cece."
"Fuck yeah, it hurts," I agreed, because what else could I say? Love was a bitch that left you bleeding out on the floor. "But you're a tough one, Aria. You've got that warrior spirit. And hey, I'm here, right? We'll slog through this cesspool together."
Her smile was weak but present, and I felt a fucking medal was in order for getting even that much.
"Know what we need?" I blurted out before I could second-guess myself. "We need to get shit-faced drunk in a crowd of sweaty bodies all moving to the same beat. We need to hit up Inferno this weekend."
Inferno was the sort of place where inhibitions went to die, a popular LGBT bar with music that throbbed in your veins and lights that made everyone look like sin. Aria loved that place—loved the pulse of it, the freedom. Hell, she shone brighter than those goddamn strobe lights when she danced.
"Really?" Her voice cracked, but there was a spark in her brown eyes, a flicker of life reigniting. "You'd do that?"
"Fuck yes," I shot back, trying to sound way more enthused than I felt. "You think I'd leave you moping around like some tragic diva? Put on your hottest 'fuck you' outfit, and let's dance until we can't feel feelings anymore."
"Sounds perfect," she whispered, and I could see the gears shifting in her head, the pain receding to make room for something reckless, something that didn't give a damn about broken hearts or shitty exes.
