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Thinking about what her brother looks like naked and in the throes of passion.
Guilt pummels me, and I close my eyes, welcoming it. It’s the least I deserve. An image of her appears in my mind, her amber eyes round and glassy with hurt. Betrayal.
The thought of how devastated she’d be spears through my chest, seizing my lungs, stealing my next breath.
Good. Let it rip you apart.
You’re no better than your dad.
Good for nothing, flaky, selfish piece of?—
My eyes fly open, a newfound resolve washing over me, steeling my spine and hardening my features. Clutching the broom, I round the bar, and start sweeping up discarded cups and balled up cocktail napkins and whatever else found its way to the floor.
I can still feel Shawn’s gaze on me, but I ignore it, telling myself there’s nothing to see here.
I’m just confused.
I’m sleep deprived.
Whatever all this is…it’s not real.
Misplaced.
Nodding to myself, I replay through what my therapist said a while back.
Transference.
Coping mechanism.
Codependence.
That’s all this is. Jeremy’s my friend, just like he’s always been. My brain’s just looking for something to latch on. A substitute.
Biting back a grimace and the immediate surge of indignation—of denial and guilt and no, no, I wouldn’t fucking reduce him to that—I busy myself with sweeping, making a pointed effort to ignore the drunken laughter and slurred conversation coming from the table against the wall.
Seconds give way to minutes, and by the time we get the bar cleaned up, I notice how quiet it’s gotten, save for the low rock music coming from the jukebox. “Runaway Train” by Soul Asylum.
Ivy left at some point—missed that too—leaving just Shawn, Waylon, and me, and the two guys slouched against the wall, barely able to keep their eyes open.
Waylon shakes Will as I try to rouse Jeremy.
He groans and bats me away, flopping over to rest his head on the table. He doesn’t even bother bringing his arms up to pillow his face.
Fighting back a laugh, I say, “Hey. Don’t do that. Come on, JJ, you can sleep in my be—on the couch,” I quickly rectify, shooting a paranoid glance over at Waylon.
He doesn’t seem to be paying attention to me though, thankfully. He’s too busy throwing Will’s arm around his neck, and muttering under his breath about payback being a bitch.
“Don’t wanna. Not my name,” a voice mumbles.
I look down at Jeremy. His cheek’s smushed against the table, lips pushed out and parted. They’re tinged blue, and glisten like he’d wet them recently. White hair glimmering silver in this light curls over his eyes, and my fingers itch with the urge to run my fingers through it. Push it back.
Is it as silky and soft as it looks?
Thudding footsteps draw near, and says, “I’ll help Way. You got him?”
I nod, and shake Jeremy’s shoulder again. “Come on, drunky. Get on my back. I’ll carry you up.”
He lifts his face, squinting at me. “Huh?”
