This girl doesn’t live far away — about eight blocks. She holds onto my arm, her head jerking and bobbing as if it is a fishing lure. She is apologizing. (See? It’s that regret thing.) We get back and she asks me to stay until she is in bed. A comfort thing I suppose. I agree, no harm done. She goes into the bathroom and I sit on the bed, bored. A minute goes by.
Two.
Three.
I get up and see, sitting on top of some bags, a journal. I pick it up, thumbing through it absent-mindedly. It is hers. Should I feel bad about going through it? Should that bother me? I don’t think so, clearly. And she is taking too long. I sit at the end of the bed, and start thumbing through it, reading. She wants to attend the college I am going to in the fall. She didn’t get in. It really upset her. She thinks she should have gotten in. I couldn’t care less to be honest. But it is interesting to see it from the other side. I didn’t have to deal with that rejection. I am glad.
She comes out of the bathroom. And sees what I am doing. She is either too drunk or too tired to care. She comments briefly and falls into bed, barely peeling the covers away before her body hits.
She starts talking. I don’t want to be overly rude (any more than I already have been), so I put the journal back and turn, standing up, to face her. She is crying.
“You read about college?”
“Yeah.”
“I just wanted to go there.”
I don’t know whether it is better to tell her I had gotten in or not. I don’t want to make her feel bad or have her think too much of me somehow. I nod. Trying to keep it simple and low-key.
“Where are you going?” she asks, tears still rolling.
So much for that ploy. I answer.
“That’s all I wanted. That’s it. I got good grades, I really did. I don’t understand why they would keep me out. That’s even near my boyfriend. I’m going to marry him.”
“What’s his name?”
“Landon.”
“Like Highway to Heaven?”
“Huh?”
“Nothing.” I forgot how easy it is to confuse drunks.
“You love him, don’t you?” I am trying to move from schools to this boy in an effort to calm her down. I’m not going to get to leave until she is comfortable. And I do want my bed, even if it is in a hotel with a bunch of people I hate sharing a room with.
“Yes. He’s my man.”
I nod, not knowing what else to do.
“I shouldn’t have flashed all those people at the party, should I have? I mean, that was bad, wasn’t it?”
Fuck. I’m never getting to sleep. Or going home.
“Why does it matter?”
“Landon would have been mad.”
“That’s understandable.”
“Oh my God. I was acting like a whore, wasn’t I?”
“I don’t think I would go that far. You were acting . . . a bit out of control. I’m not sure the whole dancing and flashing two step thing you had going on was such a good idea.”
“Oh God. I’m so drunk. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
“I know. It’s okay.”
“Will you stay here,” (Fuck. Here it comes. Fuck. I really don’t want to spend the night.) “until I fall asleep?”
“Can I sit over here on this bed?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure? I didn’t think you wanted me in your bed.”
“No, I don’t. That’s fine.”
She shifts and rolls, like a jet fighter, making herself comfortable in the bed. After two dives and wraps, I can’t see her anymore.
“Will you get the light?” She’s almost asleep already. I have to play back the sentence in my head twice before I realize what she is asking.
I get up without a word and walk to the door. And turn the light off. I stand by the door for two minutes. I can’t see anything in the room; I can only see the beach outside, lit by streetlights, hotel lights, cars, boardwalk lights. From here, the ocean looks black. And silent.
“Are you awake?”
I wait thirty seconds for her to answer.
She doesn’t. I smile and slip out the door.
It’s time to go home.
