He dropped back beside me, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Really.”
“Yes.”
We were at the phone now. I reached into my pockets: no change. And suddenly it just seemed to hit me all at once-the argument with Chris, the fight in the bar, my own pity party, and, right on the tails of that, all the drinks I’d consumed in the last few hours. My head hurt, I was deadly thirsty, and now I was stuck. I put my hand over my eyes and took a few good, deep breaths to steady myself.
Don’t cry, for God’s sakes, I told myself. This isn’t you. Not anymore. Breathe.
But it wasn’t working. Nothing was working tonight.
“Come on,” he said quietly. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“No.” I sniffled, and hated the way it sounded. Weak. “Go away.”
“Remy,” he replied. “Tell me.”
I shook my head. How did I know this would be any different? The story could have been the same, easily: me drunk, in a deserted place. Someone there, reaching out for me. It had happened before. Who could blame me for my cold, hard heart?
And that did it. I was crying, so angry at myself, but I couldn’t stop. The only time I ever allowed myself to be this weak was at home, in my closet, staring up at those stars with my father’s voice filling my ears. And I wished so much that he was here, even though I knew it was stupid, that he didn’t even know me to save me. He’d said it himself, in the song: he’d let me down. But still.
“Remy,” Dexter said quietly. He wasn’t touching me, but his voice was very close, and very soft. “It’s okay. Don’t cry.”
Later, it would take me a minute to remember how exactly it happened. If I turned around and moved forward first, or he did. I just knew we didn’t meet halfway. It was just a short distance really, not worth squabbling over. And maybe it didn’t matter so much whether he took the step or I did. All I knew was that he was there.
Chapter Seven
I woke up with my mouth dry, my head pounding, and the sound of guitar music coming from the direction of the door across the room. It was dark, but there was a slant of light stretching right to where I was, falling across the end of a bed in which I had apparently, up until now, been sleeping.
I sat up quick, and my head spun. God. This was familiar. Not the place but this feeling, waking up in a strange bed, completely discombobulated. Moments like this, I was just glad no one was there to witness my absolute shame as I verified that yes, my pants were still on and yes, I was still wearing a bra and yes, okay, nothing major had happened because, well, girls just know.
Jesus. I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath.
Okay, okay, I told myself, just think for a second. I looked around me for any distinguishing details that might clarify what, exactly, had happened since the last thing I remembered, which was me and Dexter at the phone booth. There was a window to my left, along the sill of which there was what appeared to be a series of snow globes. A chair across the room was covered with clothes, and there was a bunch of CDs stacked in piles beside the door. Finally, at the end of the bed, in a pile, were my sandals, the sweater I’d been wearing around my waist, and my money and ID. Had I put them there? No way. Even drunk, I would have folded them. I mean, please.
Suddenly I heard someone laugh, and then a few guitar chords, playing softly.
“You gave me a potato,” someone sang, as there was another snort of laughter, “ but I wanted a kumquat… I asked you for lovin’… You said -hey, wait, is that my cottage cheese?”
“I’m hungry,” someone protested. “And the only other thing in here is relish.”
“Then eat the relish,” another voice said. “The cottage cheese is off limits. ”
“What’s your problem, man?”
“House rules, John Miller. You don’t buy food, you don’t eat. Period.”
A refrigerator door slammed, there was a second of silence, and then the guitar started up again. “He’s such a baby,” someone said. “Okay. So where were we?”
“Kumquat.” This time I recognized the voice. It was Dexter.
“Kumquat,” the other voice repeated. “So…”
“I asked you for lovin’,” Dexter sang. “You said, do what?”
I pushed off the blankets that were covering me, got out of the bed, then put on my shoes. For some reason, this made me feel better, more in control. Then I stuck my ID back in my pocket, slipped on my sweater, and sat down to think.
First off: the time. No clock, but I could see what looked like a tangled phone cord poking out from under the bed, half buried under a couple of shirts. This place was a mess. I dialed the time and temperature number, listened to the five-day forecast, and then found out it was, at the tone, 12:22 A.M. Beep.
It was really bothering me that the bed wasn’t made. But it wasn’t my problem. I needed to get home.
I dialed Jess’s number and bit my pinky nail, awaiting the inevitable wrath.
“Mmmpht.”
“Jess?”
“Remy Starr. I am so going to kick your fucking ass.”
“Hey, okay, but listen-”
“Where the hell are you?” She was wide awake now, managing to sound totally pissed and keep her voice down at the same time. Jess was multitalented. “Do you know that Chloe has been on me for the entire night about you? She said she dropped you at Bendo for one beer at eight-thirty, for God’s sake.”
“Well, see, I ended up staying a little bit longer.”
“Clearly. And I ended up driving there to look for you, hearing that you were not only drunk but also in a fight and, to top it off, had left with some guy and completely disappeared. What the hell are you thinking, Remy?”
“I understand that you’re mad, okay? But right now I just need to-”
“Do you think I enjoy repeated phone calls from Chloe telling how if you’re dead or something it’s my fault because, obviously, I was supposed to have some kind of psychic connection that would enable me to know I was supposed to pick you up without the benefit of a phone call?”
This time, I was quiet.
“Well?” she snapped.
“Look,” I said, whispering. “I screwed up. Big time. But right now I’m at this guy’s house and I need out and please can you just help me?”
“Tell me where you are.”
I did. “Jess, I really-”
Click. Okay, well, now we could both be pissed at me. But at least I was getting home.
I walked to the door and leaned against it. The guitar music was still going, and I could hear Dexter singing that line about the potato and kumquat, again and again, as if waiting for inspiration to strike. I inched the door open a little more, then peered through the crack. I could see right into the house’s kitchen, where there was a beat-up Formica table with a bunch of mismatched chairs, a fridge covered with pictures, and a brown-and-green-striped couch pulled up against the back window. Dexter and the guy I recognized as Ted, the guitarist, were sitting at the table, a couple of cans of beer between them. The dog I’d met earlier, Monkey, was asleep on the couch.
“Maybe kumquat isn’t the right word,” Dexter said, leaning back in his chair-a wooden one painted yellow-exactly the way your teachers in school always told you not to, balancing on the back legs. “Maybe we need another kind of fruit.”
Ted picked at the guitar’s strings. “Such as?”
“Well, I don’t know.” Dexter sighed, pulling both hands through his hair. It was so curly this just added volume, springing loose as he let his arms drop. “What about pomegranate?”
“Too long.”
“Nectarines?”
Ted cocked his head to the side, then strummed another chord. “You gave me potato but I wanted a nectarine…”
They looked at each other. “Terrible,” Dexter decided.
“Yup.”