In Between the Lines

Chapter 20: If You Can't Fix It, Then Mix It

"Got the water," I said proudly.

"Good. Now drink it."

"All of it?"

"Yes, all of it." Just from his tone, I imagined Dez had rolled his eyes. A smile tugged on my lips.

"You don't have to chug it all at once," he went on, "but make sure you have the full glass before you go to bed. Or maybe a couple more after that one. Do you have any crackers?"

I shuffled through the cabinets until I found a box of saltines. "Got 'em!"

"Munch on those for a while, okay? And if you have any aspirin around, I suggest you have it ready for tomorrow. You'll thank yourself in the morning."

I chewed on the first few saltines, and despite the alcohol I drank, my stomach grumbled painfully. I hadn't realized how hungry I was—but then I remembered I'd hardly eaten anything during dinner. Maybe that was why the whiskey had hit me so quickly.

So I ate more crackers, and I drank more water. And slowly, I began to feel less sick.

"Mmm. Best fake boyfriend ever." I chuckled before another thought hit me, and my smile waned.

"You are still my fake boyfriend right? Because if that was us breaking up earlier . . . I mean I know you said you were done, but—"

"No, that was not us breaking up." Dez sighed. "Couples fight, Peacock. Even—even the fake ones. I just didn't want to hear anymore lies earlier. I was saying I was done with the conversation. Not you."

I let out a silent breath of relief.

"Sometimes I wish I could be, though," he added quietly. "Done with you."

If I was a good person, I would have told him that it would have been for the best. But then he said softly, almost too soft for me to hear, "But I don't know how to."

And butterflies—beautiful, drunk, careless butterflies—slammed wildly into my gut. 

I put down the box of saltines. "Dez . . . "

"What happened to you at dinner, Peacock?"

I stiffened. "What?"

"You heard me. What happened during that dinner?"

What happened?

Well . . .

For starters, my mother showed up with that plastic smile on her plastic face. 

Then she ordered her $500 bottle of wine and overpriced oysters, telling us all about her fabulous life in Manhattan while we waited for the food and drinks to come. She asked about how things were going at my father's architecture firm—probably more concerned about how much he was banking in than how he was actually doing.

Then the waiter brought out the wine.

And when my mother lifted her left hand up to reach for her glass, that gleaming diamond on her finger struck both me and my father in the face.

The diamond she hadn't worn while she was at our house.

And I'd sat, numb and in silence, as she finally crushed my father's heart.

But I didn't tell Dez any of that as all I said was, "If I tell you a secret, will you remember it in the morning?"

He sighed, clearly frustrated I hadn't answered his question. But he said, "You're the one at risk of not remembering this conversation."

"Oh." I chuckled. "Yeah."

He didn't seem to find it funny.

I dragged myself back to the couch, taking my water, crackers, and a bottle of aspirin I'd dug through the cabinets with me. And taking a deep breath, I said, "I never want to be like my mother."