The following day, I drove to Nick's house. While I had severed the letter in half to put an end to thoughts about my father's resurgence, I couldn't help but feel torn myself. I was split in two, each part operating independently of the other, with one half trying hard to forget about his words and the other dwelling on them continually. It made the indifference I had spent years cultivating turn quickly back into hatred.
As I could always count on, Nick was unaware of my internal war. He pecked me on the mouth and handed me a cooler from the fridge when I entered the kitchen, stating some members of the shop would be showing up any minute for their ritualistic Friday night get-together. In about an hour, Nick's house would be crammed with pizza, cans of beer, and the raging sounds of Call of Duty at a volume high enough to make the windows vibrate.
"Gotta go walk Rocco," I told Nick, which gave me an easy out to catch my breath before the party. Walking Rocco was familiar, and it would give me the few moments needed to collect myself before enduring a night of loud, messy chaos.
When I returned from the twenty-minute walk, the regulars from the shop were all inside. Each greeted me in their own way as I slipped back into the kitchen and resumed drinking the obnoxiously blue-tinted cooler. Condensation had appeared on the bottle, and the liquid was lukewarm going down. I didn't mind; it would do the job and my bloodstream would be warm and tingly soon.
Coming back into the living space, I plopped down on the couch beside Nick. He was in the middle of a game with Aquino and didn't budge despite how heavily I collapsed. I wondered if he registered that I was even next to him. His eyes – slate gray and unblinking– were focused on the television, his pink mouth hinged slightly open. Cropped brunette hair caught a streak of light overhead and the hint of stubble peppered his strong chin. Nick was universally attractive; it had pulled me to him in high school. Back then his hair had been long with a bit of curl, and it fell in a way that softened the strong lines of his face. As I reminisced about that younger Nick, that old familiar feeling of having someone to belong to returned as well. Momentarily, my chest swelled. He had been there for me after the accident -- the time in my life that would have been unbearable without someone to lean on But the image fell away, and as I took in the present Nick, the feeling in my chest deflated.
"Bro! What are you doing?! Don't go in there. Are you crazy?" Nick shouted to Aquino who was placed, expression mirroring Nick's, in the chair near the side wall.
Aquino shouted something in return, and Nick's gaze drifted over my form. He did a double take, confirming my earlier suspicions to be true: he hadn't realized I was beside him.
"Hey," he said and flicked his gaze back on the screen.
"Hey."
"Will you get me another beer?" he asked.
I had just finished my cooler and a slight warmness bled through me. I needed another drink. Pushing myself off the couch, I traipsed into the kitchen, grabbed a can of beer and another cooler, and handed the prior drink to Nick.
"Thanks," he said, eyes unmoving.
I decided to sit in the loveseat beside Garrett. He eyed me carefully as I took a hefty dram of my new beverage, nearly draining the entire bottle.
"You alright there, Delia?" he asked.
Licking the sweet contents from my lips, I said, "Fine."
"You sure about that?" His thin brow formed a boomerang on his forehead. "I don't think I've ever seen you down a bottle of alcohol."
"It's a cooler, Garrett." I lifted the bottle before me. "See," I jutted my finger to the label."Four-point-five percent alcohol. Child's play."
Garrett's eyebrows rose another degree, but a small chuckle escaped his mouth. He then shrugged and smacked his beer can against the bottle in my hand, the tinny thud mixing with the loud noise in the room. "To child's play," he said.
I took another steep drink.
"So," Garrett started, his round face flushed red, bringing out the few freckles dotted along his cheeks, "you have as much fun at the Navy Ball as you thought you would?"
His words cooled the warmness I was experiencing, and I wished I could consume another drink before revisiting the memory of the Navy Ball.
My expression must have given away my thoughts, as Garrett quickly added, "Didn't realize you had that bad a time."
Dipping my head, I tucked a strand of loose hair behind my ear and threw on a small smile. The Navy Ball reminded me of two things: Warner, and Garrett's death date--and, quite frankly, neither of them made me feel anything but out of sorts.
"You know how it is," I said. "Those dumb balls are all the same. You pay a bunch of money, spend even more money getting dressed up, and cross your fingers the food arrives on time or that you win a raffle prize."
Garrett laughed heartily, but instead of infecting me, it only drove my spirit into the ground. Garrett's laughter was on a timeline, and there were only so many months left before it would disappear forever.
"You sure you're alright, Delia?" he asked again, this time with a hint of concern.
"Yeah, yeah," I said, dismissing the notion that Garrett could easily see I was fractured while Nick was entirely oblivious to it. "Fine. Just had a long week."
"I know what you mean. We had a crazy week in the shop too. We spent a lot of time down in radio main comm with Larsen's friend – the one who was at the ball," Garrett clarified as if I didn't have a pristine mental image of Warner's perpetually scowling face plastered to my brain. "His shop's been having a lot of IT updates lately what with us getting ready to deploy in January."
"You talking about Warner?" Grayer said, who had just emerged from the kitchen with another beer and slice of pizza. He took a large bite and sat down beside Nick, whose ears perked up at the mention of Warner.
"Yeah, I was just telling Delia that we had a weird week. We were down in main comm a lot, and then all those tickets that just came in out of nowhere."
Grayer nodded and bit off another piece of his drooping pizza. "Yeah," he mumbled, chewing. "Those tickets come in in waves, seems like. One day we don't have anything to work on, the next BAM!" He swallowed, and continued, "Warner seems alright though. Sounds like he's doing okay in main comm s'far as I can tell."
"Seems like kind of a dick to me," Aquino piped in, his attention still locked on the screen.
Shifting in on the couch, Nick said, "He's not a dick. Just a little rough around the edges. I've known him since he first moved here, back when we were in high school – that's just how he is." Nick swiftly glanced at me. "Right, Delia? You've known him as long as I have."
"Huh," I said stupidly.
"Warner," Nick stated. "He's cool, right?"
I was submerged in a moment of pure clarity and disillusionment. Nick was suggesting I thought Warner to be a good person, someone I got along with, someone I could vouch for. He was right on one account: I had known him as long as Nick. Back then, Warner's sarcastic jabs and rash behavior hadn't been to the degree they were leading up to his departure from San Diego, but those qualities had been there. Dormant characteristics that, if prodded, blasted through his surface. We had been friends, or we had shared the same friends, and I had thus known him by this definition.
Things changed drastically in his last year. More specifically, the accident happened, and it changed the entire dynamic of our acquaintanceship. In Warner's eyes, I was the person responsible for what had happened, the reason he lost his best friend, and I was condemned to be the sole object that absorbed the entirety of his anger. After heaving all the blame on me, he cut me off and distanced himself, until the anger riled and swelled and caused him to explode, and I was forced to endure the comments and irritation of someone who had nowhere else to put it.
The fact that Nick didn't understand this was baffling. He had been through it too; he knew how Warner singled me out. I may not have expressed my feelings on Warner to Nick outright, but Nick should have known how shattered mine and Warner's relationship was, and that I did not have any reason to tell the group of guys watching me with anticipation that "he's cool." Did Nick not pay attention, or was I better at masking my emotions than I realized?
A knock on the door jolted me back to reality. Shaking my head, I cleared my throat as Nick leapt off the couch.
"That'll be Warner, you pricks," he said. "I invited him over. Play nice."
The door swung open and, with a solid stature filling the frame, Warner's stony face appeared in my line of sight. He met my gaze immediately before returning to Nick's.
"I brought beer," Warner said, stepping into the small bungalow with a case attached to his hand.
"Thanks, man," Nick said. "Let's take it to the kitchen."
On their way, Warner and I made eye contact once more, and I was transported back to the Navy Ball. Over the course of the last few days, my mind had wandered around what had happened.
Was I happy I had gone through the experience with Warner? Well, was hell still a fiery, lava-filled pit?
But was I happy he had intervened?
Try as I might, I couldn't deny this.
While Warner hadn't exactly been pleasant to me, he had stepped in to aid the woman, and that was something I had thought Warner incapable of. I was surprised Warner could lend help to anyone. At least, not the last version of Warner I knew, the one he assumed my junior year.
The Warner from the Navy Ball didn't match the Warner I knew to be true in my head.
After Nick and Warner had disappeared into the kitchen, I took note of my surroundings. Grayer had slipped into Nick's position and started playing the game with Aquino. The two seemed unphased by Warner's sudden arrival. I, however, must have appeared about as unsettled as I felt, as Garrett's round eyes were back on me.
"You sure you're okay?" he asked. "You'd think a ghost just walked through the door."
What I didn't tell Garrett was that he was, indeed, correct. A ghost had walked through the door, one I thought I had left behind years ago. All the memories I had buried were emerging.
"Fine," I said. "Now, tell me more about the ball with your non-date."
xxx
The night continued. Warner managed to fit in with Nick's group of friends, which wasn't as surprising as one would think. Again, this was the magic element of the Navy: it provided common ground for people who could have grown up on opposite sides of the world, which, case in point, was often the case. Aquino moved to the United States from Thailand when he was in his early teens. On paper, he and Nick didn't have anything in common, but swap a few bootcamp stories and complain about life on a ship, and the bonds of friendship could never be stronger.
All Warner had to do was talk about his previous station and tell horror stories about his commanding officer, and it was like another piece of the strange puzzle had been filled. Throw in a few beers and the guys were acting as though Warner had been with them all along. Garrett had even joined in on the fun, which left me alone on the couch, nursing my fourth cooler.
When had the room begun to spin?
My tongue felt like it was wrapped in cotton. My eyes burned and, each time I rubbed them, the room seemed to morph into something different. The furniture was fuzzy and the television grainy. The guys huddled in front of it looked to be forming some type of cult as they were clicking their cans together while swapping, yet again, more Navy stories. The power of alcohol. It could flip reality on its head.
Yet, no matter how much I drank, how much the room turned, how much the heat rose in my chest, my reality stayed upright. My death date was never an arm's length away, and it was in these moments of contemplative solitude that it hung like a banner on the forefront of my brain. Now, as I watched the guys laughing together just feet in front of me, I wondered how much life would change in the months leading up to January eighteenth, and, even more, how it would change afterwards.
Would Nick be upset? I knew he would be. We had been together two years and were a part of each other's lives. But would he be devastated?
I took another swig, my throat now numb.
I watched Nick from afar, eyes pulled tight and mouth spread wide in amusement as he and the rest continued laughing. I knew my death would not upend Nick's life, and, further proving alcohol could not distort my reality, I could see this truth clearly. It wasn't like I wanted Nick to pine away for me long after I was gone, but I wanted to know someone would be affected. I just knew that person wasn't Nick. He and I, though connected, were also very disconnected. We were like two parallel lines moving in the same direction but never intersecting. It was strange to live side-by-side with someone, share a history, and not fit together as one.
Sighing, I thought of Vi. She would miss me, and I knew my death would wreak havoc on her life. I was her stability and she was mine. We had always had each other, we each played off the other's personalities, and we meshed well. I would be lost without her, and I knew the same would be true for her. My heart fell to my stomach, and soreness spread through my fingers.
My mom then crossed my mind. What would my mom do without me? For so long I had been her crutch, the one to keep her on track with her medication and to make sure she had support when she needed it. I tried to keep her as healthy as I could. What would happen to her when I couldn't look after her? Would she be sent back to the hospital?
I closed my eyes to try to push this thought away, but the image of her trapped inside a patient room, expression vacant, filled my mind. I couldn't let that happen again. The image of my father eight years ago resurfaced from the depths that I housed it, and I felt myself shudder.
I couldn't escape my death date, and it presented me with a conundrum: was I going to spend the remaining months I had hiding away in fear?
I flung my unstable body off the couch and meandered to the kitchen, hands grasping the cased opening as I stumbled inside. Having come into the kitchen in part for a diversion from my thoughts and in part in search of another drink, I quickly realized the short walk hadn't done much to calm my throbbing mind. My death date and all it included still lingered. As far as the drink went, the previous four hadn't done much to improve my spiraling thoughts, and I wasn't betting the fifth would be any different. Instead, I drooped against the kitchen island, elbows propped and head secured in my hands.
"Too much blue drink?"
Rather ungracefully, I lifted my head and pushed back the mound of hair pooled over my shoulder. "Too much asshole?" I slurred at Warner, who cleared from a fuzzy outline to an irritated Warner. I was willing to bet he looked irritated before the fuzziness had cleared.
"Definitely too much blue drink then," Warner chided, leaning his hip against the kitchen island.
I straightened upright and enclosed myself with my arms. "You don' get the – hiccup – right to tell me if – if I've had too much of anything."
For a fraction of a second, I thought a faint look of concern rested on Warner, but before I had time to make it out, he was back to his hard-edged self.
"I was just calling it as I see it," Warner stated.
A loud, spit-filled pfffft flew from my mouth. "Yeah? Lemme call it how I see it then." My upper body lunged over the island towards Warner to enhance my sentiment and, losing balance from the inertia, I stumbled backward and into the fridge, sliding to the ground. Warner rounded the island, face arranged in a smirk, and offered a hand. I swatted it away. "You're such an asshole."
"For offering to help you up?" he asked.
Using the counter, I lifted myself from the floor and found solid footing. "Yes! For helping me up. 'S all – 's all an act, isn' it? I'll call it how I – hiccup – see it. So why do you do it? Does being nice in certain moments – hiccup – make up for your total lack of morality? Let me help the fallen girl up and that'll wipe clean my record for the day – 's bullshit!" I proclaimed, proud I hadn't hiccuped through the sentence.
Warner now stood with tensed arms and a set mouth. I hadn't recalled ever seeing him at a loss for words. It fueled my fire.
"I know you. I know how you are. I got the full brunt of it the year before you left. You're an asshole."
"So you've said," Warner stated, cold and even.
I gulped. "Not gonna deny it, huh? Because you know – hiccup – you know the truth. You can' hide from the truth." Sucking down a ragged breath, I let the alcohol take the reins and added, "You're just another pathetic excuse – hiccup – of a guy who can't deal with his anger and so you lash out at others – tear them down until you feel better. You wanna keep blaming – hiccup – me, fine, but things've changed – I'm not afraid of your anger anymore."
Warner was watching me carefully, almost with caution. I noted the tips of his ears were tinged red, and I was both satisfied and irritated that he was experiencing the same burning in his body that I was. Everything I had felt in the last couple hours was rising to the surface.
"If only you had kept your mouth shut that night – all of this could have been avoided."
Gritting my teeth, I spat, "And there it is. All the proof I need."
Warner stepped closer, but I did not retreat.
"You don't know shit, okay?"
Fists clenched into tight balls, I closed the gap to Warner. I could feel his radiating heat. "But I do. And that little act the other night – at the Navy Ball – hiccup – I could see right through it. What'd you reckon you got for that show, huh? A week maybe? A week of not feeling guilty – hiccup – for how you act on a daily basis."
I had expected Warner to erupt. I had wanted Warner to erupt. It would have been the push I needed to spill everything roiling in my gut. But he didn't. Instead, his mouth parted and eyebrows stitched together. "The Navy Ball?"
"Don' pretend like you don' know – hiccup – what I'm talking about."
Warner leaned back and expelled a harsh laugh. "Let me get this straight. You think I intervened with that man who had a woman pushed forcefully against a wall because it would clear my conscience?"
I stood silent with hardened eyes.
Warner laughed shrewdly again. "Right, Delia, it seems you do have me all figured out."
"What's going on?"
Both Warner and I spun our heads towards the source of the new voice. Nick stood in the casement opening, searching between the two of us for some answers. It surprised me it had taken this long for someone to interrupt our – I could only assume – loud argument.
"Nothing," Warner said, beating me. "I was just leaving. Got to be at work early." He skidded around the kitchen island and moved past Nick. "See you later."
"Uh, yeah. See you," Nick said in confusion.
The door slammed shut seconds later.
"What's the matter with him? He only had one beer." Nick paused. "Everything good?" I was nearly set off again.
No, everything was not good, and it should very well be obvious.
But instead, I went with, "Yep. Fine."
Warner, for all intents and purposes, was back to the prick he was in my mind. But for some reason, this return to equilibrium did not make me feel very steady. Instead, I felt as I had wanted to all night--the reason for the four empty bottles of wine coolers--flipped on my head.
A/N:
Hi! It's just me, just checking in :) So this was one of my favorite chapters to write. It was very easy for me to get inside Delia's head and her story, and I loved having her think about all the things that would change after her death date - and then having all the anger be directed at Warner. Anyway, I hope that those of you reading are enjoying! I would love hear from you! :)