Chapter Forty-Seven
“Before you say anything, let me just tell you that I’m going to a cocktail party tonight for work—Trevor and Mackenzie should be there. You can come if you want,” were the first words my mother said to me as I got into her car after plausibly one of the worst days of my life. Well, it wasn’t bad, but rather complicated and fucked up.
“I don’t want to go,” I said quickly, shivering at even the thought of going to one of my mom’s work parties.
I had been to one—as a punishment—when I was fifteen. Now that was pretty bad. I was forced into wearing this sparkly (BARF) dress and heels (MORE VOMMIT), and had to civilly communicate with all these stuffy people who belonged to the fashion world. I ended up going into a back room with Ashton, Kit’s husband, to catch the remainder of a hockey game. I didn’t even like hockey—that was how terrible the party was.
“I figured,” she laughed, driving away from the school with a stream of teen drivers, other parents, and buses. “So, how was school?”
“It sucked,” I grunted, propping my feet up on the dashboard, only to have Monica immediately swat them away.
“And why did it suck?” she indulged in my negative answer.
“Because Eric asked me to prom,” I replied with a sigh, anticipating an ear-damaging response from my creator.
After a long and overly animated shriek that could’ve been mistaken for a murder victim’s, my mother finally took a few intakes of air, and then her enthusiasm subsided somewhat completely. “I already knew that,” she admitted, as we abruptly stopped at a red light.
“How?” I demanded.
“Tara texted me,” she confessed sheepishly.
“Of course she did,” I breathed. “So, did she happen to tell you what else happened?”
“Yeah,” she nodded, accelerating the vehicle as the sojourn had concluded. “Seriously, Liz? Eric’s, like, perfect and you’re dating him! Why the hell would you say no?”
“Because,” I shrugged, turning my head to the window to avoid her critical gaze.
“Shit,” she let a light swear pass, “did Dylan ask you?”
“Yes,” I said slowly, acknowledging the conclusion that she would instantly jump to, so added, “after Eric did.”
“Phew!” she exhaled. “So, you’re not going with either of them?”
“Nope.”
“Fine by me,” she declared, not even questioning with whom I was going.
“Hey, mom,” I began, thinking back to what Dylan had said earlier in the day, “can we stop by that gas station—you know, the one on the way home?”
All day I had been thinking about what had transpired in the morning. Eric was acting distant, but assured me that everything was fine, and that he was just taking time to process everything. I didn’t see Dylan again—something not too surprising, considering the lack of interaction we usually had during the day due to the dearth of classes we shared. School was a complete blur, for all I could focus on were the stupid emotions I had encountered with both Eric and Dylan. It was so fucked up.
At lunch, I sat with the girls, Eric, and Eric’s friends, as usual. Eric put on a strong façade—smiling, laughing, and speaking charismatically at the appropriate times, but something was off. He acted all couple-y with me, too, by constantly hugging, kissing, and grinning at me. Another side effect of his front. He just seemed…fake. Not Barbie doll fake, but rather a different kind. It was a more of an internal fake.
My last two periods in the day consisted of English and History, so I dozed off, replaying what both boys had said, and how they had behaved. Eric’s reaction to my rejection was expected and normal of whom he was, as was Dylan’s. Kinda. The one thing that didn’t fit with the way that Dylan had reciprocated was the convenient store thing. It just didn’t fit. He had told me that if I wanted to see Eric’s flaws, then I had to go to the shifty landmark after school. It was peculiar.
“Why?” my mom snorted in a rather unladylike sort of way.
“I don’t know,” I replied relatively truthfully.
“Okay,” she agreed easily, “just be quick.”
I simply bobbed my head, a hush ensuing for the remainder of the short ride. It wasn’t the type of quiet that was often perceived to be awkward, for I didn’t find interacting with my mom to be an uncomfortable ordeal. No, it was a nice, silent silence, with only the rum of the car and soft hum of Monica’s favorite pop music station playing in the background.
When we finally pulled up to the aged location to obtain fuel for various vehicles, Twinkies, and a reason to get a tetanus shot, Monica basically gave me a seven-minute limit because she thought the place looked “sketchy.” Shocker, mom. Really. I hopped out of the car that aided in the issue of “climate change,” and stepped onto the sidewalk that could probably induce a lawsuit if one were to spontaneously fall. Waving to my mother like a soldier leaving for battle, I walked a few paces and then pulled open a transparent and metal door with a sign that read, “OPEN 24 HOURS!” as if being able to buy a pack of cylinders that would eventually lead to lung failure was a good thing.
My feet made contact with the cracked ground of speckled tiles—the majority white, but a washed-out yellow one appeared every so often—and a putrid smell of processed food, filthy smoke, cheap alcohol, and mold drifted into my unready nostrils. I scanned the scene before me, nothing abnormal about the “sketchy” store of a small space. There were about five rows of random inedibility (they really possessed expired “nutrients,” but in my mind that didn’t exactly count as “food”), in addition to a back wall of clear cooling instillations with energy drinks, milk, and other beverages that needed the element of refrigeration to sustain life.
At the front counter—where one would checkout—was a mess of sheets that neurotic gamblers spent their entire paychecks on. Also, it was where the cigarettes and booze was sold. Lottery tickets, lung cancer in a tube, and a way for underage (myself included) drinkers to kill brain cells. All that this place needed was drugs, and it was all set! Oh, how I loved the sarcasm that derived from cynicism relating to bad life choices…
As I approached the counter, searching for any signs of Eric, I noticed a man behind the cash register. He wasn’t the stereotypical immigrant from India some always assumed to work in places like these, but rather a boy about Trevor’s age (maybe a little bit older) with skin paler than a Cullen (no, I was not very well versed in the realms of Twilight, but I knew how to make a reference every once in a while). A loose tank top of white fitted his torso; black sweats on his bottom half. Like Dylan, the guy had two earrings that made him appear tougher despite his job fit for a loser. Unlike Dylan, they didn’t enhance his attractiveness—nah, this guy wasn’t born a face model.
He wasn’t ugly, but he just wasn’t cute. Light stubble surrounded his jawline, the same light brown shade also serving as coloring for his short hair. His eyes were of hazel, and probably the best part of his exterior. Or maybe it was just my misperception. I probably just had an eye fetish or something… He wasn’t overly lean, but also wasn’t buff, resulting in a pretty normal body type. Though he did come across as slightly intimidating, he worked in a gas station convenient store, so how harmful could he really be?
I came right up before him, my presence grasping his attention, as he looked me over, his eyes flitting with amusement as a devious smirk met his lips. “Hello, gorgeous, how can I help you?” he rasped out, continuing to openly scrutinize me.
“Well, you can start by not looking at me like that, and then you can tell me if you know who Eric Wilson is,” I snapped, his expression only doubling at my heated response.
“Eric Wilson, huh?” he mused, disregarding my request by remaining to check me out.
“Yeah, do you know him?” I questioned, my body tensing under his gaze.
“Depends,” he said slowly, “who’s asking?”
“His girlfriend,” I ground my teeth to keep from punching the guy right then and there.
“So, you’re Liz!” If his expression wasn’t glistening with malice before, it certainly was now.
“Yeah,” I overlapped my arms across my chest defensively, “who the fuck are you?”
“Damn, that boy really knows how to pick ‘em,” the guy laughed bleakly.
“Based on the way that you’re talking about Eric, I’m going to assume that you know him,” I stated. “I have no idea who the fuck you are to him, and, honestly, I don’t care. Does Eric, like, work here or something?”
“I’m his dealer,” the guy said, his examination of me still in process.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m his dealer,” he reiterated, not changing his wording even slightly. “Oh, and he doesn’t work here. Hell, that kid hasn’t worked a damn day in his life!”
“I don’t understand, and I have to go,” I said, time an obstacle that I hadn’t really anticipated.
“Go behind the building—I swear you probably won’t get mugged—and then say hi to your boy for me,” his wandering eyes landed on my own, sending a quiver down my spine.
“Um, thanks,” I mumbled, turning to go.
“I wouldn’t be thanking me if I were you, but, hey! Everyone’s entitled to the freedom of speech or some crap like that, right?” he let out another gruff laugh.
Without another word, I quickly exited the place built for midnight sugar reboots, my entire being feeling corrupt from just being in there. When I got outside to the fresh air that my lungs had so longed for, I saw Monica gesturing for me to come back into the car. I held my pointer finger up to her, signifying that I’d just be a minute. She shook her head, but I disregarded it, jogging around the perimeter of the compact structure instead.
When I reached the back of the gas station, everything in my world was temporarily distorted, but made perfect sense.
Before me was a group of boys who I knew fairly well: Joe, Brendon, and, lastly, Eric Wilson. Joey was lying on the ground, his hands behind his head as he stared off into the March sky, not a single concern for anything around him. Brendon had smoke coming out of his mouth and had a rolled up piece of what appeared to be newspaper in one of his hands. Then, there was Eric. He had the same object in his possession as Brendon, but looked as if he hadn’t yet taken the poison.
“What the fuck, Eric?” I demanded, startling everyone except for Joey—who probably wouldn’t even be aware of a meteor crashing into his left leg.
“L-Liz!” Eric twirled around, the item previously in his fingers tumbling to the ground of dirt and gravel below. His eyes weren’t yet bloodshot, and he didn’t look to be higher than a satellite. “I-I…I don’t know what to say!”
“Neither do I!” I screamed, turning away to leave. I couldn’t see Eric in this state.
It was more surprising that I hadn’t even suspected him to be the type of guy to smoke weed, though, than anything else. He was the quarterback, one of the top students academically in the school, and had a reputation for being “perfect.” I had known athletes with the type of pressure he was encountering to do dumb stuff like this in the past, but it was Eric. He seemed so nice—so genuine! I never pegged him to be a stoner. But, then again, people never really expected the ones using to use.
When I was playing basketball to the point where I did nothing else, there was an enormous amount of stress applied to my lifestyle. I had to be healthy, meaning that my diet was more restricted than a vegan’s with a gluten problem. I knew a few other kids—both boys and girls—whose lives were similar to my own. Not just basketball players, but I had met some swimmers, lacrosse players, runners, tennis prodigies, soccer players, base ballers, and just about every other type of “jock” imaginable. Except for maybe the winter sports. And Ping-Pong “players.” Also, I hadn’t come in contact with many gymnasts. Basically, I had met quite a few world-class athletes because of who I was and how serious I took my sport.
A number of the sport-addicted teens that I had bumped into over the years weren’t just hooked on the sport they played. Some also turned to substances other than physical strenuousness—substances like drugs. They needed a break. The high they were achieving in the athletic world wasn’t enough for some, in addition to the anxiety being too much. Thus, the crossover of harmful narcotics and athletes was born.
I will admit to having regretfully tried the illegal herbs once. Succumbing to peer pressure, I allowed my developing brain to make a horrific decision. That was all it took for me to know that it wasn’t what I wanted. I didn’t like the feeling it gave me, and was aware of how much trouble I would be in if I continued. Being the person I was, though, I could understand the motivations behind doing such a detrimental thing. For Eric, it was merely the pressure to be the perfect boy he was perceived as. It was dumb for one with so much potential to make such a mistake, but I at least was willing to acknowledge that I held some sort of a comprehension behind his reasons.
“Liz, don’t go! We can talk about this!” Eric screamed after me.
“Not right now,” I called over my shoulder, picking up my speed as I ran over to my mom’s parked car. I jumped in the passenger’s seat, and, before I even had the chance to buckle up properly, Monica had already pressed on the accelerator, getting us the hell away from the “sketchy” gas station.
“Liz,” my mother said steadily, her breath coming out rigid, once we were a good few yards away, “you are never going back to that place again. Understood?”
“Yes,” I nodded, everything coming at me like one of those Japanese bullet trains.
Eric Wilson was a stoner. My boyfriend, Eric Wilson, who happened to be the quarterback, did drugs. Well, they always said to expect the unexpected, right? Whoever the fuck “they” were must have been stoned themselves when they came up with the phrase, because, right now, what I had just seen wasn’t unexpected, but rather very expected. The idiom should’ve been something more logical in a screwed up way: unexpect the expected.
“Are you going to explain to me what the hell that was, or do I need to search your pockets to make sure that you didn’t just buy a pound of weed?” Monica said sharply, but more in an overprotective manner.
“It’s gram…I think, and believe me, I didn’t buy drugs,” I replied with a snort. “I would never.”
“Okay then,” she exhaled, satisfied with my answer, “so, are you going to tell me what just happened?”
“Nope,” I closed down on my lips, not permitting another word to pass through.
And that was the end of that. My mom wasn’t the type of nosey parent to nag and question every one of my actions. I was more than sure that she thought I was debatably insane, but she knew I was a good kid, so trusted me. Though she may have wanted to at times, she didn’t need to know every single microscopic detail of my life, as I didn’t hers.
We got home within five dense minutes, and, before driving off, Monica told me that she had been baking earlier in the day. She didn’t say what she had created, but, by the tone in her voice, I could tell that it was something promising. After seeing me scale the twists and turns of the pathway to our house, she was off, headed for the city. I was alone.
I twisted the doorknob to enter my house, something not feeling quite right. Maybe it was just the icky feeling left in my stomach after finding out about Eric, but I couldn’t quite pin down what it was. There was something awry in my immediate universe. Before she dropped me off, Monica had said that I was to fend for myself for dinner, obviously. Being the resourceful yet lazy child that I was, I planned on ordering pizza.
Cautiously, I jogged up the stairs and went into the front room, releasing my backpack on a chair in the process. My feet carried me into the kitchen, and I instantly stalked over to the fridge, food being the only thing on my mind. I pulled open the door of the appliance, and skimmed over the contents. That was when I saw it: a silver tin with an orange-tinged pie inside of it. Oh, I definitely had the best mom ever!
I took the container out of the chilled machine, and cut myself a generous piece (half the pie), placing it on a plate. After fiddling through some drawers for a fork that I couldn’t find, I settled on a spatula. I stabbed the utensil into the large pastry, and quickly shoveled it into my mouth. Pumpkin. Yum.
“You’re mother always did like to bake,” a voice said, startling the shit out of me and causing me to almost choke on the nourishment I had downed.
I turned around, and saw a man sitting at the table within the dining room, which connected to the kitchen. He was a fairly good-looking guy—about my mom’s age—and had specks of gray scattered about his brown head of hair. His eyes were rough, and of a bluish-ashen color. He wore a pair of jeans and a Red Sox T-shirt. My mind didn’t hold any recollection whatsoever of the man. He was a stranger. A stranger was in my house. Holy. Fuck.
“Who the fuck are you?” I inquired rather directly, picking up the spatula as if it could somehow defend me from the possible psychopath.
“That’s sad, Liz, I would’ve thought that you had at least some memory of me,” the man said, standing up and approaching me.
“Get away from me!” I screamed. He stopped moving. “How do you know my name, and how the fuck did you get into my house?”
“Monica was always consistent. Did you know that she still keeps a key hidden under the doormat outside the house? She did that back in Boston, too,” he said, as his eyes took me in. He wasn’t looking at me in the creepy way that the dude at the convenient store had, but almost paternally.
“Who are you, and how do you know my name?” I demanded.
“Well, considering I was kind of influential when naming you, I don’t think it’s something I’d ever forget,” he laughed as if it was some longtime inside joke between him and the kitchen sink.
“Who are you?” I repeated firmly.
“Jed Turner,” he answered with a shimmering grin.
I blinked, unsure if I had heard him correctly. He nodded, confirming that my ears were working just fine. “Th-the asshole who’s response for half my DNA?” I stuttered.
“I’d prefer, ‘dad,’ but that works too,” he continued to smile. Dad. The label didn’t sound even remotely right for the relevance he held in my life. “Hiya, Lizzie!”
“I’ll say it again, what the fuck are you doing here?” I asked, keeping the spatula taut in my hand. Though the man was half the reason I was alive, I didn’t know him, or of what he was capable.
“I came to talk to you,” he said lightly, as if it was obvious.
“So, instead of calling in advance, like a normal fucking person, you break into my fucking house, and wait for me to come, without telling my mom?” I assessed.
“Pretty much,” he shrugged, not seeing any fault in his ways.
“I-I’m calling Monica,” I said, sliding my phone out of my back pocket, about ready to call the police, though Monica would have been more brutal.
“Please don’t, Liz,” he begged.
“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t,” I said, my fingers hovering over the call button.
“Because I haven’t seen you in sixteen years and you probably have questions for me?” he offered up, unsure if my threat had been an empty one or not.
I bit my lip, before guardedly choosing to reply. “Fine,” I retorted, placing the brick of technology down.
“So, basketball, huh? Who would’ve thought?” he gulped, shaking his head.
“Talk directly to me or I’m kicking you out,” I proclaimed.
“I have a friend who’s a college scout, and he said that he’s seen you play,” Jed expressed with a nod.
“What school’s he from?” I questioned, tensely reaching for my pie.
“Penn State.” I merely shrugged, only slightly caring. Penn State had one of the top women’s basketball teams in the country. UConn was better, but Penn State was pretty up there, too.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I wasn’t sure if it was true. I didn’t know that my daughter would actually be able to reach her full potential while living with Monica,” he said.
I took a bite from the most likely organic mix of sweet squash, and chewed. “Firstly, what the fuck are you taking about? And, secondly, I’m not your daughter,” I said the last word venomously after swallowing.
“You didn’t think you got you’re amazing basketball skills from Monica, did you?” I blinked, unsure of how to answer. “Playing basketball is in your blood, Liz. I played, your grandfather played, almost every one of your relatives on my side played!”
“Oh, you mean the people who send me a check every few years for my birthday?” I questioned, chomping down on another mouthful of deliciousness. If it wasn’t for the pie, I probably wouldn’t have been as composed. Food pacified me.
“Look, Liz, I hear that you’re good, and I want you to reach your full potential. I could help you. I was a scout for a few years back, and I know what they look for,” he said.
“I’m going to UConn on an athletic scholarship, so that ship has already sailed around the world, circling it twice. But you know when you could’ve helped?” He opened his mouth to reply but I beat him to it. “When I was growing up. When I needed a dad. When I needed someone to bring on Dads Day in the third grade. Where were you then? I’ll tell you where, with your other family, doing just fine without me! What the fuck are you doing here, Jed?” My mind was a mix of emotions. I hadn’t seen him in sixteen years. There was so much I wanted to tell him, and so much I didn’t.
“You sounded just like Monica just then,” he commented.
“Years of imitating her angry voice paying off, I suppose,” I rolled my eyes.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” he questioned.
“Why would you fucking care?” I spat gravely.
“Liz, I-I want to be a part of your life. I’ve missed out on so many of your incredible achievements, and I don’t want to miss out on any more,” he said, his eyes pleading with me to give him a chance.
“Listen, Jed, the time that you chose to randomly pop up in my life is one that my old therapist probably would’ve had a field day dealing with,” I stuffed another quantity of pumpkin mush into my mouth. “I just found out that my boyfriend’s a druggie, I kissed another boy who isn’t my boyfriend—twice, and my bastard of sperm benefactor decided to turn up out of the blue, uninvited, to quote Adele,” I paused, consuming the remaining contents in my mouth. “If you fucking think that you can just waltz in here, expecting me to welcome you after sixteen years with a fucking peace pipe, then you’re the one who’s probably high, not my dear boyfriend.”
“Is this the part where I say sorry and then explain why I left with a big, dramatic monologue?” he questioned with a sigh.
“It would be in a movie,” I muttered, my mouth muffed by pie.
“When you were born, Liz, I was in love with your mother,” he ran a through his trimmed hair, “and then things changed. We both had our own agendas on everything. You know Monica—she has a very strong disposition, and so did I. There was no compromising between us. I guess, in the end, it was the clash of our opinions and personalities that really sealed the deal to get a divorce.” He looked down at the floor, his brows creased as he contemplated how to go on. “We had been dating a year, and rushed into things. After eighteen months of being married and having you, we thought that it would be best for both parties to split—”
“So then why didn’t you fucking try to be a part of my life when I was growing up?” I interjected.
“You swear a lot, you know that?” he laughed.
“Yeah. I know.”
“So, to answer your question, Monica got full custody of you, and didn’t want me to be involved in anything having to do with you, which I don’t blame her for. I was an idiot back then, Liz,” his tone was filled with regret. “I got married a few years later to this other woman, Kelsey, we stayed in Boston, and had two boys. So, technically, not that you’re interested, but you do have two half siblings. Twins. Aaron and Connor. They’re fourteen, now, and absolutely nuts! They play basketball, too,” he said with a hopeful smile. “They would like you.”
“I don’t fucking care if they would or not, Jed!” I shouted in frustration. I didn’t know what he was doing here, but I did know that I didn’t want him to see him. Ever.
“I’m getting the sense that you don’t want be to be here,” he deducted.
“No, I was just about to offer if you wanted to share a glass of scotch to reminisce about the old days!” I said sarcastically.
“I guess this is the part where I try to apologize for being a crappy father?” he offered.
“To me, the only thing that you’re responsible for is donating to my creation. That’s fucking it! What are you doing here, Jed?” I croaked out, not close to tears, but my throat was dry, due to the well of sixteen years worth of sentiments and also not drinking milk as I downed the spice-filled sweet.
“I—” he began to say with a remorseful expression. And then the doorbell rang. Just at the climax of our meeting, the fucking doorbell rang. I was just about to throw his ass out of the house or call the cops, and the doorbell fucking rang. The UPS guy had better have a good fucking justification for the interruption.
“Excuse me,” I bid haughtily, quickly parting from the kitchen, and going down the steps so that I was on the landing, right before the door. My hand reached out, opening the entry, about ready to rip off the head belonging to the person on the other side. The individual that my eyes met, though, I didn’t want to rip their head off—no, I wanted to fucking murder them (metaphorically, of course).
“Liz!” the boy said. “I rushed right over here; I’m so, so, so, so, so sorry for what you saw—”
“Eric, Why are you saying sorry for what I saw, when you should be apologizing for what you did?” I questioned sharply.
“Liz, who is it?” Jed then had the nerve to appear at the top of the staircase, a slightly worried look engulfing his face.
“Who’s he?” Eric asked, as two of the largest issues in my life simultaneously collided with one another. One had been with me practically since I was an infant, while the other only just arose over the past few months (or minutes).
“I’m her dad,” Jed introduced himself, as if that was his rightful title.
“He’s not,” I told Eric firmly.
“Mr. Turner,” Eric addressed, nonetheless, in the amiable voice he often reserved for conversing with adults.
“Who are you?” Jed questioned Eric.
“Her boyfriend,” Eric replied confidently.
“The druggie?” Jed inspected him closer. “Are you high right now?”
“What? N-no, sir! Of course not!” Eric’s charm faltered faintly.
“Didn’t think so,” Jed mumbled.
“Jed, please get the fuck out of my house,” I spoke to the man in his early forties. “Eric, you can either do the same, or explain yourself. Your choice.”
“But, Liz, there’s so much I wanted to talk to you about!” Jed protested.
“I don’t care. Jed, leave and, please, never come back or I will fucking call the cops and get a restraining order on you,” I warned.
I took him in once more, just in case I ever encountered a time when I was just laying in bed, trying to sleep and then the random question of “What does the ‘man’ responsible for my existence look like?” decided to pop up into my mind. Jed Turner was standing right before me, and I was turning him away. Most kids probably would have been willing to go to Starbucks after finding their biological “father,” but I wasn’t like most kids. I was okay with the mystery that still loomed about when thinking of Jed Turner. He wasn’t significant in my life, and he didn’t need to be. I was probably just in denial or crazy. I was willing to opt for the latter if asked, though.
“You missed your chance to be filled out as an emergency contact, so don’t try and con your way into a spot now. Leave,” I commanded with a tremendous amount of force, gesturing to the door, where Eric and I were standing.
Jed glanced at me with a sigh, and then shook his head. “I’m in town for the next few days on business, if you change your mind—”
“I won’t,” I assured him. “Leave.”
He looked between Eric and me, and then finally gave in, admitting defeat. His large feet clomped down the staircase, and within seconds, his being had come to where we were standing. With a final glance, in which our eyes locked, he had reached the door. “Bye, Liz,” he said solemnly, “I really am sorry.” With that final thought, his body departed from the house and my life once and for all.
A moment of complete silence that did happen to be awkward followed after Jed’s exit, neither Eric nor I daring to speak. After about a minute, I got bored and came to the conclusion that my pie was calling my name (I wasn’t actually hallucinating…unlike some people). I left the landing, marching up the steps of tedium until I was fully immersed in the kitchen once again.
Mindlessly, I made my way over to the neglected tin of goodness, picking up the odd utensil of a larger size, and stuffed a helping into my mouth. If I could marry pumpkin pie, I would. Eric ambled his way into the room, standing a yard away from me. I looked up at him, and he didn’t appear to possess any telltale signs that he had been using…recently.
“So, what do you want to talk about first—that guy or me?” Eric finally ended the muteness.
“You,” I answered, shoving more pumpkin perfection down my esophagus.
“So, I, uh, have a tendency to occasionally, um, smoke weed. I need help, and am fully aware of it,” he owned up. “I shouldn’t do it, but I do. I wouldn’t blame you for hating me.”
“Hate you for smoking weed?” I scoffed. “Right. Eric, I’m not saying that what you do is acceptable, but I think that I can understand why you do it.”
“You can?” He was more than surprised at my reaction.
“Yeah,” I nodded, “it’s the pressure thing. You want something to relieve it, so turn to drugs. The logic is fucked up, but in a comprehensible way.”
“Exactly!” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in emphasis. “I know that I shouldn’t do it, but the high I get just makes me feel like I don’t have this big target on my back saying ‘I’M ERIC WILSON.’ I don’t have standards and nothing matters.”
“You shouldn’t do it, you know,” I scolded, forcing myself to put my pie down for a minute.
“I know.”
“Will you stop?”
“Probably not.”
“Even if it was for me?”
He shook his head. “Sorry, Liz. I can’t.”
“Actually, you can,” I corrected. “You’re the one in control. No one is forcing you to continue. You seriously need to get help, Eric.”
“I know!” he groaned. “I’m sorry, Liz. So, uh, who was that guy?”
He seemed adamant about changing topics and the individual in the spotlight, so I hesitantly complied, though, in reality, I didn’t want the figurative ray of luminosity to be shined straight on me, either. I searched my brain for the appropriate words to say, but came up short. I trusted Eric, “ed” being the main two letters. Finding out that he was a stoner marred that trust substantially. I felt as though I could still tell him stuff, but something like my fictional relationship with my “dad” wasn’t the type of thing I was entirely comfortable with divulging, now.
“My, uh, ‘dad,’” I surprised myself with a whisper.
“Was that the first time that you had ever met him?” Eric inquired.
“That I can remember,” I replied. And then I did the least likely thing that validated my spin on an old saying: the expected.
A warm droplet of water traveled down the length of my cheek, and then more began to spring from the ducts responsible for allowing access to water at the corner of my eyes. My face began to feel wet, the sensation feeling alien to me. I was fucking crying. My throat closed up, swallowing an act that was no longer attainable. Then, I felt a pair of arms wrap themselves around me, my head resting on a toned chest. Not only was I fucking crying, but also I was now fucking crying as Eric Wilson hugged me. Well, this day had certainly been action-packed to the brim…
“Sh…It’s okay, Liz. Everything will be okay,” Eric murmured softly, stroking my hair with a single hand. “It’s okay.”
Getting consoled by my stoner boyfriend after having just met the douche partially responsible for me? It was definitely a thing to check off my nonexistent bucket list of things to do never. Though, as I continued to involuntarily weep, a thought surfaced that simply wouldn’t go away: Eric’s arms weren’t the ones I wanted to be in.