Page 25 of Sing Your Secrets
“Corey,” Mani says with a surefire nod.
“Yup, Corey.” Quinn turns her gaze to me. “You were bragging to Corey about the incredible head you give, so be glad bath water is the last thing you ended up drinking that night.” She raises her neatly shaped brown eyebrows at me.
All right. Not my finest moment.But most of my college dumbassery was an attempt to escape my thoughts about Petey. I liked to numb the pain with reckless adventures…and vodka…and Tuaca.
“Also, I don’t know if you think you’re being subtle, but whoever you’re Instagram stalking right now, I’m pretty sure you’re doing it wrong.” Mani holds out her palm. “Who are you looking for?”
I hand my phone over because Mani is queen when it comes to social media. She has over a million followers on every account she maintains, so she’s no stranger to a little Instagram media recon.
“This guy, Miles. He’s a singer. I didn’t catch his last name but he said he just got back from L.A.”
“Ah,” Mani says, “so we have that in common. What’s he look like?”
He looks like…sexy. A contradictory mix of lumberjack and stylish.I close my eyes, trying to narrow in on our encounter a couple of weeks ago and say, “White guy, brunette hair, but really dark, green eyes—actually more like hazel, deep dimples, short beard now, but I get the feeling it’s new.” Opening my eyes, I see all four of my friends staring at me.
“And this is a guy you’re interested in?” Noa asks pulling her thick wavy hair to one side and fanning her neck. She’s the only other member of our friend group who understands my “big hair” problems. Except Noa’s Hawaiian heritage gives her beautiful shiny waves. I’m only a quarter Puerto Rican but my hair matches Abuela’s aggressively wild curls.
“Why is that surprising?”
“Because the only guy you ever got serious with looked like Drake’s body double,” Addie says.
“Well doesn’t it make sense I’d want the opposite of Petey, then?” I snap.
That satisfies their curiosity and I am met with several heads nodding in agreement. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I asked if he wanted to meet up sometime and he pretty clearly passed.”
“Then why are you looking him up?” Mani asks.
“Let’s call it the curiosity of a scorned woman.”
With my hands free of my phone, I take the opportunity to swipe a handful of popcorn from the bowl Noa’s holding. Ah, butter. A nice contrast to the witch’s brew of living fungus I’m trying to convince myself I like. I just…
I don’t know.
Miles was interesting. I haven’t been interested in a long time. Even if he’s not into me, there’s no harm in holding on to the thrill of something new a little longer, right?
Addie grumbles as she gently rearranges the massive cats who are reluctant to move. She barely manages to shuffle out of her seat to swipe the popcorn bowl. The minute she finds her seat, her cat kids reform their furry barrier around her. They are taking up an entire section of the extravagant oversized leather sectional.
At Addie’s old piece of shit apartment, there wasn’t enough room for all five of us to sit on the couch. One of us would normally end up squatting on her wooden floors. Her place was tiny and kind of musky, but I already miss it. I’ll always remember us in that crappy run-down apartment, every Friday night, with cheap samosas from our favorite Indian restaurant, sangria, and re-runs of Sex and the City…feeling so rich.
I have the stuff that really matters.
Despite the mother who has never accepted me for who I am. Despite the father who gets me but is never around because he can’t keep himself out of trouble. Despite being the only child of the most dysfunctional, toxic relationship anyone could imagine…when it comes to family—I’m rich. Looking around the room at Noa, Addie, Quinn, and Mani, I smile. It’s because of them. My preferred family. They loved me even at my lowest. And I mean low.
It took a long time for me to get it past my thick hair, and my even thicker skull, Petey didn’t love me anymore. Even when I left Atlanta in the middle of my sophomore year of college, I struggled to let go. I let false hope and doctored memories string me along for years.
That sex tape he “accidentally” sent me—that did not star me—is what finally woke me up. Only a cowardly, disrespectful piece of shit would tell a woman to move on that way. Petey purposely broke my heart so I’d let him go. Once I really let him go, that’s when the depression consumed me. I was drowning with my eyes open, just watching the harrowing, devastating, impending doom. My friends rode in like the cavalry. They changed my sweatpants and sweatshirts while I laid basically comatose in bed. After I lost my appetite—and then ten pounds—they took turns force-feeding me. When I finally left the apartment, they cleaned me up after all my wild drunken escapades. They took turns driving me to my counseling appointments and stayed in the waiting area for the entire hour, before taking me home to crawl right back into bed.
They didn’t rush me or have any expectations. They just loved me through my low.
Then one day, it hurt a little less. The weight of heartbreak gradually got lighter. I started to breathe again. Laugh again. Eat again. I met new guys and stopped just going through the motions and found a way to enjoy sex again.
The love part, I’m still working on. I have yet to discover if love exists outside of Petey. It’s possible I’ve been avoiding it because the only version of “love” I know nearly destroyed me.
“Do you guys remember me telling you about The Garage? Over on Larimer Street?”
“Where you used to sing?” Quinn asks.
“A couple of times…it’s mostly where Petey would perform, and where my dad would DJ now and then. Basically, I lived there from middle school until I left for college.”