Page 86 of Drowning Erin

“You want to sleep with her, don’t you?” shedemands.

I know I should say no, but the answer seems so obvious—as if she’s asked if I want to continue breathing oxygen—that I don’t say anything atall.

This is apparently not the correct course ofaction.

Her face sags, waiting for a denial that does not arrive. “Go sleep with herthen.”

I’ll admit it. I feel hopeful, like I’ve been offered a chance at parole. Some stupid voice in my head suggests that maybe Gabi sees this the way I do—that she only has two days left in Italy, and we’re not getting along anymore, so how could it reallymatter?

“You don’t mean that,” Iventure.

“You would, wouldn’t you?” she cries. “You’d totally sleep with her right now if you could!” She grabs my backpack and hurls it at me. “Get the fuckout.”

“Gabi—”

“Get out!” she screams. “Get out get out get out get out! I never want to see you again!” She throws a book and barelymisses.

I’m about to point out that it’s my apartment we’re in when she picks up a knife. I decide that discussion canwait.

I wander down the street, uncertain at first where to go. And then I realize I’m free. Gabi kicked me out. She said she never wanted to see me again. Which means, for the first time in months, I can do whatever the fuck Iwant.

I go to the bar where Tatiana awaits. I tell her Gabi kicked me out, and she informs me, tongue piercing flashing in the light, that she has a hotel room to herself. And then her fingers are in my hair and she’s dragging my mouth tohers.

I didn’t realize just how stifled I’ve actually been until this moment. I’m free again. I can go home with anyone I want, I can spend an entire night without listening to someone cry, without having to offer assurances I don’t mean. Tatiana climbs into my lap and I swear, as she does it, that I am never going to be trappedagain.

And as soon as I swear it, I hear the unmistakable sound of Gabi, crying like I’ve just broken herheart.

60

Erin

Present

How couldit mean so little tohim?

And how did I ever convince myself it wasotherwise?

I think back to the way he looked at me in the hammock yesterday. The night we danced in his apartment. Everything I thought I saw in his face…could not have been real. Losing him would have been hard enough, but now it feels like he’s taken all of my memories and crushed them underfoottoo.

I’ve felt sick like this before. Back in high school, when Sean disappeared and my father’s drinking got worse. My mother cried and wanted me to somehow fix it, when I knew I could not. I fell asleep back then apathetic about whether I woke in the morning. I thought this piece of me was gone, but apparently it was only inhiding.

I cry all afternoon. I cry all night. Harper doesn’t come home, which is for the best, except it makes me wonder if Brendan won’t be going home tonight either. I want to vomit when I considerit.

I miss making dinner with him, having sex with him, sleeping beside him. The next morning I open my eyes and discover I miss waking with himtoo.

I suspect there won't be a moment of my day—even the moments I didn't normally spend with him—that won't leave me missing something about Brendan. And I have no one I can tell—not Olivia, who’d immediately call Brendan and rip him a new one. Not Harper, who doesn’t come home. Not even Sean, simply because he doesn’t answer or return mycall.

When I was with Brendan, I was consumed. He was like a drug, and with him I existed in this hazy space of believing the world was good and everything would work out without a shred of proof. It felt like I needed nothing other than him. And now the drug is gone, as I always knew it would be. I have to look at my life again—at the fact that I’m homeless and on my final warning at work—and admit that maybe I didn’t need anything other than him, but I also didn’thaveanything other thanhim.

And I never really had himeither.

* * *

Harper doesher best to cheer me up when she finally comes home. She says all the things women say in these situations:you’re better off without him,he’s going to come to his senses. It doesn’t help, though, because neither statement istrue.

“Hair of the dog,” she insists, coming into my room and throwing a thong atme.

I look from the thong to her. “I’m completely not following thisconversation.”