The Status of All Things

“You still think we should have let her make the mistake?” I challenge as I follow him out of the room to the couch, my heart shattering a little over Jules’ admission. If she and Ben couldn’t make it, a part of me doubted if anyone could.

“Of course I don’t!” Liam says, a flare of anger in his voice. “Not after that guy got rough with you.” He shakes his head, as if remembering it all over again. “But I still believe what I said to you—this is Jules’ life to live. We can’t judge it. We can’t control it. We have to let her make her own choices. Just maybe not when she’s hammered!” He rolls his eyes and throws his feet on the table, stretching his arms out, the key to Nikki’s suite resting on the table next to his cell phone. There was a part of me that didn’t want him to leave—even after everything that has been said tonight, his presence was still warm and comforting, much like the soft blanket he had wrapped around Jules a few minutes earlier.

“Well, her life or not, it still makes me think. If she and Ben are in this much of a tailspin, then what does that mean for the rest of us?”

He pulls me in close against his chest and runs his hand through my hair. “When will you learn?”

“Learn what?” I whisper as I close my eyes, the pressure of his hand on my head making my eyelids heavy, all the alcohol and drama finally catching up to me.

“That nobody’s perfect,” he says softly, right before I drift off to sleep.

? ? ?

Memories from the night before come flooding back like high tide at sunset when I pull open my eyes, surprised to find myself next to Jules, who is facedown beside me in the king bed. I roll over, noticing my shoes sitting neatly on the floor. The last thing I remember is falling asleep on Liam’s chest—had he carried me in here? I lean forward to see out the door of the bedroom, hoping to glimpse his long legs dangling off the couch, but it’s empty. I feel a pang—he’d gone to spend the night with Nikki after all.

It still shocked me that he’d hit that guy last night—he’d always been the one to break up fights, not start them. What had gotten into him? The speed with which he was transforming made me uneasy. First it was cars and clothes. Now he was sucker-punching someone at a club. What would be next?

The room moves slightly as I stand and steady myself before moving forward, desperate to locate my overnight bag and the bottle of Advil tucked inside, my head almost exploding when I bend down to look for it. Finally, I grip the container in my hand and shake two pills out of it, gulping them down with a bottle of water Liam must have set next to the bed before he left. I palm the extra capsules I grabbed for Jules and lie back in bed, waiting for her to wake from the dead, worried that she’s going to feel much worse than me, and not just because of the alcohol.

Instinctively I reach over and grab my cell phone, quickly sending Max a text to ask how his bachelor party went the night before, attaching a photo that we had taken at dinner, our heads tilted together as we raised our glasses in the air. I stare at Jules’ face in the picture, the anticipation she was feeling now obvious. Last night, I had thought it had been because we were all together, but now I realize there may have been more to it. I had always viewed her as someone others were drawn to—she never had a shortage of women scrambling for her friendship at her kids’ school, of clients wanting her to create a beautiful cake. She had even charmed the parking attendant at the Starbucks we frequented off La Cienega—him letting her park for free and saving her the best space in the lot. But clearly she was craving something more. Something she didn’t feel like she was getting from Ben.

Max pings me back a picture of him with a line of full shot glasses, him shrugging his shoulders as if to say, “Well someone’s got to do it!” He looked happy. I click over to my Facebook feed, cringing at Jules’ incoherent status update from the night before about twerking at TAO. There are several typos, and no punctuation, so unlike her usual updates, which I know for a fact she double-and triple-checks, even sometimes asking my opinion before posting. I laugh despite myself when I see Ben’s comment telling her to stop drinking and go to bed. If he only knew what good advice that really was.

I hear Jules moan before I feel her move beside me, rolling over as if she were filled with concrete. “Oh my God,” she says as her hands shield her eyes from the daylight streaming through the slight opening in the curtain. I silently hand her the ibuprofen and bottle of water, alarmed by the green tone her skin has taken on.

“Thank you,” she whispers, and lies in silence for a few minutes, eyes closed. I watch her closely—last night playing in a loop in my head.

“Jules,” I finally say when her eyes open again.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Liz Fenton , Lisa Steinke's books