Hell, I went to that club on the Lower East Side a couple weeks ago and spent the whole time drinking soda all night, for godsakes. Soda. At the Luna Lounge. Now that’s commitment. But again, I was hoping to run into Layla and decided that this time I didn’t want to be a drunken mess when I did.
She was the only reason I was even at a frigging bar at all. I mean, when I’m trying to curb my drinking, a bar isn’t really the first place I want to find myself. But earlier that week, I’d just happened to strike up a conversation with one of the security guys on set. It’s amazing what you can learn about a person after only a few minutes. And what I’d learned about that security guy was that his brother went to college at NYU. I asked him to give the guy a call, and holy shit, yeah, he’s friends with Layla Warren. Not only that, but said brother was a bartender at the Luna, and mentioned that she came in pretty regularly on Saturday nights.
So, we went. Me and my new best friend, Mitch. And I waited. Feeling like a stalker.
And she never showed up.
But I didn’t have a drink.
1:48. Dammit.
Nine years I went without seeing her. Nine. Fucking. Years. And then I walked into that room, and there she was. That beautiful smile, those gorgeous brown eyes. Looking at me like we were seventeen again. Looking at me like I was… me.
Where. Is. She?
I could call her. There’s the phone. Right there. I could just call her and find out what the hell is going on in that brain of hers. I mean, we belong together. She has to know that. She knows that I know that. Were my intentions not clear?
No. I laid it all out there. She knows what I want.
She knows what she wants.
So, why the hell isn’t she here right now?
I launch off the bed, throw the stupid remote onto the pillows, and head for the fridge. I swore I wasn’t going to have a drink tonight. I swore I was going to be one-hundred-percent present when she got here. I pull out a mini bottle of Jack anyway and set it on the counter.
But I don’t open it.
I stand there staring at it instead, even though I know that just one little drink will help to take the edge off. Calm my nerves. Keep me sane until she gets here. I’m standing here, talking to myself, the voice in my head telling me that it’s okay to just have one.
Just. One. Little. Drink.
But I don’t open it.
I grab the Toblerone instead, chomping on it as I pace around the living room.
I will not go back into that bedroom alone.
I will not go back in that bed without Layla.
Layla Effing Warren. The most beautiful girl I’ve ever known. The girl who makes me laugh. The girl who loved me.
Who loves me.
Right?
Shit. 2:34.
I flop onto the sofa, but that damn bottle on the counter is in my line of sight, calling my name. I switch position on the couch, resting my head on the other end so I don’t have to look at it. But now I can see the phone on the side table, so I cover it with a pillow, resisting the urge to use it. But what if it rings, and I don’t hear it? As if some stupid pillow is really going to muffle the sound of a ringing phone. But crap. I don’t want to take the chance that I’ll miss the call from the front desk letting me know Layla’s here. Fuck! I get up and put the phone on the floor, out of sight.
The remote catches my attention, so I flick on the tube and channel surf aimlessly, my mind not even registering what I’m looking at until I come across Sixteen Candles on HBO. Classic.
And Layla’s favorite movie.
Sonofabitch.
If she doesn’t show up, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to watch this movie ever again. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to watch my movie ever again. It was hard enough just having to see myself onscreen, but it was even harder having her sitting right there next to me… where I could smell her, touch her. Sitting there with a boner like some thirteen-year-old just from holding her hand. Sitting here with a boner right now just thinking about it. Dammit. I really need to take care of this thing.
Where the fuck is she?
3:02.
I don’t think she’s coming.
Holy shit. She’s really not fucking coming.
Christ. My chest hurts. There’s an actual, physical pain in my chest right now. She’s killing me. And she’s doing it slowly. She could have shown a little compassion and finished me off years ago, instead of letting me bleed out over ten whole years. Because this? This is merciless.
And completely unbearable.
I’m tired. I’m horny. I’m pissed. And I’m way, way too sober.
Fuck it.
I bound off the couch and crack that bottle of Jack, bring it to my lips and down it quickly, the scalding in my throat a familiar salve. I savor the burn for only a minute, because I’ve got some brain cells to obliterate and this little mini sampler-sized bottle isn’t cutting it. I grab a tall glass from the cabinet and empty about a million of those little bottles into it, not even checking the labels before I do. And then I throw the whole thing back in one, magnificent, pathetic chug. I slam the empty glass on the counter, bracing my hands on either side of it.
And I wait.