“CJ told me to look after you.” Regan leaned forward, resting elbow on knee, head in hand. “It’s hard to look after you when you’re at other guys’ houses all the time.”
I suppose I could have told him everything right there, but he wasn’t in the brain space to put it all together. I was more interested in the truths he thought he held about me.
“Is that the branch up your tree hugging friend’s ass? She thinks I’m a slut?” I knew Ember had thought I’d fooled around with CJ, and she had some attitude a couple of weeks ago, but Regan’s statements illustrated the crossover.
Slut.
“You’re not a slut, Georgia.”
I glanced over at him as I merged onto the highway because his voice sounded suddenly sober. Then he slurred. Again.
“You don’t do anything different than CJ does all the time ... that’s what he says...”
“That’s what CJ said? That I sleep around?”
Regan looked down as his eyebrows pulled in. “No ... he didn’t say that. He said you weren’t like that.”
Way to go, Ceej. Defending me without giving the truth away. Half-truths, full protection. Realizing I had no use for a drunken conversation of this subject — me — I turned the tables.
“Who’s Rae Cavanaugh?” I swallowed hard at the courage afforded me in the tiny confines of my car.
“How do you know her?” His head was still in his hands, but he rotated to face me.
“Obviously I don’t since I asked you who she is.”
“She’s ... Bo’s sister.”
“Oh ... that’s why it sounded familiar. Last name. Okay, so, why did she send you that note that had you all drinky-drinky?”
“She didn’t.”
“Well, the envelope—”
“She didn’t fucking send me shit, Georgia, okay?” A deep tenor filled the car as Regan yelled.
I jumped, thankful to be exiting the highway and a few minutes from home.
I guess we were done talking about Rae Cavanaugh.
Keeping quiet for the remainder of the ride, I half expected Regan to break somewhere in the five minutes after his last word, but he didn’t. I saw his lips moving once in a while out of the corner of my eye, but he wasn’t making any noises. He hadn’t shown signs of mental illness before, so I was chalking the self-talk up to the alcohol.
Once we were in front of our building, I guided my car into the garage, deciding to take the interior stairs, given the railings were sturdier than the wobbly split-rail ones along the outer stairs.
“And, by the way,” Regan started mid-imaginary conversation as he got out and shut the door behind him, “why’d you get all weird when we played that Guster song the other night?”
I tried to silently clear my throat. Go ahead, try it. That’s what I sounded like. “What do you mean?”
“CJ started singing, which he like never does, and you looked like he cracked open your chest and crawled inside.” Regan wandered over to the door and knocked on it.
I took out my keys, shaking my head. “He kind of did.” It was okay to be a little honest with a drunk person. They might not remember.
“He did?”
“Look. The PG-13 version of my pain? I had a complete shit childhood, and CJ, for all intents and purposes, rescued me from that during the time I still lived in Massachusetts. That song is just ... ours.”
I opened the door and Regan put his hands in his pockets and started up the stairs.
“Could you take your hands out of your pockets?” I held onto his shirt. “If you fall, we’ll be able to better prevent both of us from tumbling down the stairs if you can at least catch yourself.”
Regan snorted. “Sounds like you’ve done this before.”
“I guess you could say that. Just ... go. You’re staying in my apartment tonight.”
“I live five feet from you, I think I can find my way.” He stopped halfway up the stairs to take a breath, then slowly jogged the rest of the way until he was in the hall between our two doors.
“Yeah, and I want to make sure you can find your way to the bathroom if you need to throw up. I’d rather you didn’t choke on your own vomit tonight. Anyway, I have your keys.” I dangled his keys in the air then dropped them in my bag.
“How did you...”
“You handed them to Lissa when you ordered your third shot. You’re smart. I like you.” I unlocked my door and led him inside.
Without further protest, Regan fell to my couch and was half asleep before I flicked on the light and re-latched my door. I sighed, took off his shoes, set a garbage can next to him, and posted up in the chair across from the coffee table.
Once I was certain he was out, I reached for my laptop and, like any good American, I opened my browser and typed: Rae Cavanaugh.
My assumptions about Regan and his insides were dismantled wrecking-ball style as the first item in the search results produced an obituary from last summer. Shit.
Rachel Vivian Cavanaugh
Rachel (Rae) passed away suddenly on Saturday afternoon.