“A MISTAKE?” I pulled my shirt closed, but I still felt naked. “That’s what you call what we just did? A mistake is accidentally dropping a can of paint, losing your footing, accidentally slicing your finger while chopping carrots. They happen in milliseconds. That was the longest most conscious mistake I’ve ever experienced.”
“Okay. But the point is the same. It shouldn’t have happened. And I can’t believe I forgot protection. I never forget protection with anyone I’m with.”
My heart imploded at the thought of him with other girls. Outwardly, I winced. “Fuck you, Joseph.”
“Look.” He blew out a breath. “Shit. I’m sorry. What I meant about the mistake was we should’ve kept things the way they were. I don’t want you reading more into this than there is.”
Reading more into it? Joey had been as addicted to me as I was to him. Of course I read more into it.
“I like you,” he went on. “I consider you a really good friend. We’re friends, right?”
I realized my mouth was hanging open as I listened to his garbage. “Friends?” I managed.
“Yeah.”
“Just friends?”
“Well, I mean—”
“You’ve had your tongue down my throat every chance you get, and your penis just met my vagina. And we’re just friends?”
At least he had the wherewithal to look sheepish when I pointed out his stupidity.
“Get the fuck off my boat, Joseph.”
“Jazz—”
“Just go.” I fumbled for my panties. I was sore between my legs. It was a tiny thing in comparison to the huge gaping hole in my sternum.
He didn’t make any move to leave, his face a myriad of confused emotions.
“Go away!” I screamed, and then stared blankly at him while my heart exploded into a million tiny pieces.
And then he did.
THE VODKA WAS long gone. I’d burned through all my dad’s vinyl looking for something appropriately suicidal. I’d played Miles Davis, and no, Someday My Prince would not fucking Come, Branford Marsalis’ “Mo Better Blues” weren’t blue enough, and finally I settled on “A Love Supreme” by John Coltrane. It wasn’t low-key because he wrote the four track in the middle of a heroin addiction. But that seemed kind of fitting for the moment. I’d been addicted to Joey. And I’d gone against all reason and judgment to get a bigger, better hit of him. A hit of oblivion to try and avoid thoughts of my dad.
My dad.
I grabbed a stack of postcards and took them into the berth with me. The whole place felt compromised by Joey being here. But I lay down, trying not to think about what we’d done here.
I scanned through the postcards one by one. I looked at the pictures. I couldn’t bring myself to read the words. That was too much. One day I would. I’d read through all of them all over again and really appreciate them. And I suddenly realized how grateful I was for the gift my father gave me. He wrote to me every month from the day he left. I’d felt more connected to him than even my own mother, even though I lived with her and never saw him.
I knew I could tell my father anything. And I had. I’d told him my hopes, my fears, my plans, my failures, my mess-ups, my embarrassments.
What I’d just done with Joey flashed through my mind, and I wished I could share that with him too. Even though I knew I wouldn’t have. What father would want to know that shit?
One day, I would arrange all these postcards in chronological order. Rows and rows. And I would track his movements around the world with a big world map. Maybe I would even follow in his footsteps. Maybe when I got to all these places I would understand the compulsion that kept him going and kept him away from me. It would all make sense when I put it together.
The boat rocked gently. I couldn’t feel anything anymore. My emotions had drained away. I was empty. I knew the entire day—the news and what I’d done—would hit me hard tomorrow morning and for bonus points, I’d be hung over too.
I fell asleep as the player hissed, and clicked, and turned endlessly, having reached the end of available revolutions on the record.
MY EYES SNAPPED open and I cringed at the blinding light. Even through the murky windows the sun was strong. Something had woken me. I’d lurched across the berth in my sleep, and there’d been a sound. A loud sound. Now, I heard voices shouting. My head throbbed and my mouth tasted like a pigeon vomit.
Thanks, vodka.
I slept with Joey last night. Oh my holy shit.
My dad. Oh my God. My dad. As soon as I thought about it, a cavern opened up inside me. An emptiness and a nothingness like nothing I’d ever felt before was at the center of every feeling. It was sucking everything, every part of me, in on itself.
My body curled up.
Grief?
Was this grief?
The shouts got louder. The boat lurched.
I groaned and clutched my head. I couldn’t clutch the empty pain inside my gut. Curling into a ball, I covered my head with my hands.
Daddy.
Daddy, this was a dream.
Please, Daddy.
You’re coming home.