I was walking home from the dispensary with a massive headache, the kind that makes you squint because the light hurts your eyes. My stomach churned as though I’d been standing on the deck of a boat in high seas trying to read a book. My lunch was in a knotted plastic bag, and my inability to eat it, again, had left me feeling weak. I had an appointment later in the week to see the doctor for what I was sure was an ulcer.
As I stepped from the elevator onto our landing, I just wanted to change into my sweats, curl up on the couch with my latest novel, and lose myself in some fictional world.
I punched in the four-digit code to our keyless door lock. The lights were off, but the pale-blue light of a streetlamp filtered through the blinds. I noticed this because I never lowered the blinds. The window looked toward the Willamette River, and the view was the best part of my now-pricey loft that I doubted we’d continue to be able to afford.
Graham sat on the couch with his back to the door, so still it was like looking at the back of the head of a mannequin in a department-store display. His suit coat, the black-and-white checked pattern he’d recently bought, hung haphazardly over the back of the sofa, as if tossed, which was not like him. He was meticulous when it came to his clothes.
“Graham?” I said, my voice questioning.
His head moved, but it was more of a flinch, which was a relief because the thought had crossed my mind that he had died seated on that couch.
“Graham?” I said again, stepping farther in.
“Well, it’s over,” he said, voice hoarse and soft.
I set my keys on the kitchen counter and stepped to the side of the couch with the window at my back. I was looking at him in profile. His hair was untamed, as if he’d been tugging on it. Beside him, on the couch, his tie lay balled up. He had his shirtsleeves rolled up his forearms in tight bunches. On the table was a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a glass. Thankfully, the bottle looked relatively full, but beside it was an open mason jar from the dispensary filled with dried apricots laced with THC, the chemical in marijuana that causes the high.
“What happened? Did you talk to the bank?”
He’d had an appointment that afternoon to speak with the bank about extending the loan payments, or securing an additional loan. Judging from his demeanor, the meeting had not gone well.
He nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly, his lips pursed. Then he stood so suddenly I flinched. He grabbed the bottle and came around the couch, leaning down into my personal space. The alcohol and smell of the apricots was strong, almost enough to make me puke. My stomach lurched but I looked away and sucked in air.
“I did.” He grinned and stepped past me to the window. He put his fingers between the blades of the blinds, pulling them down so that they crinkled, and peered out like a man in hiding.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” he said. “I’m eating the inventory.” He turned and smiled at me, again without any humor.
“How many have you had?” I asked, looking at the mason jar. I had learned that the potency level in the edibles was much higher than smoking a joint, but the real problem was that the level of THC was difficult to measure. People made the mistake of eating one edible, feeling nothing, and eating another, not realizing the effect from the first edible had yet to kick in. When it did, it could be debilitating.
“I don’t know,” Graham said, running his hand down the blades as if over harp strings. “And I don’t really give a shit.”
“Do you think you should be drinking?”
He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “What would you have me do, Andrea, read a book? Live in a fantasy world?”
“Is it that bad?”
He approached. His grin had now become more sinister, the kind you carved into a jack-o’- lantern to scare trick-or-treaters on Halloween. When he leaned forward, I took a step back.
“Yes, it’s that bad,” he said, voice soft and deliberate. “What did you think the bank was going to say?” He dropped his voice an octave. “‘We’re not only willing to forego your loan, here’s another one. Have a nice day.’” Graham paused as if he’d just remembered something. “Oh, yeah, he also questioned why I had no law-firm income. He said the bank was going to start an inquiry with my former law firm. So, in addition to being bankrupt and losing everything, I may also be going to jail for fraud. How does that grab you?”
He stepped away to our tiny kitchen and set the bottle on the counter.
“We can start over,” I said, trying to find something to hold on to.
He laughed. “You would say that. You’re such a dreamer.”
“We can. We can hire an attorney and work out a payment plan on the loan. The bank won’t prosecute you; they just want their money. You can practice law and I can get my job back and we’ll pay off the loan.”
Graham spun on his heels and raised the bottle. “And live on what?”
“We can move—someplace cheaper, and get rid of the lease on the Porsche and cut other expenses.” I was just thinking quickly and out loud.
“No.” He shook his head. “No way am I going back to practicing law. That is a death sentence. Is that what you want for me?”
“It doesn’t have to be forever,” I said. “Just until we get back on our feet.”