You froze for a second but then flashed a quick, apologetic smile. “Just texting Joy. She’s new to this, so . . . you know.”
Actually, I didn’t, and I think you knew that, too. “Well,” I said, “Maybe it could wait until after.” I could hear my own voice, whiny and high-pitched, like I was one of those sixteenth-century Italian singers who got their nuts cut off so their voices wouldn’t change. No wonder you weren’t jumping my bones. But then again, I’d always looked and sounded like me, and you’d kissed me anyway. So—what, then? I couldn’t ask you why you’d done it without sounding like a complete idiot, but it was all I could think about. Your lips on my neck, your tongue in my mouth, like I was having some surreal, waking wet dream in front of the whole school. The only reason I hadn’t given up yet was the chance it might happen again.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” you announced.
“Have fun,” I said. Like an asshole.
You’d only been gone for about ten seconds when I realized I could look at your phone. I had a sudden, paranoid need to know if you’d really been texting Joy about Diego, or about how stupid and lame I was. If you’d really been texting Joy at all. Luckily I could scoot around the booth without drawing too much attention to myself. I moved a foot closer to your side and then reached my arm around. Your bag was so big, it was easy to grab one of the handles and pull it closer to me.
In the dim, “romantic” lighting I’d been so excited about, it was hard to see much, but since 95 percent of your purse’s contents seemed to be bottles and tissues, it didn’t take too long to find the flat planes of your iPhone. The screen was locked on a picture of Madonna from the 90s, when she was in her lackluster Marilyn phase. I tried your birthday and then, in a fit of desperate delusion, the keypad numbers that spelled out my own name, but I didn’t want to have the phone lock you out and reveal my trespassing, so I quickly threw it back in. I couldn’t stop, though. I waded my fingers through the detritus of your private life, feeling for a clue that would tell me something that might complete the ellipsis and put me out of my misery. Keys, Tic Tacs, coins, wallet, something long and crinkly that turned out to be a tampon . . . finally, I stumbled on a bumpy foreign object. Glancing over the banquette to make sure you weren’t coming back, I pulled it out.
It was a little fabric zipper pouch—screen-printed with big yellow letters that spelled out WHAAM!—and inside was a small Ziploc bag. It was cloudy with chalky dust, but in the bottom corner there were a few visible chunks of white pills, a clear plastic cylinder that looked like some kind of salt shaker or something, and a rolled-up dollar bill. I stared at it for a few seconds.
What in the actual fuck?!
That was something you would have said. I was even thinking in your voice. But if I loved you that much, if I was so completely obsessed with everything about you, wouldn’t I have noticed that you were on what looked like pretty hard drugs? I sat there motionless, tingling with adrenaline.
At least it’s not another dude.
I hated myself for it, but there it was.
Or maybe she had to get high to want to touch you in the first place.
You had definitely been blitzed at the party, that was never up for debate. But the rest of the time—I wracked my brain, trying to separate out the hours and hours we’d spent together since then, but there was no incident that I could remember, no red flag marking the dividing line between “before” and “after.” You’d been sort of erratic and mean, but that wasn’t totally abnormal. You’d also devolved into a mediocre actress, but maybe the WHAAM! explained it.
That’s when I heard a door swing open and realized I was still holding the pouch. As fast as I could, I zipped it shut, stuffed it back into your bag, and pushed my way back to my spot in the booth. I made it just in time to see your head bob into view.
“Sorry I kept you waiting,” you said.
I forced a smile. “I’ll always wait for you,” I said.
? ? ?