I get out of the car and push open the heavy metal door, the bell chimes above my head as the smell of fried food and cleaning product assaults my senses. My little sister Eve sits in the back, in a red leather booth, surrounded by several people we went to high school with.
“Bristol!” Eve shouts as I make my way further into the diner. At the sound of my name, several heads turn my way. I raise my hand and give a timid wave hello. I don’t know these people well, sure I went to high school with them, but I spent ninety percent of my time in school in Alex’s garage, working on drum solos and smoking pot. This wasn’t my crowd, but they were Eve’s. These are her people.
I take a seat on the edge of the booth, plotting my escape if necessary. The other people at the booth say hello and continue on with their conversations, paying me no mind. I sit in silence, watching them all interact, the familiarity they have with each other hurts to watch. I had that, Alex, Andrew, Boston and I were familiar, we spent years on the road together, every night with one another. I wanted to ring their necks sometimes, but in the end, it was a family. A home within each other. I didn’t just break up with Andrew, I broke up with all of them. Even if I wasn’t physically involved, they still held a piece of my heart.
“Bristol, it’s so nice for you to join us peasants.” Casey snides across the table from me. She’s always been a bitch, and if jealousy were a color, she’d be the hulk right now.
“It’s for charity.” I quip. My eyes holding hers, daring her to say something else.
“Heard your wedding didn’t go as planned.” Casey says as she rolls the cherry from her shake between her overly lipsticked lips.
“Gee, nothing gets past you, huh?” I roll my eyes at her remarks.
“I heard you freaked out from hearing your own song.” She laughs, like it’s the funniest thing ever.
“And I heard you got a nose job last summer.” I glare. I pretend like her words don’t cut me, but they do. Someday this pain will be useful, not today, but someday.
“You think you’re so much better than us.” She spits.
“Careful, Casey, your insecurities are showing. Better tuck that shit back in.” I smile.
“You-“ she starts, but the bell over the door chimes again, and in walks Boston, followed by a still not sober Rhyit. I lock eyes with him, and all the air gets sucked out of the room. His greens hold my blues with handcuffs. His pupils are so blown you can barely see the gold flecks that make up the inside of his eyes. He rubs his lips together, and I fight the need to pull my legs together tighter. He sniffles and rubs the red raw skin below his nose, and I purse my lips. He’s on another level right now, he probably doesn’t even see me. I look across the table at Eve, her eyes wide as she realizes who just walked in.
“I’m gonna go.” I say to Eve as they approach the table. Her eyes bounce between me and Rhyit, not one to state the obvious, but she nods her head. “I’ll see you at home.” I scoot out of the red leather booth and attempt to make a run for it. I pass both of them on my way out and mouth a silent “I’m sorry” to Boston as I race to my car. He nods as he and Rhyit take a seat at the table I just vacated.
I drive aimlessly for a while, no real direction planned, just enjoying the peace and quiet. No radio, no voices, just me and the steering wheel. My mind drifts back to a time before we were this broken. When I could stand to be in the same room as him. Hell, I loved being anywhere with him. When the animosity didn’t suffocate me, and the secrets we spilled weren’t used as threats. I don’t know when Andrew and I went down Toxic Avenue, but we’ve made a home there, and we’re living quite nicely. I pull at the straps on the wrist of my leather jacket. My engagement ring shines at me as I place my hand back on the wheel. I really should take it off, but the black diamond in the center fits me so well. I’ll take it off when John starts talking to me again, I tell myself. A tiny voice inside my head tells me that I could be wearing this ring for a very long time.
Chapter 11 Bristol
I put my Toyota Celica in park and sit in the driveway of my parents’ house for a moment. I need to go in and shower and go to bed, but the images of today haunt me. The pictures of all of us on the tri-fold boards surrounding the casket, the records from his room scattered across the table in front felt like a shrine to a life cut short. But I guess that’s what they are, memories, pieces of the life of a person no longer here to tell their story. I let out a shaky breath as I unbuckle my seatbelt and open the door.
A light shines in the old treehouse in my backyard, odd. The rickety structure probably couldn’t hold my weight now, my dad built it for Eve and I when we were kids. As we got older it became a hideout and hangout for all of the kids in our neighborhood and later, a make out pad. I think Eve even lost her virginity up there. Again with all this god damn nostalgia. I stand at the bottom of the tree, wondering if I should even go up. It might be one of the neighbor kids at this point. Or, it’s Eve and one of the boys from the diner. I grimace at the thought. I listen for a moment and don’t hear anything, no panting or sloppy kissing or children's laughter. I grab the ladder step, which is actually just two by fours nailed to the tree itself, and begin the climb.
“Please don’t let me fall and bust my ass.” I say to myself as I climb higher. When I get to the opening, the floor creaks from my weight on the door, and I push my body faster through the opening, praying that if I fall, at least I’ll have all this soft wood for my landing. Morbid humor is apparently who I am as a person these days. The sound of a throat clearing brings me out of my ‘falling to my death’ comedy stand-up show.
Rhyit sits in the bean bag chair across the room from me, his leather jacket is draped over the side of an old TV and his boots are crossed at the ankle in front of him. He’s every bit the badass rockstar you would imagine, sitting on a bright red strawberry shortcake bean bag chair.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, bewildered. Why, of all places, would he show up here? He looks up from the photo he’s holding between his fingers, his eyes still mostly pupil, but there’s a softness there too.
“I…didn’t know where else to go.” He says softly.
“Um, how about your mom’s house? Your dad’s? Hell, Boston’s?” I say, raising my arms in confusion.
“Nah. I can’t go there.” He shakes his head solemnly.
“Because you’re high.” I spit. “Because you don’t want your mom to know you’re headed down the same fucking path as-“ I don’t finish my sentence before he’s inches from me. He holds my eyes as I swallow audibly.
“Say it.” He seethes. “Because I’m on the same path as…Alex?”
“Y-yes.” I stammer.
“No. I’m not. I didn't have a complete breakdown when you left. It hurt, sure, but Alex. It fucking ruined him ‘Tol. I can handle my drug use. Don’t worry about me.” He says, lighting a cigarette he pulled out of his dark jeans. The white T-shirt he’s wearing stretches across his toned shoulders and shredded stomach. My mind wants to hate him, but my vagina would really like to renegotiate the previous war treaty. I lick my lips as I continue my perusal. He notices, of course he does, he’s a sex symbol, of course he would notice when a woman is interested. Wait, I'm not interested. I’m surprised he doesn’t have a pheromone gland at this point, sniffing out bitches in heat.
“Like what you see, Pistol?” He asks, flirtation lacing his tone.
“I wouldn’t fuck you with someone else’s pussy.” I quip, taking a step forward to invade his space the way he did to me.
“That so?” He replies, taking a drag of his cigarette, looking smug as ever. I rub my temples, why is he so fucking infuriating.