Last Train to Babylon (15 page)

“Speaking of
heart-ons,
” she said. “How's the tat?” She lifted up her own shirt, pulled down her pants just to her crotch line, and peeled off the gauze. Her skin was still raw and red, and the black ink still raised and bumpy. We'd gotten them the week before, when she turned eighteen. I peeled down my own bandage to show her, the cigarette hanging from my lips.

“Looks good, right?” I mumbled, smoke streaming out of the corners of my mouth. It hadn't hurt too bad. I actually thought it had felt kind of good. But it had itched and burned that whole week—no matter how many times I slathered my hip with Lubriderm.

We'd successfully hidden our new ink from both of our mothers.
I just had to make it to college,
I thought. Just make it through the summer. And when I came home for Thanksgiving break, she'd think I had just gotten it at college. Rachel, on the other hand, was going to Hofstra and living at home. I don't think she was too worried, though; her mom pretty much ignored her anyway.

“You think I can pull it off? With Eric?” she asked.

“If that's what you're into, go for it. I don't see it, though,” I said. And I didn't see it. Eric was stocky, with bad teeth and too many freckles.

“I forgot you like them scrawny and brooding,” she said.

I felt my face go hot and my tongue swell, the way it does when Rachel says just the right thing to make me want to knock her teeth in.

“Rachel,” I said. I said her name because it adds a condescending element that you just can't get without saying the person's name before a statement. If you ever want to make someone feel incredibly stupid and small, then start a sentence with their first name. “He's had a pretty fucked-up life. His brother fucking hanged himself, remember? Give the guy a break.”

“Oh, right,” she said. “The brother you sucked face with right before he offed himself. Are you still withholding that little piece of information from lover boy?” Her tone remained sarcastic, playful even, but I still wanted to smash her face in.

She must have sensed it because she took another drag of her cigarette, let out a self-satisfied snort, and said, “Relax, Aub. You know I'm only kidding.”

I lit another cigarette and shook my head at her. “Not okay.”

“Fine,” she said. She winked and put her cigarette out in the sand.

Rachel's dirty-blond hair fell just below her shoulder blades, and her bangs swooped over to one side. She'd thinned out around the middle of ninth grade, just around the time I'd started to thicken around my ass and thighs. Her cheeks were dusted with freckles, but you'd never know. She hid them well.

“We should go to Montauk tomorrow,” she said, her voice raspy. “To celebrate.”

“Montauk. Mon-tawk,” I said, twisting a hollowed stick into the sand. “This is why we talk like this. Montauk. Wantagh.”

“Yeah. Walk the
dawg
and get some
cawfee,
” Rachel said. “Blame the Indians.”

“Ugh,” I said. “I could go for more coffee.” I clutched the almost empty Poland Spring bottle of gin and tonic and swished it around. It had tasted like a dream, what I imagined clouds might taste like, dry and airy, but I cringed at the thought of that last little gulp and poured it into the sand.

Tuesday, October 7, 2014.

C
OME WITH ME
, come with me, he says.

I wobble on the balls of my feet, twisting my car keys in the door. It doesn't open. Smoke streams off the end of my lit cigarette. It's clenched between my teeth.

It won't open, I say, my voice muffled. I collapse into a hysterical fit of giggles. I'm on the ground, my sweater lifts up and the asphalt scratches my bare back.

Come with me, Aubrey, the voice says. Let me take you home.

There's pressure under my arms—hands, I think, lifting me back on my feet.

The streetlights buzz, the keys rattle and fall to the street. His hand comes down and swoops them up. I can't stand, I feel my weight start to shift, and Ally's house stands like a giant pink elephant on the cul-de-sac.

The streetlights spin, I let my face fall into his chest. I breathe in coffee and cinnamon.

Let me take you home.

My car, I say. I think I say it. My car. But my insides spin and the streets swirl around me and I feel my center of gravity churning up from my guts, up through my chest and lodging in my throat. I fall to my knees, and retch: Karen's roast chicken, Jack, and half a bottle of Pinot splatters onto the street.

The hand rubs my back. The keys rattle in his pocket. He's lifting me to my feet.

T
HE SUN SHRIEKS
through a crack in the curtains. My insides feel hollow and dried out. I open my mouth, and the air hits my tongue. It feels like I've been chewing on sand, puke-flavored sand. A thick, groggy fog envelops me, and for a moment I don't remember where I am, or why I feel like shit, and then it hits me like a bag of bricks, and panic sweeps over me.

I'm in my own bed.

I can barely read the digital clock on my nightstand, but if I squint, I make out a blurry outline: 7:51. I'm almost sure it's 7:51. And the light streams in through the window; it's the bright, unnatural morning light, the kind that comes all at once. I groan and roll on my side. I'm simultaneously hot and cold, drenched in a dizzy sweat. I kick the covers off, but feel exposed in a Brown T-shirt and shorts; I don't remember putting on either. So I pull the blanket back up over my head, will myself to just vanish into the sheets, and retrace my steps from last night. I can't see the clock, so my contacts are out. That much I know. At least I'd been somewhat responsible. But other than that, there's nothing—just a black hole of nothing and this throbbing pain in my temple.

And then it starts to come back to me. Piece by piece. There was dinner.

There was Ally's.

I remember falling, vomiting, and that smell. Coffee and cinnamon. There's only one person I know who smells like that. So that part must have been a dream. I'm sure of it.

I need water, but I'd rather shrivel up and die before walking out into that kitchen right now. There's no doubt in my mind that Karen is setting up an intervention at this very moment. I can just see it now: Eli, Ashley, and Marc seated around the living room, Styrofoam cups of coffee lined up on a folding table, the kind reserved for holiday parties and beer pong. They will each have prepared a speech, how my sudden erratic behavior has affected them in some way.

I know we hardly know each other Awwwbryy,
I can just see Ashley saying,
but I feel like we really have a connection. You know? And I want to help you.

Maybe even Ally will have come down. If she even cared enough to see if I made it home all right. Which is doubtful. She didn't follow up five years ago and she won't follow up now.

I turn over to face away from the window, my head still throbbing, and I see it. It's there on the edge of my night table—a mason jar, filled to the brim with water.

March 2009.

R
ACHEL LEANED UP
against the bar, sulking. She kept staring over in Eric's direction, but he was too busy talking to his lacrosse buddies to notice her. A local college band tuned up on the stage. She whipped around, flagged the bartender for a shot, and sighed, hard.

“He's not even looking at me,” she said. “I don't get it.”

I shrugged and nursed the Bud Light in my hand. I already felt unsteady on my feet. We'd been drinking all day. I checked my phone. Still nothing. I smoothed my dress over my thigh.

I had worn a dress to make the whole seduction process a bit more methodical. I bought it from Urban Outfitters back in January with my Christmas money, but the weather hadn't been warm enough to wear it yet. It was simple—black cotton, with a sweeping neckline, and it fell around midthigh. There was a thin string that I tied around my waist.

“You look so hot,” Rachel had said when I tried it on.

“It's seventy dollars,” I said. “I mean, it's just a black dress.”

“Shut up,” she said. “It's actually flattering.”

So that night, I wore the dress with a dangling heart necklace and cheap black, sequined, mesh flats that I'd bought from a bin in Chinatown. Rachel picked me up at six and we parked at the train station, right next to the bar, and sat in her car, downing Monster energy drinks and gin. It tasted like pine needles and chemicals. I winced with each gulp, but could feel my blood start to buzz.

“What if he doesn't show?” I said, after a particular sour swig.

“Then fuck him,” Rachel said. “I mean, not literally. Just fuck someone else.” She wore a light green tank top that squished her breasts together, black skinny jeans, and bright pink come-fuck-me pumps. Her ash-blond hair swooped over her face and fell into flat waves down her back. She looked thinner than she had earlier at the beach, but I didn't tell her that, I just eyed her when I climbed into the car and said, “Nice shirt.”

Adam still hadn't responded to any of my voice mails. “Ad. It's me. Want to talk,” was all I'd said. I wanted to wait until we were in person, for him to see me, dressed like a lady, ready and willing. I couldn't wait to see his tongue swell up in his mouth, like the first time he saw a pair of tits in
Titanic.
Yet, it was nearly midnight and I was standing in the middle of this crappy bar so that Rachel could make eyes at Eric and his buddies.

I stepped outside, half expecting to find Adam arguing with the bouncer about his fake ID.

O'Reilly's was right beneath the Seaport train-station platform—easy access for South Shore bar-goers. From where I stood, I could faintly make out the voice from the loudspeaker overhead.

The eleven forty-five to Babylon is operating on time.

A furious ball of frustration began to spool in my gut as I concealed a bottle of Bud in my bag and halfheartedly nodded to some junior girls fumbling in their patent pumps. There was nothing to do but wait, and I risked missing Adam altogether if I went back inside. So I checked my phone again. Nothing.

The eleven fifty-three to Penn Station is operating on time.

In seven minutes, Adam would turn eighteen, and I couldn't stand the fact that he wasn't celebrating with me.

“I want that one,” Rachel said, when I shouldered my way back toward the dance floor. She was still leaning against the bar, swaying on her feet. She pointed, subtly, though not quite subtle enough, at some guy. “His name is Rod,” she slurred, and then busted into an hysterical fit of giggles. Rod stood next to Eric. We'd never seen the guy before, and decided he was one of Eric's lacrosse buddies from upstate. When Rod caught Rachel sloppily pointing in his direction, he approached. Ally, Sasha, and Ellie signaled to me from the bathroom line.

“What happened to Eric?” I asked.

“Like I said, I'm saving him for a special occasion,” she crooned. “Besides, maybe this will make him jealous.” Rod had a shaved head, hard eyes, and a weak chin.

“I want to go,” I said. “I'm bored. And Adam clearly isn't coming.” I reached into my bag and felt a damp wad of cash that had been soaked by the beer I snuck outside.

“Relax,” Rachel said. “Why don't you have fun for once? As far as I'm concerned, you're a single woman.”

The band started up on the stage and began to play a slow emo version of Pat Benatar's “Invincible.”

Rachel waved me away and put her own arms around Rod's thick neck. I watched their fluid movements on the dance floor. Rachel's hips swung to the tired beat of the song.

“Hi.” The voice startled me. I whirled around, the bottom of my dress brushing up against my midthigh.

“Eric,” he said, pointing at himself. I knew who he was. He'd schooled me in hard-ons, the middle finger, and virgins, but it was okay, because he had a dead mother. He had graduated two years earlier, and from what Rachel said, he now went to some preppy college upstate on a lacrosse scholarship. He lived near Adam. I passed his house each time I walked there, but we hadn't actually spoken since that time he gave me the middle finger in second grade.

His navy ribbed sweater seemed outdated, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing his thick forearms. The tiny hairs on his arm stood up, and it reminded me of this time when I was ten. I had been sitting on my living room couch, sulking, waiting for Karen to take me to soccer practice or softball practice, or whatever season it was. We were already late. The tiny hairs stood up on my legs, and that's when I decided it was time to start shaving. That night, with my father's razor, I sliced a chunk out of my knee, a scar that would—over the years—fade into a tiny white film, barely noticeable.

“Hey?”

“Excuse me?” I said, realizing again where I was, the hazy air of the bar swirling around me like exhaust from a car. He said something barely audible over the band.

“That's your name, isn't it?” Eric said.

“No,” I said. “It's not.” I took a swig of my beer and craned my neck, looking for another familiar face. Rachel winked at me from the wooden dance floor, and the song played.

“Do you want a drink?” he asked. “I'm getting a drink.” I shook my head and stared at the door. Still no Adam. Eric shrugged and walked toward the bar. His body moved with a cold indifference.

I waited for Rachel to make eye contact again and signaled for her. She whispered something into Rod's ear and shouldered her way toward me.

“You okay?” She put her free hand on my shoulder.

“I guess,” I said, and took a swig out of the bottle. “Just bummed it turned out like this. I think I might just go home.”

“Don't go home,” she whined. “Give me like an hour, and we'll go home together. Okay? Besides, your bag is at my house, remember?” She smiled, her sickly-sweet Rachel smile, draped her arm around my neck, and pulled me into her. “Please,” she said. Her hot breath tickled my cheek. I wanted to say no. I should have said no, but part of me still thought Adam might saunter in through the wooden doors.

“Go ahead,” I said, and pushed her back toward Rod. She smiled and threw her arms around me, smacking her lips into my face. I wiped my cheek with the back of my hand.

I
SAT, PERCHED
at the high-top table near the door, peeling the label off the bottle of Bud. I'd lost sight of Rachel more than an hour earlier, and my phone was about to die. Ally, Sasha, and Ellie were dancing. I'd given up on Adam, and was about to call it a night, when I felt the weight of the table shift.

“Shots?” Eric stayed standing and leaned into the table. He placed two glasses of tequila down in front of me. “You can have them both.” He wasn't smiling, but he seemed amused, in a dry, deadpan way, and it reminded me of Adam. He smelled different from Adam though, more artificial, his sweater doused in a cheap drugstore cologne.

“Thank you, sir,” I said, eyeing him as I threw one back and the brass-flavored booze burned my throat. He wasn't so bad up close, and for a moment I thought I saw what Rachel saw—sharp blue eyes and just the right amount of composure.

“You look bored,” he said, his voice straining over the music. His chest was broad up close, too—something that Adam had always lacked, no matter how many push-ups he attempted. Part of me wanted to reach out and touch him, just to know what actual masculinity felt like for once.

“I
am
bored,” I said. I leaned in and took the second shot.

“Me, too.” He grinned, and he signaled to the bartender for another shot. “Well, I was.”

“I think our friends ditched us,” I said. He leaned into the table, still standing, and held his phone up to my face. I squinted and read the text:
Rachel's phone is dead. We're back at the house. Bring her friend.

“From Rod,” he said.

“So typical,” I mumbled, and threw down the rest of my drink.

“Then why do you put up with it?” He took another shot, and I shrugged. I didn't know why, and I wasn't about to delve into it with the guy who flipped me off in second grade.

“She likes you, you know.” I don't know why I said it. I knew Rachel would have killed me, but the words sort of just fell from my mouth. I shifted in my chair, feeling the tequila start to buzz through me.

“Oh yeah?” he said. “Well, what about you?” His gaze stayed stoic but playful, and again he reminded me of Adam. I shook off the thought, and stared at his sharp blue eyes.

“What about me?”

“Do you like me?” And then his cold face broke, and he sort of smirked, and shrugged, and pulled himself up onto the stool.

“I have a boyfriend,” I said.

O
UTSIDE,
I
KICKED
at the curb with my heel. Eric pulled his truck up to where I stood.

The one fifty-three to Babylon is operating on time.

I stood on the sidewalk in a circle with Ally, Sasha, and Ellie. We passed a joint around the circle, the air hazy and cool.

Eric lurked on the sidewalk. He'd seemed bothered by my presence once I dropped the boyfriend bomb, like he'd promised to play wingman while Rod did his thing. If only Rachel knew, maybe she would have encouraged me to go for Rod instead.

“Are you sure you don't want to come back with us?” Ally asked again, eyeing Eric, who was now holding his passenger-side door open and tapping his foot impatiently on the sidewalk. I handed her the joint. She put it out and stuffed it back into her bra. I felt the weed hit me all at once.

“You know Rachel—the master of Irish exits.” I shook my head and stumbled toward Eric's car. “I promised I'd go back with her. My stuff is at her house anyway,” I said. “Are you sure you're not too drunk to drive?” I asked Eric, not really caring. He'd promised to swing by his place, pick up Rachel, and take us back to her house. I just wanted to get into Rachel's bed, and text Adam a defeated Happy Birthday note.

Maybe he'd feel bad. Maybe he was testing me. Maybe if I just spilled my guts, told him how I really felt, how I was sad and disappointed and
hurt.
Hurt. Quite possibly the most pathetic word of all.

Eric nodded, and I waved Ally away. I smoothed the front of my black dress and hoisted myself up into Eric's car. I felt unsteady, but shook off my first wave of the spins and focused on the dashboard in front of me. It was cold, and I was starting to regret not bringing a jacket. That was Rachel's idea, too.

I chewed on the corner of my lip until I broke the skin. The truck rumbled and sputtered against the dark back road. The metallic taste of blood distracted me, and I didn't notice when he pulled into his driveway.

Eric cut the engine, and it was silent. He looked over at me, his mouth stretched into a thin line. It was so silent that the air felt thick, like it was pressing down on my chest.

“You can just drive me home if you want. I can pick Rachel up in the morning if that's easier.” I didn't know what else to say. I felt like more of a burden at this point, and Eric wasn't the kind of guy who played wingman.

“No. Whatever,” he said. “We'll figure it out.” I was starting to feel like some kid who'd gotten dumped on his stoop.

He didn't turn on the lights when we walked into the foyer. It was dark, but I could hear voices from the kitchen, and I imagined a group of guys all seated around the table with a deck of cards.

“Wait here,” he said.

“Where's Rachel?” I said, reluctant to step into the house. It was drafty and smelled like old cedar and cigarettes. I didn't recognize any of the voices from the kitchen, but it sounded like some sort of after-party in the works, and I wasn't in the mood to be social. “We're not staying. I just want to find her and leave. Okay?”

“Okay,” he said, flashing me that patronizing smile again. “Just sit tight.” He pushed me down onto an armchair, and I suddenly realized how drunk I was.

He was gone for a while. Minutes—maybe ten. But the voices from the kitchen were low, husky, and casual. I couldn't tell how many people were in there, but it was definitely not Rachel.

“I think she's cute,” I heard someone say.

“Yeah, I guess so. Cute, but kind of chubby.”

I put both hands over my stomach, which wasn't in such bad shape, I thought, and sat up straight as if to march in there and defend myself. But the room started to spin, and my tongue felt too thick to even speak. I fell back against the armchair and closed my eyes.