Drowning Erin Page 7

  “I don’t hate you.”

  “You just pretend to,” he says softly, holding my eye.

  He’s being serious, and there’s something in his tone that draws goose bumps to the surface of my skin. The moment he says it, I know he’s right. I am pretending. I have been forever.

  “It’s too warm. I’m done,” I say, jumping to my feet. I glance up to find that he is not smirking, but staring at me as the water slides over my skin.

  He looks away, and I’m out of the tub when I hear him speak.

  “Don’t worry, Erin. I’m just pretending to hate you too.”

  18

  Brendan

  Four Years Earlier

  Although I’m staying on to lead tours in the fall, most of the staff takes off at the end of the summer—either because they’re returning to school or because they’ve acquired a real job. Erin, who got a full-time offer out of her internship, is among them.

  Mike hosts an end-of-summer party, and some girl from high school is in my lap when Erin shows. Ponytail, work T-shirt, and no makeup, but she’s tan, and her hair looks like spun gold, and I wish the world would freeze so I could stare at her prissy, annoying face.

  She flushes as our eyes meet, as she takes a quick glance at the girl in my lap and turns the other direction. I watch her walk away. And then I watch every single person she talks to while the girl in my lap drones on about some Real Housewives bullshit I can’t begin to be interested in.

  When Erin heads inside, out of view, Kirk gets this big, shit-eating grin on his face and cocks a brow at me. “You know who else is inside?” he asks.

  “Who?”

  “Taz,” he says.

  We hate Taz. The guy thinks he’s a fucking celebrity because he was on the pro cycling circuit for a few years and ostensibly is friends with Lance Armstrong. He’s also the kind of guy who will be all over Erin like a rash.

  “Who the fuck invited him anyway?” I ask. “He’s not on staff.”

  Kirk laughs. “Dude, Erin’s a big girl. She can walk away if she wants to.”

  Less gracefully than I should, I remove the girl from my lap and march inside. Sure enough, Taz has Erin cornered in the kitchen. She appears to be fascinated by what he’s saying, which annoys me even further. The last thing that guy needs is encouragement.

  I go over to them. “Can I speak to you for a minute?” I ask her.

  Taz looks at me. “We’re in the middle of a conversation.”

  “Go tell someone else about the time you met Lance Armstrong, douchebag,” I say, walking her away with my hand at the small of her back. I’ve got four inches on the guy—he knows better than to complain.

  “What do you want?” Erin asks with a weary sigh. “Were you worried I might be experiencing a moment of happiness?”

  “That guy’s a jackass. Why are you even here? Shouldn’t you be out doing whatever people in marketing do? Which I guess is sleep.”

  She taps her lips with her index finger, and for a moment I’m unable to look away from her mouth.

  “Hmmm,” she says. “I’m trying to figure out what’s going on here. Because it sounds like you’re jealous, and I don’t know if you’re jealous of that guy because you never got to hang with Lance Armstrong, or if you’re jealous of me because I’ve acquired this mystical thing known as full-time employment—which, by the way, I realize is a foreign concept, but one you should investigate at some point in your life.”

  I take a step closer, drawn to that flash of anger in her eyes, and then I take another one, until I can feel the heat of her skin.

  “One day,” I tell her, “I’m going to bend you over my knee and spank that smirk off your face.”

  “I think you’re just looking for an excuse to get your hand on my ass,” she replies, meeting my gaze. She isn’t being snide. She’s calling my bluff.

  “I don’t hear you arguing against it.” We’re so close now. I can feel the uneven huff of her breath against my chest as I speak. “I’d spank you so hard you wouldn’t be able to walk the next day.”

  “Promises, promises,” she says as if bored. “We both know you don’t have it in you.”

  I press her to the wall. Something inside of me, something taut and tense that I’ve barely controlled has finally snapped, and I’m not sure if I want to kill her or fuck her—I’ll figure it out later on. I capture her mouth—that sweet, willing mouth that’s driven me crazy all summer long. She tastes like sugar and vanilla, the way I knew she would, and to my surprise I am not in this alone. She meets me move for move, her tongue sliding against mine as my hands wrap tight in her hair.

  I want so many things from her in this moment that it feels impossible to pick just one. It will take me all night, possibly all year, before I’m sated. I move farther into the darkness, slide my hand into her shirt, teasing her through the lace of her bra with my fingers, and when she groans in my mouth, I’m done for. I lift her up and wrap her legs around me, pressing against her, but it’s not enough. I need all of her, spread out in front of me. I need time.

  I pull back just enough to tell her we’re going to my apartment. Her eyes are closed, her mouth swollen. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to be inside someone so badly in my entire life.

  But then her eyes open. And I see lust there, but I also see hope—and hope is the exact fucking thing I never want to see on any girl’s face. That’s when I become furious with myself. What did I think was going to happen here? She’s not a one-night-stand girl, and I’ve known this all along. Maybe I could talk her into it, but I don’t want to be the guy who does that. Not to her.

  I set her down abruptly. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

  She looks hurt, which I hate, but also tells me I’ve absolutely made the right decision.

  “You started it,” she whispers, her voice raspy.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I shouldn’t have.”

  19

  Erin

  Present

  There are two more calls from my father during the week, which means he’s getting worse.

  I know this pattern: he will continue his downward slide until something big happens—a DUI, a fight in a bar, a lost job—and then he will straighten up, sort of, briefly. Of course no one ever refers to the event as a “wake-up call.” In our family lore it’s just another piece of bad luck handed to him.

  I love my dad in spite of his flaws. Sober, he is a wonderful human being—funny and wise and kind and caring. He just can’t stay sober long enough for me to get much time with that side of him. My ability to take the good with the bad is something Rob would never understand. His disgust whenever my brother relapses has made that clear—one of many reasons I’ve made most of my visits home without him.

  I drive to Denver on Saturday to have breakfast with my parents. My dad is hung over, but he rallies because I’m there, with help from that disgusting instant coffee he prefers and a Bloody Mary that is way too pale an orange to contain the correct ratio of tomato juice to vodka.

  He asks how work is going and how things are with Rob, and I tell him everything’s great. My dad gets a glossy, soft-focus version of my life, always, because I’m never sure which of my life’s bumps and bruises will require a tequila chaser for him.

  “So when are you two setting a date?” he asks.

  “Soon,” I reply, as always. “When he gets back from Europe.”

  “There’s a nice Catholic church down the street,” my mother suggests.

  “I don’t know if we’re planning to have a church wedding,” I tell her. By which I mean there’s no way Rob’s agreeing to a church wedding, much less a one-hour nuptial mass.

  “If you’re not married in the church, you’re not married in the eyes of God,” my dad thunders. “It won’t count otherwise.”

  If any other person alive were to say this to me, I would roll my eyes. But I don’t rock the boat in my parents’ house. “Rob’s not Catholic,” I remind him, and it’s not until I s
ee the shock on my parents’ faces that I realize this is new information.

  “Well, you’re both supposed to be Catholic to get married in the church,” my mother says, her voice growing high and thin, the way it does when she’s worried. “But we’ll talk to Father Duncan this afternoon. He’ll make an exception. He might even let us do the reception in the parish hall.”

  I groan internally. God, I wish this topic had never come up. I wish I’d just lied, right from the start. Or maybe my lies are the issue. How is it that I haven’t mentioned Rob’s lack of religion in four years? How is it that they’re still under the impression we’d drive to Denver to hold our wedding? I don’t want to, but this needs to be corrected right now before it goes any further.

  “Mom, we live near Colorado Springs. That’s where our friends are. We’ll probably just do the whole thing someplace like the Broadmoor.”

  “The Broadmoor?” my mother asks. “That’d cost a fortune!”

  “Rob and I will pay for it,” I assure her. “He does really well. You guys don’t need to worry about a thing.”

  There’s a shadow over my father’s face, and then my mother’s. Stupid, stupid, stupid. My father just lost his job. He’s going to take this personally, as some kind of slight against his ability to provide. I look at him, and then my mother, and I feel lost. I feel the way I always felt as a child, as if we stand on a sinking ship in the middle of an empty sea. We’re always doomed, no matter what I do. It’s just a matter of time.

  It’s well after 2 AM when my phone rings, as I expected it would. Except it’s not my dad on the phone but my mom, which means I have a decision to make.

  Brendan told me to call him. Well, actually he threatened me, blackmailed me. But I do not want to involve him again. Not because he wasn’t a godsend the last time—he was, in a thousand ways. But this is my family’s problem, my family’s secret, and I resent that he’s forcing me to share it. I peer out to the street and don’t see his car. After a moment of internal debate, I dress quickly and then text him:

  Going to Denver. I’ll be fine. Don’t need help but thanks.

  I’m not even down the stairs when he texts back to say he’s on his way.

  “Keep me awake, blondie.”

  These are the first words either of us has spoken since he pulled up in front of the house. I’m not sure why he’s been quiet, but I know I’m so mired in resentment and shame that I have no idea what to say. How do you approach someone who’s being kind to you and making you miserable simultaneously?

  “You really didn’t need to do this. I’ve done it on my own for a long time.”

  He exhales unhappily. His untucked shirt makes me suspect my text interrupted something, so I understand his irritation, but I’m not the one blackmailing people.

  “Look, it’s bad enough that I had to tell you about this without you acting annoyed that you’re here,” I say.

  “That’s not why I’m annoyed,” he replies. “Lots of people have a parent who drinks too much. I did. But it’s completely fucked up that your mother is asking you to drive to Denver when she’s right there.”

  “She isn’t making me do it. She’s just…sort of childlike. She falls apart and is completely helpless when anything goes wrong.”

  “So you’ve got a helpless mother, an alcoholic dad, and a brother who’s a coke addict. And every fucking one of them turns to you when they need help.”

  I can’t imagine why he cares about any of this, unless he’s bothered by the baggage I’m bringing into Rob’s life. “This doesn’t have to impact Rob,” I tell him. “I’d never expect him to deal with this or help pull their weight.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t! He doesn’t even fucking know it’s happening.”

  Maybe he’s right to be mad. All of this shit is going to catch up with me eventually, isn’t it? In a few short weeks Brendan’s already learned way too much. Surely, over the course of a lifetime, Rob will too.

  We arrive in Denver and repeat our adventure from a few weeks prior. My father is again at the third bar we visit, and my mother is again livid that I’ve exposed our family in this way. This time, she chooses not to speak to me at all, not a single word.

  I walk out of their condo feeling exhausted and hopeless. There are times, like right now, when I sort of wish it would all end. Not just the drinking, or Sean’s problems, but all of it. I can’t abandon them, but sometimes I wish I could shut my eyes and have all four of us cease to exist.

  I turn my head toward the window so Brendan won’t see me crying. He figures it out anyway.

  “Is this about your dad or something else?” he asks quietly.

  I dry my eyes on the inside my T-shirt and clear my throat. “I feel,” I begin, my voice rasping, “like everything is falling apart.”

  “Why?”

  “I hate my job. I hate my life. I don’t even know what I want to do in my leisure time. I’m not sure I like anything, which is the most depressing thought of all.”

  “You used to like plenty of things,” he says. “You loved to bake. And bike. Or kayak. Or go on road trips. Remember when you drove to Portland to see that band because you liked one of their songs?”

  I’m a little surprised he remembers anything about me, much less all this. Even Rob would have struggled to come up with that list.

  “I’ve got no one to bake for, and everything else—those were college things. I mean, who am I going to bike or kayak with? Who’s going to roadtrip to Portland now? We all have jobs.”

  “All I’m saying is that you used to like plenty of shit. I’m not sure why you’re not doing any of it, but the problem isn’t that there’s nothing you enjoy.”

  When we arrive home, he stops the car, but neither of us gets out.

  “So, are we, like, friends now or something?” I ask. If this is only a temporary cease-fire I’d like to know.

  He hesitates, glancing at me and looking away. His jaw is knife-sharp, silhouetted by moonlight. “We can try,” he says.

  I sigh. “I didn’t ask you to climb Everest. I just asked if we could be friends.”

  “Yeah, I know,” he says. “I know.”

  I get the feeling he’d rather climb Everest.

  20

  Erin

  Present

  The next evening I’m struggling to keep my eyes open after work—I think I only got about three hours of sleep before and after the Denver trip—when Brendan taps on the door and walks in. He’s golden from a day in the sun, and wearing a navy blue fleece that makes his eyes look unreal. I’m so tired I can barely see my hands in front of my face, but I can’t stop noticing him.

  He thrusts a Diet Coke and a pint of Cherry Garcia into my hands. "As I recall, you like Diet Coke with your ice cream, which is completely illogical, by the way. Why the fuck would you drink diet soda with ice cream?"

  It’s so weird that he’s here, and that he remembers yet another obscure thing about me. "What’s this for?”

  He shrugs. "You wanted to be friends. I’m attempting it. No promises though.”

  “If it lasts for 30 minutes I’ll be shocked,” I assure him.

  He suggests ordering Thai. I’m not sure if I agree because I’m craving it or if I’m simply stunned by Brendan’s 180-degree turn. I’d forgotten he could even be like this—pleasant, sweet, thoughtful. I’d forgotten he was like this most of the time, to everyone but me. And that on one occasion—many years ago—he was like this with me too.

  When the food arrives, he spreads it all out on the coffee table, sliding the red curry chicken over to me.

  “It’s so good,” I groan as I take my first bite.

  For a fraction of a moment, something shifts in his face—his gaze hazy, his lips parting. And then it’s gone.

  For lack of any other neutral topic, I ask him about his tour business. Because his friend Caleb invested, he tells me, he now has enough capital to run heli-skiing tours over the winter to keep the business afloat. He has an actual bus
iness plan, cost and profit projections. He certainly doesn’t sound like the lovable ne’er-do-well Rob always made him out to be. No wonder he was so defensive when Rob criticized his approach.

  “So that’s me,” Brendan says. “But what about you?”

  “What about me?” I ask, pushing the chicken around on my plate.

  “You need a life, Erin.”

  “I have a life.” I sigh. “It’s just on hold.”

  “Having Rob’s life isn’t the same as having your own,” he says, his face earnest. “And you seemed to be doing pretty well before he ever came into the picture. Where’d that girl go?”

  I shrug. “People grow up, Brendan. Was I going to keep mountain biking and snowboarding into my 70s?”

  “Possibly. I see people older than that doing both. But more to the point, you’re not 70. You’re 26. And you’ve given up everything you used to love. I’d be depressed as fuck too if I was coming home to some big, empty house every night with nothing to look forward to but more of a job I hate.”

  For some reason the words make my eyes pinch. It’s one thing to think you’re in a temporary bad spot; it’s another thing entirely to have someone sum up for you just how bleak every waking moment of your day is. I don’t want to cry in front of him again, but I think it’s inevitable. I close my eyes and bury my face in my hands.

  “Aw, babe.” He sighs. “I didn’t mean to make you cry. Come here.”

  When I don’t move, I find myself pulled into his chest, my body half lying on the couch and half lying on him.

  “Erin,” he whispers, his breath against my hair. “Don’t cry, hon. I’m sorry. I was being a dick.”

  “No,” I whisper. “You were just being honest. And you’re right.”

  For a single moment further I allow myself this—Brendan’s warmth and his firm chest beneath my head and the smell of him, like soap and sand and clean air—before I pull away.

  I laugh. “I think I’ve cried more in front of you than I’ve ever cried in front of Rob.”