Two Years Ago
Jackson Square, New Orleans, Louisiana
Jackson Square, by day, is one of the most colorful places in New Orleans. The outside of the courtyard where Andrew Jackson rears up on his horse is ringed with people selling art, buggy rides, renegade musical acts and spiritual consultants. Tourists choke it, they wear Mardi Gras beads (a sure sign of a tourist because they wear them year round)they take pictures of everything-Andrew Jackson, St. Louis Cathedral, each other, street performers, even fucking pigeons. They pay $14 to ride around in a horse (really, a mule) drawn carriage in the midst of rush hour and listen to the loud and colorful driver tell them about Katrina and the history of the buildings surrounding them. They do not realize nor care that the mules that are pulling their fat asses sit all day in the suffocating heat. They will gladly fork over $150 for a painting of a riverboat on a piece of driftwood. They allow locals to shine their shoes without provocation and then expect to get paid for it. The locals watch all of this in amusement, silly tourists, they think, they are so clueless. Because while Jackson Square may look like a family friendly, cultural landmark in the daylight, things change drastically at night.
When the tourists go back to their hotels or stumble two blocks away to Bourbon, the Square becomes an entirely different place. The gates to the square close and the street-lamps are lit and the traders trying to make money off of painted Katrina doors and fleur de lis disappear. The carriages still run, but very few of them linger in front of the square. Fortune tellers, however, never stop peddling their wares. They set up card tables on either side of the square underneath the trees and wait patiently for unsuspecting tourists, they drink, they talk to each other, they read palms and tarot cards. Some of them are actually real or a reasonable approximation, but most of them are a crock and they know it. Yet they need to make money, and tourists drunk on Hand Grenades and Hurricanes will believe anything. At night, Jackson Square is menacing and dangerous. The church, illuminated by floodlights, bears down on you as you pass. It is very easy to stumble past this place at night and forget you’re in modern times, if you can ignore the catcalling and distant music from Bourbon two blocks away. Many people try to avoid it-it looks like an ideal place to get mugged or dragged off and raped. But I am a local and I am tweaked out like a motherfucker on meth and I don’t give a shit how scary it looks. I’m in no mood for the happy frivolity of Bourbon St. I am in a dark fucking mood, goddammit. I need quiet.
I’m staggering past the square and I feel as if I am dying. I don’t know where I am and I’m angry and confused and I haven’t slept in four days or so, I lost count. Paranoia is rampant. I have forgotten where I parked my car or if I have a hotel and if so, where it is and what’s it called. I cannot stand anymore-I stumble over to a chair that’s attached to a card table that’s attached to a palm reader, who looks unperturbed at my intrusion.
They’re used to people plopping down like this, fucked up on one substance or another. I have no aspirations to have my palm read or my tarot shuffled-I know my future, and I don’t want to hear how it sounds out of a stranger’s mouth.
This woman, from what I can make out (they usually are female) could be forty or she could be sixty. She is white and has graying hair and little red fish earrings that shine dully at me. She isn’t very well dressed (they rarely are) and I can smell something like mothballs, but I do not care. She’s looking at me with extreme interest and I know what’s coming and I don’t feel like getting into a shouting match.
“I’ll get up, lady. I just needed a chair.” I mutter, pushing myself up with what seems like a tremendous amount of effort.
She shakes her head and holds up her hand. “Please, you can sit down. It’s a slow night, and I don’t mind.” Her voice is foggy and I can hear a strong Chalmette accent, which is recognizable anywhere.
I struggle to focus on her. “Are you sure?” Just to sit in a teller’s chair requires your wallet.
“You look sick. Please sit.” She beckons me to take the chair again and I collapse gratefully into it-my feet are burning and my throat is dry and I feel like I may literally dissolve out of wretchedness.
“I’m Marina.” The lady says, still looking at me. Marina, yeah, okay. Probably Betsy or something trippy like Moonbeam, but I don’t give a shit what lies she tells herself or what she calls herself and if she wants to be Marina, she can be fucking Marina.
“Marina.” It rolls out of my mouth uncontrollably and I twitch.
“You from around here?” She asks, leaning her elbows on the card table, which is covered with a yellow rayon sheet and also smells of mothballs. Tarot cards sit at her right elbow. Her eyes are gray and her teeth are yellow but I like Marina, I decide, Marina who has red fish earrings and Marina who lets me sit.
I twitch again. “I don’t think I really attach myself to anywhere.” Oh, Christ, this meth was ridiculous.
She considers me for a moment even though I’m not paying attention, I’m half listening to Sweet Home Alabama, which is playing from down the street. I can hear laughing, but it’s drunken, and I suddenly want a drink so badly that my stomach clenches.
“Do you have a name?” She asks, and I giggle, but it’s hard and it seems to snap in two, like a piece of hard candy.
“Yeah, my name is Fucked, Marina. Most of the time, anyway.” My eyes are darting around me and I am suddenly paralyzed by awesome fear that I am being watched.
She shakes her head, smiling, not even acknowledging my psychotic behavior. “That’s not your name.”
For a second I wonder if Marina or Betsy or Moonbeam is a lesbian.
“Yeah, you’re right. Might as well be, though.”
Marina or Betsy or Moonbeam looks down at my hands, which are in the process of twisting themselves into my shirt, almost tearing it to ribbons.
“Give me your hands.” She says gently, and I shake my head. “I thought I could just use your chair. I’ll get up.”
Marina just shakes her head. “On the house. Give me your hands before you have no shirt left.”
I struggle to make out her shape-the little votive candles are making her face move in a way that makes it hard to concentrate.
“I don’t want you to look at my hands. I want a drink and I want to sleep.” I mutter.
“Consider it payment for use of the chair.” She says, and annoyance wells up inside me. There’s always a catch to kindness.
“I told you, I’ll get out of the fuckin’ chair.”
Marina is not offended, not that I’d care otherwise. She just lays out her palms face up and waits, watching me, knowing, somehow, that I’d do it.
And I do, not knowing why and not really wanting to, but Marina of the red fish earrings has a remarkable way of looking at me with those gray eyes and KNOWING. So I untangle my hands and lay them in hers. They are sweaty and marked with half moon impressions from my fingernails, but she does not seem to mind. Her fingers trace the lines in my palm.
“You have a lot of hate.”
I just snort. “Your talent is remarkable.”
Again, she’s not deterred by my rudeness. She looks into my hands and reads and I fight the urge to yank them back and stuff them in my pockets.
“Your lifeline stops in the middle here, further down in your life. It starts back up again, but it’s a pronounced break.” She taps the center of my palm and I wince-the sensation makes my body tingle in a very unpleasant way.
“That’s unfortunate. I mean, that it starts back up again. What else does it say?” I’m not really interested-I’ve written her off as a crock, as nice as of a lady she appears to be.
Marina’s fingers stop tickling my palm and her eyes meet mine; this time they’re grave and something sick wells up in my stomach.
“You’ve seen things.”
My eyebrow cocks. This could be interesting. “What sort of things?”
Marina closes her eyes and I watch her skeptically.
“Hands.” She says, suddenly, and my body goes numb instantly. “Hands. Water. Crickets. Tarot would tell me more, but I just feel it, looking at you. You lost something.”
I almost turn and run, that’s how great my fear becomes. My hands are still on the table and I snatch them back, feeling as if my own body has betrayed my secrets. Fuck, why this chair? Tons of people sit out here and I have to pick the one that’s actually got a touch of knowing.
Marina’s eyes are still closed and my legs are trembling and I am very, very close to bolting down the stone street, but I cannot move from that spot. The sickened amazement I feel has rooted me there.
Marina’s eyes open and they’re no longer dreamy or interested. They are liquid with pain and understanding and I flinch, because they’re not looking at me-they’re looking through me and beyond me and it’s fucking creepy and I’ll never get it out of my head.
“Guilt.” She says finally, her words choked. “Your guilt will be the end of you. I’ve seen things of this nature before, but never like this. It hurts because it’s familiar.”
I try to smile sarcastically at her, but it comes out as a grimace. “You are from Chalmette. You know how it is.”
Marina nods, and I can see tears slipping down her sun-baked face. She cannot speak and just looks at me if I were an oddity, an exception, a secret.
“I’m impressed.” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. I feel as if a great wave had swept me up and was carrying me back to a place where I had tried and tried to swim away from. Damn this fucking woman. Fuck her and her fish earrings.
I needed to get away from her, but not without one last question, just for the hell of it.
“What else do I have to look forward to? You know, money, family, friendship, health, love?” I was so sarcastic that even I felt like recoiling from my cheek, but Marina still did not bite the bait. She just trained those gray eyes on me, and I saw things in them that I knew all too well, and I saw things that I had made her remember and I could not bring myself to feel badly about it. She wanted my story. She got it, but she also recalled her own.
“You could, but you’ll shun them. You hate and you stew and you focus on the bad things because they’re interesting, or they’re because they’re new. Health and money and friendship are not important. Family only because you are bound to it. But love?” Marina shakes her head and leans back in her dollar store Mardi Gras chair. She looks at me with pity and I turn my head away-I cannot take it.
“Love is not a choice, no matter who we are or what we do. Your future could have a lot of it or it could have none, but I can’t make it out.”
I sigh. “Illuminating.” I stick my trembling hand into my pocket and withdraw a crumpled and sweaty ten dollar bill. Marina waves it away.
“I told you, no payment.”
I just look at her, without any scorn or sarcasm or biting remark. I am too tired. I slide the money across the yellow table.
“Take it. Chances are that you’ll put it to a better use then I will.” I push myself up with great effort, and I feel so dizzy that the cathedral spins crazily above me and below me. Marina almost stands up to assist me, but I wave her off with irritation.
“Are you going to be alright?” She asks, concern in her voice. She sounds, I realize, like my mother, and a severe wave of homesickness almost bowls me over, even though I’m only 20 miles away from where my mother sleeps. I realize at that moment that I haven’t seen or talked to my mother in two weeks, and I instantly feel guilty.
I snicker, despite the pain in my heart. “Why are you asking me? You should know.” With this incredibly witty remark, I turn and stagger away.
“Hey!” I hear her calling me when I’m almost to Canal Street, and I curse to myself. Dammit. I wheel around and she’s not far from me, my money in her hand.
“I don’t want my goddamn money!” I yell, and a few homeless guys sleeping on the stairs to the square raise their heads and glare blearily at me.
But Marina shakes her head and pockets it, as if hiding it will stifle my sudden rage.
“I just wanted to tell you,” She calls, taking a step towards me, those eyes deep and wise. “that if you love, it will undo everything.”
I just stare at her for a second, shake my head, and then hobble away. I am laughing bitterly.
Stupid me. Fucking idiot me, I think when I go back to that night.
Ten dollars will buy you a Lucky Dog and a Hand Grenade, it will buy you a ride on the bull at Bourbon Cowboy and if you find the right dealer you might get a half ass tab, but ten dollars buys me all the answers and I laugh at them mirthlessly.
I’m not laughing now, Marina.
****************************************
Two blondes walk into a bar.
It sounds, Alan realizes, like a really bad fucking joke. One in Playboy or one that the idiot guy at the office tells you by the watercooler.
He’s wearing a baseball cap (something that hasn’t touched his head since elementary school) and a Florida State shirt that he bought for the occasion, even though he went to LSU and couldn’t remember the last time a T-shirt had touched his body.
At the door, Alan wants to run. Run like hell, to be more exact. He has no idea what the fuck he’s doing but he knows the line he’s walking and it is needle thin. All it takes is one sighting and his neatly ordered little life ceases to be.
But he can’t do this anymore. He cannot wonder this way. The closet isn’t as safe as it used to be, metaphorically speaking. It’s becoming as suffocating as Louisiana summer, a wet blanket, and Alan will lose his fucking mind if he stays underneath it any longer.
There are very few people at Lagers’ at this time of day, which makes Alan feel more then a bit relieved. It is a weekday and past lunch hour and only two or three cars are parked in the small lot. He seizes the handle of the door and he pulls with a deep breath and instantly feels sick to his stomach. The smell of greasy fries and stale beer hits him in the face, as does blinding panic. But Alan has come this far and he channels Nyx and puts his best face forward.
There is no hostess to greet him at the door, but he spots Lance immediately, who has wisely chosen a booth at the back of the restaurant, and he smiles as he sees Alan and waves him over, a bottle of Dos Equis in his hand. Alan hurries to him, trying not to look as if he’s hurrying, and he slides quickly into the seat opposite Lance, who unlike Alan looks relaxed and unhurried.
“Hey, you made it.” Lance says, and Alan can’t help it, he’s a little starstruck, even though it’s impolite and he doesn’t want to be. He did not remember feeling this way at Chris’s BBQ, but he had consumed a few beers and had not felt out of place. Funny how I can feel at ease in a whole crowd of them, Alan thinks, but go tongue tied with one of them. Alan grins, he can’t help it.
“Yeah, I made it.”
“It took you long enough to call me.” Lance teases, and Alan’s face goes deep red. “I’m sorry…-“
But Lance just waves him off. “Alan, say no more. I know what it’s like, believe me.” He winks at Alan and he relaxes and thinks, Christ, Nyx was right, Lance was cute. Very cute. He wonders if Nyx felt this way when she sees Chris, like a stupid teenager, and immediately dismisses the notion. Nyx had never acted like an airhead.
“So,” Lance says, sort of awkwardly. “how are Chris and Nyx doing?”
Alan shrugs. “Good, from what I understand. This is where they met, you know.”
Lance cocked his head. “Really? Well, I can’t say I’m shocked. Chris likes places like this.”
“So does Nyx. I think I told her to come here that night.” Alan admits, and Lance shoots him a teasing wink.
“So you’re a matchmaker, then? Good job, because Chris can’t shut up about her.”
Alan laughs. “Yeah, I noticed that at the BBQ.”
“He’s normally not like that, you know, he keeps things real close to his chest and tries to act like a hardass, but every time I call him, it’s Nyx this and Nyx that.” Lance jokes, taking a gulp of his beer.
Alan cannot decide whether this piece of news is alarming or not, but one thing is for sure, he didn’t come out here and risk his life just to talk about Nyx and Chris.
Awkward silence falls on them again, and Alan curses to himself, but thankfully a waitress appears out of nowhere and Alan gratefully orders a round for them, and Lance thanks him.
A group of frat boys enters Lagers and Alan instinctively scoots further into the booth. Unfortunately, Lance notices.
“Alan, are you alright?”
Alan picks up a menu, trying to look nonchalant. “Yep.”
Lance looks at him with a bit more understanding then Alan likes. He plays with his beer, leaving wet ring marks on the wooden table as he speaks.
“Alan, you’re not out yet, are you?”
Fear grips Alan’s stomach and he’s suddenly grateful that he hasn’t eaten yet, because he would have spewed everywhere. He can only shake his head, and Lance, instead of looking angry or upset, just nods in understanding.
“I know that feeling. When you think everybody who lays eyes on you knows your secret. It sucks.”
“You seem so comfortable, though.” Alan says desperately, and Lance laughs.
“Yeah, it took years, though, and painful ones at that. Imagine me doing a radio interview and telling all these impressionable young girls that I’d rather be with a guy. I’d be back in Mississippi flipping burgers before I knew it. I had to hide it from my parents and four of my best friends, who slept in the same room or bus with me every night. It was the best years of my life, but the worst.” Lance takes a sip.
The waitress drops off Alan’s beer and they quickly order-steak for Lance and quesadillas for Alan, and after she clears off, Alan shakes his head. “I can’t imagine having to do that.”
Lance surveys him over the top of his beer. “Don’t you?” He suggests, and Alan is taken aback for a second.
“Yeah, I guess,” He says hesitantly. “But now that I’m hearing you tell me this stuff, I realize that I have it easy. You were on display for years. People depended on you to be a certain way and you had to lie to people you loved. And God only knows how it felt to hide from the rest of the guys.”
Lance does not look offended, but nods thoughtfully.
“Yeah, but I think they knew. You can’t live in such close quarters with four people for years and not show some things. But I think coming out to them was harder then coming out to my parents, to tell you the truth.”
Alan nods, takes a sip of his beer. “But they evidently took it well?” He asks, and Lance laughs. Alan loves the sound of it.
“They were great about it, actually. The day I came out to them, I was so sick to my stomach that I thought I’d die. But all they did was hug me and tease me a little and tell me they’d be doing background checks on all my future boyfriends.”
Alan laughs, but he is jealous. He has no friends like that, he has no friends besides Nyx, and she’s been so busy lately with Chris that he feels incredibly alone. He has no one to give him that unconditional love, and he wants it more then anything all of a sudden. Lance peers at him.
“Alan, are you there?”
Alan starts and nods. “I’m sorry, I’m listening. I’m kind of envious that you have that kind of support behind you.”
Lance shrugs and finishes his beer. “You have to let it out eventually, man. It’s the sort of thing that will kill you if you don’t.”
Alan smiles wryly. “You don’t know my situation, though you’re spot on about how I feel.”
Lance gives him the most adorable smile in the world and Alan’s stomach tingles. He had never imagined that a guy would make him feel the same way a girl might, had he been straight. He tried to remember the way he felt about Nyx, but even that took a step back from this sort of attraction.
“Well, why don’t you tell me? I’m a decent listener, and I’d like to know.” Lance cocks his eyebrow and Alan gulps. Just then, the waitress saves him again by arriving with their food, and Alan is grateful for a chance to busy his hands.
But Lance doesn’t let him forget.
“What’s keeping you in the closet?” He asks, cutting his steak in neat pieces, and Alan considers this question.
How do you tell a full grown man that you’re attracted to that you are scared of your father yanking out the trust fund beneath your feet? It sounds horribly vain and superficial and Alan’s face colors. Lance notices immediately.
“If you don’t want to talk about it, Alan, I understand.” Lance says gently, and Alan shakes his head in embarrassment.
“It’s just my family. They’re not as-well, evolved, you might say, as some people.”
Lance nods. “That really sucks. There’s no chance you could ever tell them, down the line?”
Alan chuckles dryly as he thinks about his parents’ faces imploding. “Maybe when I’m standing over their graves.”
Lance blinks and Alan cringes. “Wow, that was morbid. I’m sorry.”
Lance just chuckles again and waves the comment away.
“It’s alright. I get what you mean, now.”
They continue eating, but it’s awkward and Alan can’t take it, he puts down his quesadilla and blurts out,
“I’m engaged.”
Lance stops in the process of dunking a piece of steak of ketchup and blinks in confusion at Alan, who immediately hates himself for being such a dumbshit.
“I mean…not to a guy. I’m…engaged to a girl.” Alan feels foolish, but Lance just keeps looking at him in a strange mix of pity and interest.
“Are you…do you…go both ways?” Lance whispers this last part as a couple sidles past them a few feet away. Alan feels his face redden.
“Oh no. I mean, not that I know of.”
Lance nods. “I was confused. Chris sort of told me that you used to date Nyx back in high school.”
Alan manages a laugh. “Yeah, I did, but I’m engaged to her cousin. It’s…an arrangement.” Alan realizes how fucked up all of this must sound to Lance, but all he did was smile in that extremely endearing way.
“Well, is the cousin in any way like Nyx?” Lance resumes eating, and Alan snickers, thinking of Christobel’s waspish demeanor.
“You can tell they are family, but Nyx is worth ten of my fiancée.” Alan is grateful for the chance to stuff food in his mouth before he says anything else crazy in front of this guy.
Lance bites into a French fry thoughtfully. “So the cousin…-“
“Christobel.” Alan supplies, and Lance snickers.
“Christobel?”
Alan shrugs, rolling his eyes. “Greek.”
“That figures. Okay, so, this Christobel knows you’re not…into girls, right?” Lance takes another sip of his beer and raises his eyebrow at Alan, who shakes his head, smiling.
“It drives her nuts.”
Lance starts giggling at this statement, and Alan can’t help but join him. It goes on in this rather gay manner for a few minutes until they calm down and Lance shoots Alan this look of…Jesus, he didn’t even know, it looked like absolute mischief.
“Well, good. Because I think I’d be jealous.” Lance winks and Alan wants to faint, he wants to fucking faint or fall out of the booth or face plant himself in the middle of his plate. He can feel his face prickling with heat and Lance is evidently enjoying this reaction until Alan stands up abruptly. Lance’s smile disappears.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I just…I have to be somewhere.” Alan says desperately, cursing himself for thinking he was ready for this kind of step, and when he saw the disappointment on Lance’s face he positively hates himself.
“Look, Alan, I’m sorry if I went too far with that comment. Please don’t leave.” Lance says apologetically, and his expression is so sweet and worried that Alan can’t help but feel his heart warm. He shakes his head.
“No, it wasn’t you. I’m sorry I freaked out, man.”
Lance shakes his head vehemently. “No, it’s my fault. Sit down, okay? People are looking. Just stay for a few more minutes. I promise I won’t say anything crazy like that again.”
Alan immediately sits and takes a very hard drag of his beer. His head is swimmy and he doesn’t know if it’s because he’s had three beers or because Lance is making him this way.
Lance relaxes, but still looks a bit worried, and Alan dismisses his concern with a wry grin. “I’m nuts. Nyx must be rubbing off on me.”
This makes Lance laugh. “No, you’re not nuts. But at least stay for one more beer, okay?” He sends Alan a positively disarming smile and Alan feels everything unravel inside of him. “Okay,” He allows. “One more beer.”
He stays for three more hours.
********************************************
“You fucking cunt! You’re a fucking asshole bitchface dickhole whore!”
This yelling from Nyx’s room is enough to make most passerby hurry away, but Alan knew what she was doing and after checking for Christobel, he pushed open the door to Nyx’s room and finds her exactly as he knew he would. She sat in the midst of her bed Indian style, wearing a styrofoam Captain Morgan’s hat, gripping a bottle of rum, and positively howling at the TV, where Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh fight each other in the impeding Yankee attack of Atlanta. Alan, unperturbed, walked over and sat on her bed. Nyx glanced over at him. “Hello Duckboy.”
“Why do you always get drunk and scream at Gone With The Wind? You KNOW how it’s going to end up.” Alan said idly, tracing designs in the comforter.
“Because Vivien Leigh is such a fucking cocktease. I mean, the man’s saving her life and she won’t even slip him a little tongue. STUPID LITTLE FUCKING PRUDE!” Nyx yelled this last line right at the screen and Alan couldn’t help himself, he laughed.
“Why do you watch this shit when it pisses you off? For that matter, let me say for the record-you are the last female on Earth that I would expect to like Gone With The Wind. Shouldn’t you like Terminator or Die Hard or Transformers or some shit?”
Nyx scowled and shoved him hard. “Shut the fuck up, cabana boy. This is good shit.”
But Alan cocked his eyebrow at her and smiled knowingly. “Ah, yeah, but what happened to you telling Clark to get the fuck away from her? You used to curse him and tell him to leave the little bitch alone. Is Chris making you believe in true love now?”
Nyx glared daggers at him. “Go fuck yourself straight up the ass, Crane.”
Alan shrugged. “I’d rather have someone else do it, thanks.” Nyx made a face. “Dude, I am all for the gay boys, but wow, too much information.”
Alan flipped her off and she rolled her eyes, turning her attention back to the TV. Alan debated for a second on whether or not to tell her about Lance, but after a particularly heartfelt howl from Nyx (YOU GODDAMN BRITISH PROSTITUTE! I WILL STAB YOU IN THE EYE IF YOU DO NOT END UP WITH HIM, YOU LITTLE FUCKING SNAKE) he just snickered.
“And where is Chris during all of this ranting? He doesn’t strike me as the type of guy to endure this type of movie.”
Nyx tore her gaze away from the TV and took a drag of spiced rum. “He’s in the studio tonight. And if he knew I watched this shit, he’d probably never let me live it down.”
Alan nodded. “So I’m the only one who knows your penchant for old chick flicks?”
Nyx held up her hands in supplication. “I’m a Southern girl. I’m supposed to watch this shit and hate Yankees and drink Coke till my teeth fall out and grow vegetables and shit.”
Alan raised his eyebrow. “And Chris does not know the ways of southern girls?”
Nyx snorted. “God bless him, the man grew up in Pennsylvania. I don’t even think they have seafood in Pennsylvania.”
“Perish the thought.” Alan said dryly, but he watched with concern as Nyx took another drink and weaved sideways on the bed.
“Why are you drinking, Nyx?” He asked softly, and Nyx groaned. “Oh, Christ, Alan, please don’t start. Christobel came in here threatening all sorts of torture earlier. I beg you-I need a drink.”
“What did Cruella want?” Alan sighed, and Nyx just shrugged her shoulders. “I couldn’t hear much through the batlike screaming and screeching, but I did hear ‘you better get your skanky ass out of here’ and something about ruining both my life and yours if I don’t.”
Alan felt the hair on the back of his neck stand straight up, and all the elation he had felt with Lance was zapped away instantly.
“And how is she supposed to do that?” Alan’s voice felt like it was coming from a million miles away, and Nyx peered closely at him, hiccupping.
“Something about confidentiality reports.”
Okay, now Alan was going to be sick, Linda Blair style. He hung his head. “I’m fucked, Nyx. Christ, I’m so fucked.”
“Why are you fucked?” Nyx’s voice was honestly curious and Alan raised his head to glare at her. “What fucking confidentiality reports do you think she was talking about, Nyx?”
Nyx shrugged. “I know what she was talking about. That’s why I’m not letting her.”
Alan blinked at her. “Say what?”
Nyx jerked her head towards the corner, where there were several brown boxes stacked haphazardly. Alan was horrified.
“You’re leaving?!”
“Alan.” Nyx’s voice was suddenly gentle, and she put the bottle of rum on the table and grabbed Alan’s hand. “I cannot let her do this to you, not after you helped me out.”
Alan shook his head vehemently. “No, she can’t kick you out, Nyx. It’s MY house.”
Nyx sighed and squeezed his hand. “Babe, it may be your house, but she’s got your balls in a grip, and with the right twist, it’ll be HER house.”
Alan was choked with fear and he could not stop shaking his head wildly, even though he knew Nyx’s words were true. The thought of Nyx leaving made the bleakness of his future seem very real all of a sudden, and he physically revolted at the thought of being stuck in this place with Christobel’s poison. Nyx could be a mess, but at least she spiced things up.
“But where will you go?” Alan managed to get out, and Nyx shrugged, her dark eyes seemingly nonchalant, but Alan could see the worry there.
“She wants me either on the streets or back in Louisiana. Preferably Louisiana. She said something about this being her territory and she wanted me off of it. I really can’t blame her for it, though I want to. I always seem to rain on her parade.” Nyx sighed and withdrew her hands from his.
“What about Chris?” Alan said finally, and Nyx huffed, but Alan saw a quick flash of pain in her eyes.
“What about him?” Nyx shrugged again in a way that Alan was supposed to interpret as casual.
Alan smiled in despite of his crippling worry. “He loves you, Nyx. You can’t just leave him.”
Nyx snorted. “Oh, stop it with the love stuff, Alan. It’s gross.”
But Alan was a dog with a bone. “Nyx, I KNOW he loves you. And though you’re being a stubborn idiot, I know you love him too. You can’t leave.”
Nyx smiled there, the smile that Alan still wasn’t used to seeing on her face. She looked incredible when she let this part of her shine out, and even as a gay man, Alan was momentarily speechless. She reached up and gently touched his chin.
“Alan, I didn’t say I was leaving.”
Alan shook his head. “That still doesn’t mean…wait, what?”
Nyx laughed. “You ass, you don’t listen. I never said I’d leave Florida. I will leave this house if it means you’ll be okay, but, to quote Clark Gable-the world is full of many things and many people and I shan’t be lonely. Let Christobel rage. ”
Alan could not help the huge grin that broke out over his face. “I love it when you purposely ruin people’s lives.”
Nyx looked amused. “You do, huh? I thought you were the do-gooder of this operation.”
“Well,” Alan stipulated, “as long as it’s not mine.”
Nyx laughed and ruffled his hair affectionately. “I can’t believe you, Alan Crane, actually expecting me to back down from my fucking cousin. Just because I may lo-HAVE CERTAIN FEELINGS for a guy doesn’t mean I completely change.”
Alan noticed her slip but knew better then to address it. He liked this Nyx. He did not like the Nyx who went batshit at the L word.
“So, let’s get off of that subject. Where did you disappear off to?” Nyx had retrieved the bottle off of the table and was taking a deep drink out of it when Alan admitted, “I went to have dinner with Lance.”
Nyx promptly choked and Alan, panicked, pounded her on the back until she flapped her hands at him and he stopped.
“Wait, what the hell did you just say? You had DINNER with POOFU?!” Nyx demanded, wiping her mouth.
“What the fuck is a Poofu?!” Alan screeched, and Nyx immediately burst into laughter and had to hang onto his shoulder to stay upright. Alan remained speechless until she calmed down, shaking her head and chuckling.
“It’s some kind of nickname the guys have for Lance. It doesn’t matter. Why did you go to dinner with LANCE?”
“I called him. We ate at Lager’s. No big deal.” Alan said defensively. Nyx just scoffed. “No big deal my ass. What happened?”
Alan made a face. “Ew, Nyx. Seriously, do I ask you about what you and Chris do behind closed doors?”
Nyx chuckled devilishly. “I can tell you if you want. They say brothers like the same things.”
Alan gagged. “First of all, no offense, but that’s hetero shit. Gross. Second, they’re not even brothers.”
She gave a noncommittal shrug. “Sometimes I forget that.”
“We just ate and talked and hung out. He’s a really cool guy. Supposedly he was going into space.” Alan told her, and Nyx squinted at him. “Space? Wow, the final frontier. Good on you, Alan. You manage to have a crush on the first gay boyband member that almost went to space. One named Poofu, no less.” She playfully shoved him and Alan sniffed at her.
“Don’t knock him.”
“That’s your job, sha. Me, I’m dating the member of the band with severe sugar and commitment issues. Our Mommies would be proud.” Nyx took a hard drag of the rum and offered Alan the bottle, but he refused.
“I don’t need Christobel nagging me about liquor on my breath on top of everything else. Where are you going to stay, Nyx?”
Nyx sighed and fell back onto her pillows. “I’m looking for apartments, but they all seem to be priced for people in your demographic. I’ll find something, though.”
Alan considered this and was about to suggest something, but Nyx caught his eye and shook her head immediately.
“No, I’m not moving in with Chris. Don’t even go there.”
“Why not? You guys seem serious.”
Nyx moaned in annoyance. “Yeah, and that’s enough to keep me up at nights as is. Besides, Chris is not ready for a live-in girlfriend.”
Alan scoffed in disbelief. “And what the hell gives you that idea?”
Nyx exhaled. “Because he’s just not that type of guy, Alan. He was a hardcore bachelor before he met me. The both of us, we’re gun shy as is. How great would that look? ‘Hey Chris, we’ve been dating for about two months, if that. I’m addicted to liquor and cocaine and now I want to come and live with you and scare the everloving Christ out of you. That cool?’” Nyx sent Alan a disdainful look.
“I don’t know, Nyx. For a hardcore bachelor, he certainly doesn’t scare as easily as you say. He didn't run after you disappeared on him.” Alan pointed out, and Nyx groaned and rolled over, burying her face in the pillows.
“Ugh, Alan, I’m not ready.” Her voice was muffled.
Alan sighed in exasperation. “Fine, Nyx, but you know once he finds out, he’ll offer. He’s just that type of dude.”
Nyx turned her face towards him, and she was biting her lip. “I know, I know he will. And I have NO idea how to tell him HELL NO in a very nice way.”
Alan snorted. “Something tells me that Chris is not the type to take no for an answer.”
Nyx growled in frustration. “Jesus Christ, you have NO idea how right you are, as usual.”
Alan smiled tenderly at her. “Then you have met your match, babe.”
Nyx made a face at his words, but it slowly morphed into that uncontrollable grin that Alan was unable to resist. He could only imagine what Chris did when he saw that reaction.
“Yeah, I guess I have.” She admitted, and then after a few quiet moments, she shook her head wildly.
“Okay, I hate serious talk and I really fucking hate this part of the movie when Vivien eats the goddamn turnip, so let’s turn it off and we shall dance.” Nyx rolled off the bed and sprinted across the room to the stereo. She didn’t even stumble, but Alan knew she had to be drunk if she was proposing dancing in front of him.
“I don’t want to dance, Nyx.” Alan said, trying not to smile, but she waved his protest away as she squinted at her ITouch. “Shut the fuck up, you gay boys don’t do anything but dance.”
“I’m white.” Alan countered, and Nyx shrugged. “So am I, but I can rock the boat.”
“Nyx, I’m not goddamn…” But his words were lost as Nyx spun around to face him, her face gravely serious, holding the rum bottle to her mouth like a microphone.
Please don’t go
Please don’t go
“Nyx Diona Dufrene! You better stop being a goddamn fool.” Alan tried to sound stern, but Nyx just shook her head and got on her knees in front of him, gripping his forearm and lip syncing with the same serious expression on her face. Alan tried not to laugh.
Don’t you know that I love you so?
Say you’re mine
And give me tonight
Let’s stay together
“Ew, get off your knees. You know it doesn’t turn me on when girls do that.” Alan tried grimacing, but Nyx just stood up and dragged him into the middle of the room. “Great, you start dating a popstar and turn into fucking Milli Vanilli.” Alan rolled his eyes but could not help himself; he started dancing and Nyx laughed excitedly and resumed singing to him.
Please don’t go
Please don’t go
You’re the only angel I know
You were sent from heaven above
To love me forever
This is the Nyx I remember, Alan thought to himself as Nyx twirled him, giggling. The Nyx he had fun with, the Nyx who could dance better then anyone he had ever known, the one that teased and cheered him up when he was sad. Alan wasn’t that great at busting a move, but Nyx was so good with her feet, even while drunk, that it didn’t matter. He even reached over and turned up the volume and Nyx howled with approval.
It was straight out of a really stupid movie, but Alan soaked in it. He hadn’t been like this with Nyx since they had dated, and even though things were much more different now, he felt a stab of longing for her. What he’d give for her to stay here and take Christobel’s place, he thought, watching her as she bounced and swayed and moved. But the hard truth of it is that Chris had made her like this, and if it meant seeing her like this in the future, well, Alan could stomach living with Christobel. He could give up his best friend.
Until he told his parents.
Please don’t go
Please don’t go
Don’t you know
That I love you so?
***********************************************
“Significant signs of increasing damage. Possibility of liver failure.” Dr. Triche shook his head in exasperation and tossed my medical folder onto the table next to me, pointing at the sentence on the paper, his blue eyes narrowed.
I sighed. What could I say? I knew he’d be angry.
“I’ll be honest with you here, Nyx-I’m about two seconds away from calling an ambulance for you right now and putting you in the hospital without your consent.” Dr. Triche threatened, and I stiffened. “You can’t do that.”
“Yes, I can. You signed the admitting slips. While you’re here, I have legal precedence, and I WILL use it. And if you find a way out of it, I’ll call Alan, and we’ll figure out something, but damn it, you’re too young to be this foolish.” Dr. Triche glared at me and I was momentarily cowed and extremely worried. He wasn’t fucking around, this doctor.
“Don’t put me in the hospital and don’t call Alan. I’m going to try and stop.” I begged, and the doctor sighed, losing all of his anger. He sat down and rolled closer to me, putting a hand on my knee.
“I want to believe you, but I can’t.”
“Well, I don’t have a choice, do I?” I exclaimed, and the doctor shook his head. “Nyx, you didn’t have a choice before, and you’re still drinking.”
I groaned in severe desperation. “You have NO idea how hard it is to stop.”
The doctor shifted on his rolling stool. “Have you ever thought about AA, Nyx?” He asked gently, and I shook my head vehemently. “I can’t go into AA. I’m dating someone famous. If someone found out…”
The doctor interrupted me. “AA is confidential.”
I rolled my eyes and gave him a disdainful look. “Yeah, okay. I’ve heard of paparazzi going into AA meetings before. I cannot take that risk. I mean, look!” I reached into my bag and threw a magazine on top of my medical file. The doctor slowly reached out and took it.
“Page ten.” I said shortly, and he began flipping slowly through it.
The magazine had come out yesterday, and while I wasn’t big on any sort of magazine (I read books, not trash), I had been flipping through it idly in the checkout at Target. When I got to page ten, my eyes nearly bugged out of my head and I began choking on a Hershey bar, alarming everyone around me. At first I thought it was a mistake, and I held the paper so close to my eyes that I could almost SMELL the ink, but there was no question-it was me and Chris. We were at that goddamn race-car show that we had attended the day Christobel had come back. We weren’t doing anything fucked up, like shoving our tongues down each other’s throats, but we were sitting very close together. Both of us held beers and we weren’t looking at the camera, but we looked reasonably happy. The caption had rattled off some generic spiel about *NSYNC’S CHRIS KIRKPATRICK AND HIS NEW FLAME or whichever gay way they term those things, but I had been in shock. It would have been different had my face been hidden, but no, there I was, in full color.
Chris had just sighed when I showed him the magazine, and stroked my hair. “They’re everywhere, babe,” He mused. “even though I thought I was way off the radar when it came to these stupid things.” And that’s when shit started to feel very, very fucking real. People back home (the ones that COULD read, at least) knew all about me, and I can just imagine them telling my business to nosy reporters. The damn magazine had my name (just my first though, not my last) and promised its readers that more information on me would be reported as soon as it was uncovered. Great, perfect. That’s all I needed right now, especially with my current plans.
When Dr. Triche saw the picture, he exhaled, slowly. “I’m assuming that your boyfriend doesn’t know about your problem?” He mused, closing the magazine and handing it back to me. I threw up my hands in sarcasm. “You’d be right. He knows nothing. I intend to keep it that way.” I glared at him to make my point, and I expected him to argue, but he just shook his head.
“You’d let his fame become a detriment to your health?”
I sighed. “What am I supposed to do other then try to stop drinking on my own?”
His hand on my knee again, and pity in his eyes. Ugh. When he spoke, it was very low and very serious.
“Listen to me, Nyx-very, very few people can stay sober without AA. In fact, hardly any. AA is the only foolproof way we’re aware of to stop alcoholism. At your age, you have no chance of stopping on your own. It’s the sad but ugly truth. I wish I had an easier alternative for you, but you have nothing else.”
I reached over and stuffed the magazine into my bag, then pushed his hand off of my knee, hopping off of the examination table. My eyes met his and I set my jaw.
“Don’t ever tell me I can’t do something.” I said through gritted teeth, pronouncing every word to it’s fullest, and I pushed past him with one last scathing look. As I exited the room, I heard him call my name, and I didn’t want to, but I turned. He took his glasses off and sighed.
“Nyx, if you come back here and you haven’t stopped drinking, you might want to bring a lawyer with you.”
I swallowed. “I’m not going to sue you.”
The doctor shook his head. “Not for legal action.”
I cocked my eyebrow. “For what, then?” I had no time for this.
The doctor looked very sad. “For your will.”
Let me tell you something-nothing in the world prepares you for that kind of blow, that kind of sentence, that kind of finality. It was that simple. Stop drinking, or die.
I couldn’t even thank him for the truth. I just walked away.
I’m so good at doing that to my problems.
******************************************
Chris was at the studio again when I passed by his house, so I just went straight to Alan’s, who thankfully wasn’t there. Christobel was somewhere sleeping, I think, and I fervently prayed that she wouldn’t come sliming out of the primordial ooze any time soon. I wanted to be alone.
I ignored the maids asking me if I was hungry and went straight up to my room, closing the door. I threw my bag into a chair and sunk down on my bed, exhaling very slowly.
Stop drinking, or you’ll die.
Quick. Easy. The way I liked things to be. No bullshit. But as far as news goes, this was the one piece that I wished the damn doctor had kept to his chest. I can live with a ‘probability’ of death-that was easy. People defeat the odds every day, and I thought it was just some fool doctor exaggerating. But I could not ignore a definite sentence. It felt like someone had stuck an EXPIRING SOON sticker on my forehead and I could feel my life slipping through the hourglass.
I rolled over and reached under my bed, dislodging the bottle of half empty Sauzo tequila I kept for emergency occasions. Well, really, any occasion. I turned it over in my hands, hating that I loved the way it thunked against the glass with that very appetizing CLINK. It was amber and liquid and I could feel the burn already. I traced the letters with my fingernail.
No more kisses from Chris. No more dancing with Alan. No more fighting with Christobel (I was alarmed to realize I’d actually miss that) and no more rides on the back of the motorcycle. No more music and no more dancing. No more hugs from my parents or teasing my sister. No more partying it up with Scotty on Bourbon and no more lamb or mini burgers. No more anything. I thought of the way Chris would turn over in the middle of the night and slide his arm around my waist, heavy and warm. I thought of the way he could not keep his hands off of me when we were alone, the way his mouth felt on my neck, my stomach, my forehead, my nose. His hand squeezing mine and the sound of his voice laughing or teasing or murmuring to me. The way he’d bump into the doorframe early in the morning on his way to pee, the little grunt he’d make that was somehow so endearing that it made tears come to my eyes.
I ran my fingernail against the yellow label. “And all because of you.” I said aloud. I closed my eyes.
Cicadas. I’d never get them out of my head, now. I’d never forget the way that noise rose to deafening proportions on that day with the mud and the fish and the hand. Every time I needed liquor, I heard them, and thought of that day. They’d be there all the time if I were to stop. My fingers slid up the neck of the bottle and traced the cap. So fucking easy to do this. It was almost criminal.
I closed my eyes, and unscrewed the cap.
******************************************
Hold me now, I need to feel relief
Like I never wanted anything
I suppose I'll let this go and find a reason I'll hold on to
I'm so ashamed of defeat
And I'm out of reason to believe in me
I'm out of trying to get by
I'm so afraid of the gift you give me
I don't belong here and I'm not well
I'm so ashamed of the lie I'm living
I'm right on the wrong side of it all
I can't face myself when I wake up
And look inside a mirror
I'm so ashamed of that thing
I suppose I'll let it go
'till I have something more to say for me
I'm so afraid of defeat
And I'm out of reason to believe in me
I'm out of trying to defy
I'm so afraid of the gift you give me
I don't belong here and I'm not well
I'm so ashamed of the lie I'm living
I'm right on the wrong side of it all
Author's Chapter Notes:
A little Poofu love.
Chapter End Notes:
"Please Don't Go" by No Mercy is dedicated to MissWhiteSox. (it'll be back in your head, I know)
"The Gift" is by Seether.
I may be getting a new job soon and I'm going to try as hard as I can to keep churning out the chapters, people. Just let me know you're still reading, and I'll do anything to keep ya'll happy. Speaking of, is there any opinions from you guys on what you'd like to see in the story?
"The Gift" is by Seether.
I may be getting a new job soon and I'm going to try as hard as I can to keep churning out the chapters, people. Just let me know you're still reading, and I'll do anything to keep ya'll happy. Speaking of, is there any opinions from you guys on what you'd like to see in the story?
Story Tags: drugssex darkc chris
