I'll Never Be The Same Again

Someone shoots, they score. The bar goes wild. Tammy side-eyes me and puts an arm around my shoulder. “Maybe we should go,” she whispers amidst the hoots. I’m not even sure what sport we’re supposed to be watching. The game is colours and blurs and chaos and nachos sit heavy in my gut. I nod.

I let her lead me out the double doors and onto the smoke-filled patio. Nausea washes over me. I plug my nose. “Can we go, go?” I aim a look toward the Jeep. She pushes honey hair behind her ears and takes my hand again. Soon, we’re on the road.

I hold down the button that whizz-whirs the moonroof open. “Let’s go to Flat Rock,” I tell Tammy, and we take a left where I know she’d planned on a right. I watch the yellow road lines disappear and fret my lip until it splits. The heat of the night presses against my skin, clammy from the nausea, sweaty from the sweat. I pray my stomach holds out until we get to peace and quiet.

When the Jeep crunches into the gravel lot, I fling myself out the door and into the nearest bush.

Tammy’s waiting when I get back. Wordlessly, she holds out a bottle of water. She’s got a blanket under her arm. I take the water, lead her through the dark down a path worn down over several summers. No one from here takes the paved way.

There’s firelight under the bridge. I hold a branch up for Tammy to pass under. She looks at me. “Did you know they’d be here?”

“No idea. I was hoping we’d be alone.” My gut churns up a burp. I spin the cap off the water bottle and sip. We hold hands to keep from falling on the loose river rocks, head toward the light, and the figures silhouetted by the wildlight begin to sharpen out of the shadows. Markus and Ron. I let go of Tammy’s hand.

Markus has his legs up on a stump, arms behind his head. Ron’s sucking down whatever’s perched between his fingers. He kisses the air in our direction. Blows lazy smoke.

“Came here to get away from clouds,” I say.

“Woulda thought you’d come for it,” Markus says. He reaches down to his side and pulls a bottle out of a cooler. “Want?”

Tammy shakes her head. “Already tried that.” She’s resigned to our fate. Kneels, spreads the blanket out. We won’t stay long, but it doesn’t hurt to do a courtesy.

“What was the score?” Ron takes off his ballcap and hangs it on the corner of his picnic chair. He'd have been a double-taker without the greasy, pre-balding forehead. Gets it from his uncle.

“Don’t know, we left before it ended.” My shoulders are sore in the shrugging. I lower one joint at a time until I’m on the blanket and swig my water again.

“Three to one, Brickyards,” Tammy reaches her hands out to the fire and her bracelets clink against themselves in a dazzling display of delight. “Timberlands never has much luck during a home game.”

I lose myself in the gleam of the many bracelets while their owner takes the conversation. I’m grateful. The wear of the week has piggybacked in with me and the closer I get to sober, the dangerously closer I get to remembering it.

Until Tammy tenses, the bracelets are twisted with an anxious hand and I tune in to hear Markus say something about The Funeral. I wrench myself out of the gaze of a larger version of me, looming over myself. “What did you say?”

“Said shame it looks like rain for Saturday.” Each eye is coloured differently. How have I never noticed?

“Does it? Maybe they’ll cancel it then.” The fire seems cooler somehow, a dusken overlay fading into the corners of my vision. The others say nothing.

“We should go.” A plea but made casual.

“Look, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…” Markus uncrosses his legs and leans forward.

“No, we have to be somewhere.” Anywhere but here. I scramble to my feet. There’s nothing left to throw up but my stomach does a good job of pretending there is. “Tammy?”

She’s grabbing the blankets up. “Yeah, sorry fellas. See you? Thanks for the fire.” She glares at Markus when she thinks I can’t see her see and follows me back over the river rock. “Hey, slow down. My flipflops are gonna break.”

I slow on the path. I shouldn’t have brought us here.

She doesn’t have to look at me to know my insides are whipped to shreds and sponsoring tears. She grabs my hand in the dark, a little more forceful than I think she means to, and pulls me to a slow stop. “Look at me.”

The lump in my throat subsides just enough for me to croak that I can’t see her. It’s dark. And then I’m in her arms. I sniffle, snot, nuzzle in for a kiss because maybe her lips will fix everything, because maybe the sunscreen and river water smell of her cheeks will raise the dead, maybe her warmth will mend my heart and make it better, unravel me and put me back together again, but…