Tilt (60 page)

Poor Alex

He wants to help, but doesn’t know

how, and I have no answers for him.

Still, I call him because I have no

one else to call. He’s at work, so I

get his voice mail. “Please come

over as soon as you can. I need you.”

Meanwhile, I gently put Gaga

on my pillow, scratch her head

the way she likes. Then I sneak

past Mom and Drew, who are all

wrapped up in each other and

conversation about Dad and me.

I detour through the kitchen.

Reach up to raid the alcohol stash.

Grab the first bottle—like booze

roulette—and come away with what?

Absinthe. What the hell is that?

Guess I’ll find out the hard way.

I close the back door quietly. Head

to the trailer, where my weed is stashed.

I roll a big fatty, light it up and take

a swig from the bottle. Whoa, Joe!

Absinthe is strong, and it comes

out my nose in a giant licorice-

flavored spray. Licorice and skunk,

a heady combination. One that tastes

better when not exhaled in a snort

from the nostrils. I look at the bottle.

Seventy percent alcohol. Holy

crap. On a mostly empty stomach,

I’m feeling dizzy already. Dizzy

and happy. And if a little makes me

happy, a lot should make me

ecstatic, right? One way to know.

The Bottle

Is a third gone when I happen

to notice the price tag. Sixty-four

ninety-nine. Yowza! I just drank

twenty-two dollars’ worth of Absinthe.

And, you know, I’m close to ecstatic.

Except now I think about Mom,

all the crap she’s going through.

And damn if she isn’t worried

about me. I am plunging south

again when someone tries to open

the door. Good thing I locked it.

“Who’s there?” Anxiety ripples.

Did someone smell the weed

and call the cops? A shimmer

of fear threatens my buzz. But

then,
It’s me, Shane. You asked

me to come over, remember?

Alex. Shit. Duh. My fingers

don’t want to work. That makes

me laugh, which only makes it

totally impossible to open the door.

“Hang on. I’m trying. Jus’ wait

right there.” Stupid. Where else

would he wait? And my speech

is a little blurred around the edges.

Finally, success. Alex stands on

the step, looking half-amused,

half-concerned. Ah, shit.
Um . . .

Are you okay?
He pushes inside.

Sniffs.
What
are
you drinking?

“Absinthe. Ever tried it?

It’s wicked, man.” I offer

the bottle. He takes a tiny sip.

Grimaces.
Wicked is right.

How much of that have you had?

My shrugs says too much.
All this?

I Swear, If He Says

He’s worried about me,

I’ll go play in traffic.

But all he says is,
Bet

you’ll have a headache

tomorrow morning.

“Yeah, but maybe I’ll

actually sleep tonight.”

You’re having trouble

sleeping? Maybe you

should go to a doctor.

Self-medicating isn’t

always the best way to go.

Please don’t say you’re

worried. “I’ll think about it.”

He pulls me into his arms,

and I’m almost positive

he’s going to say it. But

instead, he kisses me.

Maybe I can help you

fall asleep. Want to try?

Oh, Yeah, I Do

And I think maybe just one more

little taste of wicked strong booze

will help me become the Viagra

poster boy instead of a weeping

fool. I take a swallow. He refuses

one and I really, really think he’s

going to say it now. Wait. Wow.

Am I challenging him on some

subconscious level? Whatever.

I leave the bottle by the little sink,

follow Alex back to the lumpy

bed. Hungry. But not for food.

Starving for his body. Famished

for his love. We tangle together,

and I am grateful that he takes

control. I’m a wreck. But less

of a wreck than I am without

him. And he never says it, even

if he wants to. At this moment

there is no worry. But still, I cry.

Alex

Without Him

Life

might be easier. He is

a major complication.

Something important

to stress about. But what

would

my days be like, emptied

of him? Scrubbed

clean of his warped humor.

His energy. His presence. I

have

been in love before and,

doubtless, would love again.

But could I love like this—

overwhelmed, overboard,

no

holds barred? He tells me

he’s fine, that this strange

condition is temporary.

Says not to worry. But there is

meaning

behind his silence. His binging.

His extraordinary need. How

weak is he? And how strong am I?

Harley

I Want to Be Strong

But I swear I’m such a wuss

when it comes to some stuff.

Especially, anything having

to do with Lucas. Pretty much

whatever he asks, I can’t say no

to. Case in point. Tonight

is Halloween. Bri always comes

over. And we always trick-or-treat

together. But Lucas wants to see

me and he’s bringing Kurt along.

Bri broke up with Kurt weeks ago.

He keeps touching me in places

that I don’t want him to touch,
she

explained.
He doesn’t understand “no.”