I groaned into the pillowcase, and the muffled sound blended into the high-pitched keening and the strangled shout from next door, like we were attempting some kind of three-part orgasmic harmony—though I knew one of us was definitely faking it—and the whole thing, my wholeliferight at that moment, was so ridiculous I couldn’t help but simultaneously laugh and sob into the blessed silence as round two ended and Ricky likely took a hydration break.
It wasn’t funny, but it alsowas.The humor of the situation wasright therewaiting for me to seize it, but I couldn’t seem to get there. I’d realized over the past month that the secret to finding the humor, or the silver lining, or basicallyanythinggood in the incessant shitstorm of life, was having a person you could roll your eyes with about it. These days the proportion of shit life threw at me to people I could share it with was indecently high.
I mean, there was Caelan James, O’Leary’s town baker. Cal had been maybe my closest friend since I’d moved back to O’Leary last spring, and he was literally just down the street. He’d answer if I called, no doubt, with a growled, “What?” And just like he had last month when I’d called him and stammered that, holy shit, my fucking bar—my life’s dream—was fuckingonfuckingfire, he’d haul his ass out of the bed where he was probably curled up tight around his boyfriend, Ash, and stand by me for as long as I needed. But I wouldn’t call him.
Or there was Ethan Scott, my old roommate, the guy who’d moved from O’Leary to Boston with me back when we were dorky, barely-legal freshmen at BU, and stuck with me when we were dorky, barely-financially-solvent twenty-somethings living in a tiny apartment over a bar in Allston. Ethan was in Bangkok now—or Bangladesh, or Bangalore? I’d have to check his Insta again to be sure where he’d landed this week—but he’d take my call whether he was sleeping in a yurt or having some fancy foodie dinner with his crazy-rich entrepreneur boyfriend, Taika. And yet, I couldn’t make myself call him either.
The sad, pathetic, disgusting, hopeless truth was that there was only one person I really wanted to talk to—only one person whose presence shined so brightly in my life that no substitute would do, even though we hadn’t been friends since I’d left O’Leary for college. And if I called Jameson Burke right now, even though he was only two streets away, he’d probably block my number.
“What we were is dead and buried, Parkie,”he’d said, one of the many, manytimes I’d tried to talk to him since I’d moved back. “Can’t bring back the dead. So just leave me the hell alone.”
The motherfuckerknewhow much I hated being called Parkie.
And worse than that, Jamiewas probably cuddled up withhiscute little boyfriend, Brian, while I was stuck in a hotel room across the street from the empty lot where my bar used to be, listening tolive heterosexual porn.
Because life was nauseating like that.
“Ugh!”
I rolled over, pushed the pillow back under my head, closed my eyes resolutely, and took one of those deep, calming breaths I’d heard about. This was going to beokay.It was going to befine. I just needed to relax and get some sleep and—
When the thumping started again, my eyes popped open. I was honest-to-God ready to channel my mother, storm next door, and tell Ricky, in my best Beatrice Hoffstraeder voice, toconsider his neighbors, for heaven’s sake… and also maybe ask him what kind of vitamins and supplements he was taking, becauseseriously… when I realized the noise wasn’t coming from behind my head but from the hallway door.
“Parks? Yoo hoo! Parker!” Dana Cobb called.
Oh. Shit.
Dana was the manager of the Crabapple, and her voice was muffled but urgent, so I threw off my covers, rubbed a quick hand over my eyes, and strode across the room in two-point-five seconds to flick on the light and open the door, wondering what the hell had gone wrongnow.
Dana looked exactly the same as she always did, no matter the season or, apparently, the hour of the day or night. Button-down shirt, chinos, relentlessly blonde hair tied back in a high, cheerleader ponytail. She opened her mouth to speak, took one look at me, and turned beet red, staring over my shoulder and blinking like she’d looked directly into the sun despite the dimness of the hallway. It was a sign of just how tired I was that it took me a full thirty seconds to realize she wasn’t having some kind of stroke; she was reacting to the sight of my undies.
My tiny, zebra-printed, thong undies.
“Oh. Damn. Sorry, Dana,” I said, backing into the room and pulling on the jeans I’d thrown over the desk chair. “I haven’t done laundry and these were kind of a joke from… well.” I cleared my throat. “Long story.”
“I bet,” Dana drawled. “Listen, sorry to interrupt, Parks, but, ah, folks on the second floor called down with a noise complaint.”
“Yeah? Thank God.” I buttoned and zipped my jeans into place before turning to face her again. “I wasn’t gonna narc on Ricky and the missus, but they’re getting a little ridiculous. I’ve barely slept in two nights.”
“They?” Dana stepped into the room cautiously and looked around with her hands on her hips like she thought someone else might jump out at her. When no one did, she frowned. “You’re… alone?”
“Duh. Who else would be in here?” I refrained from telling her I’d been living like a monk for months. “Just me and my succulents, and they hardly say a word.” I waved a hand toward the little table by the window where my precious little houseplants waited for morning sunlight.
“Your… succulents.” Dana took a step toward the table and peered down at the array of plants, then back up at me. “Parker, sweetness, I’m worried about you.”
“Me?” I braced my hands on my hips and puffed my chest out. “I’m fine. Never better.”
“Uh huh.” Her gaze didn’t falter, and her skepticism was unmistakable.
“I mean, I’m tired,” I admitted, my shoulders slumping a bit. “Very tired. Those two have been scrumping like bunnies.” I hooked a thumb at the connecting wall. “It’s loud. I can’t sleep.”
“Uh huh.”
“And earlier in the week, I was going a little stir-crazy with no work to do every day. And no customers telling me their problems.” I cleared my throat. “And limited cable television.”
“Uh huh.”
“But otherwise, I’m great.” I put a hand to my face. “Why? Do Ilooksick or something?”
