The brunette pops her head in. “Anything?”
I know she must need the room.
“He’s almost here,” I lie. A full hour passes before the receptionist comes in with a wheel chair to bring me out, which feels a bit ridiculous now that the sedation has completely worn off. Still, I abide by her rules, settling in the chair. I see him, in the reception area, hands in his pockets, a grin that feels out of place plastered on his face and I sense the nurse’s displeasure. Normally, I would assume it was because of the age gap, but it’s likely due to him being two hours late to his girlfriend's abortion.
“Sloane, if you need anything or have any questions at all, please give us a call.” The nurse eyes me and it's obvious she wants to say more, wants to warn me of something I’m already aware of.
Elliot grabs the chair, not bothering to make eye contact with the woman and something about the slight makes me hate him. Not all of him—not yet. Just enough to fold into that little pocket of my heart that I refuse to fully open up and examine. We reach Delilah, her red paint glistening in the California sun and I wish I didn’t let him drive her as I watch his fingers curl around her large steering wheel, sitting in the passenger seat of my own car.
“Well, you look fine.” His voice is chipper and so at odds with the tone of my day. “I’m surprised they made you get a ride home,” he chuckles at the hospital's ridiculous rules, unlatching the roof of the car. I don’t have the fight in me to tell him I want the roof up as he pulls onto I-80.
I reach over, grasping his hand, letting myself feel a shred of comfort from the one person I think can understand. He glances over at me, his jaw hardening. “Why are you doing that?”
“What?” I blink, confusion rattling my mind.
“Holding my hand.” He glances down where my hand covers his on the stick. I blink, nausea rising in the back of my throat before releasing him. “We’re not doing that anymore, Sloane.” His words tangle in the wind that blows from the car's open roof and I feel stunned and then mortified and I wish there was a button I could press to eject myself from this situation, let the passenger seat hurtle me into the ocean.
He pulls off the exit leading back to the student housing. I thought we were going to his place. His apartment that has all my stuff, my paints, my clothes. He silently pulls into a space just outside the duplex I share with a few girls in the program. Girls I barely have taken the time to know, so consumed by every moment with him.
“Look, Sloane…” His voice is imbued with the inevitable fade of an ending, the final notes of a song I’m not ready to beover. I search his eyes but there's nothing. No recognition of what I was to him and I wonder if I was ever anything at all, or just a means to an end, a muse to stroke his ego. Disposable, not serious.
“I think we should take some time. I need to focus right now with the new series I’m doing and with the whole—” He gestures at me, his hand smearing the air before me like a mess he wants to brush away. I sniff a breath and before I can open my mouth he opens the driver door, pulling my bags out of Delilah's trunk. The life I had with him in two duffles. “There may be some paint left behind. If I find them I’ll bring them to class.” He nods, wrapping my hand around the cold car keys.
I reach in every direction trying to grasp anything, a word, a plea, even an accusation but my thoughts crash in on themselves and I can’t decide if I want to scream or cry, to push him away or pull him back.
“This isn’t goodbye, Sloane. It’s a see you later.” He cocks his head at the Uber that seems to have materialized out of thin air before squeezing my shoulder and just like that, he’s gone, so quick that I wonder if he ever existed.
Ten minutes, that’s what the nurse said. Ten minutes. That’s all that separates us from holding life and letting it go.
10
Andy
October
A harpist plucks a soft melody up on the balcony, warring for airtime while the DJ on the floor level spins a bass heavy mix for the sponsors getting wasted on Astor Hill Athletic’s dime. A waiter offers me a glass of champagne and I throw it back far too fast, still tense from the car. I spot Grant in the distance, grinning at Ben, unshaken by the way he and Will almost brawled on the way here.
Logic didn’t play a role in offering Grant a ride, nor did it make an appearance when Gen called me an hour ago, exasperated and needing me to pick Will up. He struggled to form a complete thought when I picked him up off the curb. He should be tucked into bed, not ordering more to drink.
I imagine the bar failing to keep him upright, hallucinate him tumbling to the ground, feel the ghost of a tremor in my hand like it could almost happen. He’s so near falling apart, and I know I shouldn’t have brought him. When he saunters back over to me, I notice his hollow gaze, the distractednessthat has him blinking more than he should, and I prepare myself for a one sided conversation.
“Is that smart?” I ask him, nodding at his cocktail.
He crooks his finger at me, dipping his head as he smirks. “If I was sober, I wouldn’t be here. And that’s not an option,” he slurs, his laugh bubbling over as he sips the drink.
I sigh, glancing around to make sure no one’s listening. “Does this have to do with Gen, or Liv?” Asking him in the car was less than ideal.
He purses his lips, seriously considering which is gutting him more: that Gen reamed him out before kicking him out of his own car, or that Liv broke up with him last night—didn’t come with him at all. In the distance, her dress flashes a metallic brown at the same moment I clock the back of Ben’s head.
Jesus.
“Liv. Gen didn’t help, though. She was somean,” he says thoughtfully, looking down at the marble tile. “Like, what the fuck did I do?”
“Well—” I start to say, desperate to remind him that Gen’s loved him for years and he did fuck all about it until she moved on with Grant, but his face just falls. Like the sinew can’t keep it together anymore, and I save it for some other time. “Don’t think about them tonight. Worry about all of it tomorrow.”
The rest of his drink goes down in one swift motion before he pats my shoulder and pushes past me and toward the coat check. The tug that tells me to follow him, to protect him from his own recklessness, is hard to push against, but I do. I pull in a deep breath, clearing my throat, and try to take my own advice for once.
I will worry about him tomorrow because tonight, I have a job to do. Basketball, this once sacred thing that was just for me, is something I’m now desperate for. I want play time; Iwant to be good; I want my team to need me for something real. This is a part I play willingly, and I won’t fuck it up.
