“It’s not that easy. I have…stuff.” I shrug, turning off the busy street onto a smaller side street that leads to a higher end strip of bars and restaurants.
“Stuff?” She raises her eyebrows and I’m annoyed but appreciate how well she knows me.
“Yes, stuff…” I sigh. “I’m trying to paint and you know everything with Connie and?—”
“Right, how is Connie then?” she interrupts, Clem’s one and only flaw: her inability to let you finish a thought, which probably isn’t the best quality in a therapist.
I bring the car to stop at the light, letting my head fall back against the headrest as I groan. “Can we not?”
“Sloane…” she murmurs. “We probably should. Are you even seein’ anyone?”
“Why would I see a shrink when I have you?” I ask with mock sweetness, shifting into gear just before the light turns green. Turning onto Peachtree brings the start of Christmas to life, and it puts the street I grew up on to shame. Lit trees towers every few feet, line the streets with so much cheer that it renders this conversation totally out of place. “Oh my god, look at those nutcrackers!”
“Connie’s dying,” she says, flatly, the blunt end of it wedging between my ribs, making it hard to breathe. “That’s just true, Sloane.”
“Thanks for that,” I say, pulling into a spot and jumping out of the car. The cold whips against my face as I pick up speed, desperate for a conversation that won’t plunge me to depths of my despair, but I don’t even know where we’re eating. Clementine made the reservation. My hands ball into fists, gripping so tightly my nails bite into my skin, and I welcome the sting.
I need a cigarette. Or a drink.
If I was home, I could lay under my sheets and shut my eyes until the reality of it faded away.
I walk past her, over the curb, and stumble when my heel snags on a crack in the sidewalk.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I say to the random man leaning against a colossal pillar taking a call. He turns his nose up in disgust—a religious man, maybe. I gesture a small apology and keep walking, annoyed that Clementine’s shouts only get closer and closer.
“Can you just,” I hear Clem say behind me. “Sloane!” She grabs my shoulder and pulls me to stop, dragging me onto a bench. “I’m sorry. That was blunt but, I just meant that you should be talkin’ to someone. You won’t tell your brother what’s going on, and I’m hundreds of miles away…you don’t have any support. No one should shoulder that all alone. It’s dangerous.”
Skin itching for relief, I dig my nails deeper, my fists out of sight.
“I really am fine,” I lie, my voice soft and earnest as I try to get her to drop it.
“Maybe tell Gen. Or Olivia, or Jean. I don’t like that you’re isolating yourself.”
“Isolatin’?” I bark a laugh, rolling my eyes. “I told you, I’m fine. And you just said it yourself—I have friends.”
A doorbell chimes in the melody of “Holly Jolly Christmas,” and a mother and daughter stroll out hand in hand, a massive cosmetics shopper bag swinging from the girl’s arm. An ache in my chest, I turn away so I can’t see them.
“I know,” Clem concedes, grabbing my hand. “I just love you. Want to make sure you’re gonna be okay once…you know.”
My smile pulls tight as I squeeze her hand and my stomach makes a sound that suggests it might cave in on itself. “I’ll be fine once I eat something. Grant took the last bagel atbreakfast.”
Her face pinches in that way it does when she’s worried about me and I know it's her own anxiety, her need for everyone around her to be doing fine because of her own situation, her own issues.
“Look Clem, I’m okay. I promise, and if I’m ever not you will be the first one I call.” She nods, not fully believing me but her expression softening just enough that I know her fear is tamped down. “Now—please tell me where we are eating,” I gesture to the line of restaurants and bars before us. “I’m starved.”
She smiles, grabbing my hand and leading the way, just like she always does.
23
Andy
December
The smokey, jazzy alto of one of our regular acts coasts above the soft murmur of the club, and if it weren’t for Ian Rivers taking up residence at the otherwise dead bar, I’d be at perfect ease. His glass sits empty as he flicks his eyes up, arching his brows in a silent request that has me scoffing.
“These aren’t free,” I tell him, polishing the same glass for the tenth time, my bicep sore from my early session in the weight room. Johnny shouts something to a small, over dressed man hunched over one of the tables before grabbing him the collar and dragging him out.
“No family deal?” he asks, a half-hearted smile tugging at his mouth. His usual vindictiveness hasn’t shown itself all evening—and he’s been here for two hours, tapping away at his laptop, peppering me with questions he doesn’t bother explaining.
