You could call the police. That’s what they’re there for.
And tell them what? That I can list the word whore on my resume? That I hated what he was doing so much that I went back, time and time again? Foryears?
My face burns, my lips pressed so hard together they’re turning numb. Wishing I was gone from this stupid party.
Wishing I had anywhere better to go.
CHAPTEREIGHT
CAYLON
The party’s lame but I can’t be bothered to leave. Trent sequestered himself with his phone, chatting with a girl over screens rather than interacting with the live ones begging for his attention. Par for the course.
Given the time he’s already invested in the online chat, I doubt he’s coming back to join me. Probably talking her into something they’ll both regret in the morning.
Well, she might. Lately, Trent doesn’t seem to take anything seriously long enough to regret it.
His jovial attitude would be harder to take if I didn’t believe it was one hundred percent genuine. Calm acceptance of anything the world can throw at him has always been part of his repertoire, but it’s becoming more ingrained the older he gets.
I wish becoming Zen was the only thing I had to be concerned about.
When I get weird looks for standing near the wall, not drinking, not dancing, not talking to anyone even when they make the effort, I move to the kitchen. Until I filled out a few years ago, it was the place to be at parties.
Even though I don’t want anything, I pull a can of premix vodka tonic out of the fridge just to hold something. I can pour it out when it gets warm with no regrets. My physical tolerance for alcohol is good but my mental tolerance for its effects is less so.
Especially, lately.
“Looking good, man,” a ginger kid says, clapping me on the shoulder. I’ve never seen him before, but he doesn’t care, happily chatting with me about putting the moves on a girl by the pool. When he makes his way back there, I follow along behind.
Whoever owns this house must be unhinged from reality. There are a few months where having an outdoor pool in Christchurch is workable. Mid-winter isn’t one of those times.
If anyone tries to skinny dip tonight, I hope they come to their senses before they succumb to hypothermia.
True to his word, there’s a pretty blonde at the head of the pool, perching on the side of a lounger. I walk over talk for a few minutes but she’s too keen for my interest level and I soon excuse myself to head back inside.
After screwing everyone who’d let me for the past few years, I’ve apparently hit my limit. The last two months, I’ve gone through the motions but there’s no sense of accomplishment when I do score. No regret when I swing and miss.
There’s a name for when the things that used to bring you pleasure don’t any longer. Apart from being a sad bastard. Anhedonia.
Not that I’m memorising the negative symptoms of schizophrenia. That’d make me even sadder.
I wander through the house, hoping for something—anything—to snag my interest. Getting out of the house used to mean guaranteed fun but I can’t remember exactly how that worked.
Whoever’s throwing the party has tape across the staircase, designating the upstairs off limits. I duck under it without a qualm, happy to nose around where I shouldn’t. The quiet will be a pleasant change, though the evening’s hardly been noisy.
“You’re not allowed up here,” a familiar voice calls out and my stomach tightens with excitement, anticipation. I immediately turn Em’s way at the top of the staircase, finding her on a cushion-covered wooden chest. Her shoes are off, legs curled to the side.
I plonk down next to her, tapping the base of my can against the large plastic cup she’s got curled close to her chest. There’s such a thick head on the pour, I can’t see a trace of actual beer.
“Sure.” She rolls her eyes. “Take a seat. Make yourself at home.”
“You’re not meant to be up here, either,” I say in a teasing tone. My interest sparks for the first time since arriving at the house, enjoyment flooding through me until my limbs are relaxed and my mind is buzzing. “Shouldn’t you be downstairs, tormenting someone until they cry?”
She tips her nose into the air. “Doesn’t sound like me.”
“Really? I thought bullying people was your special skill?”
“I’m so glad you went to the trouble of tracking me down to insult me right to my face. In these days of constant digital communication, so many people just don’t make the effort.”
