Thirty
FRIEDRICH
All I wantto do is lie in bed with my heavy curtains drawn against the world and hibernate until the pain subsides. I shoot off a text to Betsy and Tristan on Monday morning, telling them I’m taking a personal day.
Betsy quickly writes back, reminding me we don’t get to take personal days, to which I reply that she should tell everyone I’m sick and make up the most gruesome symptoms she can imagine to keep anyone from prying. Not that I think Betsy will lie for me, but I think that got my point across.
Tristan, on the other hand, reports back that he has rescheduled or canceled all of my meetings and calls for the day and asks if there’s anything I need. Considering the only thing I need is the one goddamn thing I can’t have, I guess I’m solid.Fucking solid.
I wish I had some numbing medicine handy, but that would require getting up, and I don’t think my body even works right now. The ache in my chest has migrated to the rest of my body, and I’m exhausted like I have the flu. Who knew heartbreak had physical manifestations, too?
I don’t remember this bit from my breakup with Stella Klein, and while I may have wallowed a bit in the weeks that followed the betrayal by the first woman I loved, I never felt like I might turn to dust and blow away at any moment.
My bladder finally wins against the heaviness that’s settled over me, and I pad to the en-suite bathroom without bothering to dress. The cold feels good, a startling reminder that I am indeed awake and still capable of feelingsomething.
I find a pair of loose-fitting shorts in my dresser and slip them on before slogging downstairs. A normal single guy in his late twenties wouldn’t have to worry about shuffling about his own house naked, but my family has a wonderful habit of showing up unannounced. While Claus or Trixie would deserve the embarrassment, there’s always my little sisters to worry about.
Speaking of…
My front door creaks open behind me as I’m climbing the stairs, about to take a bottle of shit whiskey—no use in wasting the good stuff on this day—back up to my room.
“Fritz?” Anneliese calls delicately fromthe door.
I hang my head. I can’t turn either of my sisters away, even on the worst day, especially not when they come to me sounding like that.
“Come on in, dearest.” I’m not sure how she became Dearest Liesel and my youngest sister became Darling Lorelei, but however it happened, the honorifics stuck.
She stomps out her boots on the outside mat and slips them off right inside the door. The rain started sometime in the night and hasn’t stopped since. Liesel shakes out her long blonde hair, a gift from Mother, after dropping her hood and hanging up her coat on an open hook on the wall.
“It’s fucking freezing in here,” she says, her teeth chattering.
I can’t chastise my sister on her foul language when I’ve got the mouth of a sailor; as long as Mother never hears, then no harm done.
I wave up the stairs with the bottle still in hand. “Come on, sis, I have a warm spot.”
In the renovation planning for my cottage, the lead contractor insisted on gas fireplaces. Something about chimney height and decreasing risks and that kind of shit. I argued at the time that it totally changed the aesthetic and ruined the authenticity I was trying to maintain during the updates. Now, however, I’m glad for the ease of starting a fire in my bedroom, as the last thing I feel like doing right now is coaxing and tending a flame.
Liesel hops into my bed and snuggles under thehuge down comforter as I flick on the gas. I climb under the covers too, propping myself up on the headboard with a few pillows. The cork on the whiskey bottle comes off with a soft pop, and I swig straight from the bottle. I offer it to my sister, who props herself on one elbow, takes a huge gulp, and winces.
“Jesus, Fritz, how do you drink this stuff?”
I’m surprised I can manage the half smile as I take the bottle back. “Says the girl who chugged half a bottle of whipped cream vodka at the lodge last winter.”
“Ugh, don’t remind me!” she groans, sinking back against the pillows. “I haven’t puked so much in my life.”
I barely manage a chuckle, the vice around my chest loosening just a bit. I take another drink before recorking the bottle and setting it on my bedside table.
“So, dearest Liesel, why are you here and not at school today?”
“Why aren’t you at the palace?” she throws back. “I overheard Betsy telling Father at breakfast that you were sick.” She gives me the classic Liesel side eye. “You don’t look sick.”
“I just needed a day alone.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
She shuffles in the bed as if to get up, but I grab her hand and drag her back to face me. “No, you’re fine, dearest. Now stop deflecting and answer my question.”
The blankets rise and fall around us as she heaves a huge sigh. “Mother and I got into it this weekend.”
