“Holy shit, Seth,” I exclaimed, reeling with surprise and shock that he’d struck me so goddamned hard.
Seth raised his hand like he was about to hit me again, but Bobby grabbed him by the back of his jacket and yanked him away from me. “You better get back inside, hombre,” Bobby growled. “Wouldn’t want you to miss the second half of your show.”
Seth’s anger wasn’t diminished in the least as he shoved Bobby off of him and rearranged his jacket. He came at me again, but this time he wounded me with words. “I should have known this would happen,” he hissed. “Don’t even think about coming around my place tonight, you lying little slut. Go get your fix from someone else.” Seth glared at Bobby. “Hope you like my sloppy seconds.”
“Fuck you, Seth,” I said, barely above a whisper. The shock had subsided, and the pain was setting in. My lip was cut and bleeding. My cheek was probably swollen, too. Worse, I feared I was going to burst into tears. I couldn’t believe Seth had just hit me. Not to mention this perfect stranger was witnessing our relationship at peak dysfunction.
Seth stalked off, and even as I watched him retreat, I felt a strong compulsion to chase after him and try to make things right, explain to him this was only a misunderstanding and that I’d only agreed to get high with this stranger to take the edge off of my withdrawal.
But Seth had assumed the worst from me, and rather than give me the chance to explain, he’d fucking hit me.
I sighed like the world was collapsing all around me. The resounding chorus of aches and pains throughout my body reminded me that I still needed to get high.
“You want to go get something to eat?” Bobby asked. In his eyes, I saw the pity he harbored on my behalf. Even though it would be easier to flee, I had nowhere to go and no ride there. Plus, I figured I owed Bobby some sort of an explanation and weed always gave me the worst case of the munchies.
“Sure. Anyplace but 24-Hour Diner.” I didn’t want to risk running into Seth again that night.
We went to a Denny’s instead. Riding on the back of Bobby’s motorcycle almost made up for the disaster the night was turning out to be. Inside we sat across from each other in a sticky booth under the dingy yellow lights, which did nothing for my complexion. Bobby asked the waitress for a bag of ice for my face. I probably looked like Quasimodo. My eye was definitely swollen, as was my lip. I kept tonguing the split skin as if needing proof of what had happened. The waitress looked at me with concern, and I quipped, “you should see the other guy,” which I’d soon realize was the beginning of a pattern of lying to cover up Seth’s abuse.
“So, that’s your boyfriend?” Bobby asked me once we’d settled fully into this strange and awkward shared experience.
“Yeah, that’s him.” I felt the urge to defend Seth and let Bobby know that he’d seen him at his worst and that he was actually a very nice guy, but I couldn’t exactly describe Seth in that way. I doubted it would matter anyway. First impressions and all.
“How long have the two of you been dating?”
“Awhile,” I said and then followed it up with a long, dismal sigh. “He doesn’t usually hit me. That was new.” I rearranged the bag against my face, which was mostly numb now, but the ice was not helping with regulating my internal temperature. I was still a bit dazed by it all. What had I done to trigger Seth like that? I’d smoked weed with other people before, sometimes without him. Perhaps it was because Seth didn’t know Bobby? Or because we’d been fighting? Because it was during a show? All of my thoughts came back to what I’d done wrong, how I’d acted out to deserve this, and how I could prevent it from happening again.
“You could do better,” Bobby said.
I nodded. It was always nice to hear. Sasha had told me the same thing in a text once. Sabrina had that sentiment on loop.
“Where’d you guys meet?” Bobby asked.
“High school.” But that wasn’t the actual beginning. “He used to live in my neighborhood. We played basketball together.” I remembered then how Seth didn’t know how to play. He’d only joined in so he could get closer to me.Remarkable, Seth had promised. How could he even know that? It seemed so very long ago.
“High school?” Bobby asked. “How old are you?”
I glanced up and saw the worried look in his eyes. “Seventeen,” I said with a slight lift in my voice because technically, I didn’t turn seventeen for another two months.
Bobby shook his head like he didn’t want to believe me. “You were drinking a beer at the bar.”
“Perks of being the band’s number one groupie.”
Bobby nodded slowly as if realizing something important. “You shouldn’t be caught up with someone like that,” he said, taking a decidedly fatherly tone with me. I was pretty sure I’d just been relegated to the Friend Zone. Or the Jail Bait Zone. There was probably some overlap.
Perhaps because I was still a little high, I didn’t have the same filter I normally would when admitting to Seth’s outrageousness. Also, Seth had just walloped me one good, so I wasn’t exactly feeling compelled to keep his secrets. “It’s not that easy to leave him. I’ve tried. He has my name tattooed on his chest.”
“What?” Bobby’s eyebrows rose. He was pretty adorable in a big Saint Bernard kind of way. I’d bet he was a good cuddler too with all of that warm furry man flesh to hunker down with.
“Yeah.” As if I could further prove my point, I added, “It’s in my own handwriting too.”
Bobby shook his head and chuckled a little like I was telling him a whopper. “Listen, kid, I don’t know what passes for romance in your generation, but if a guy got my name tattooed on his chest, I’d run like hell.”
I laughed at that, a bit of gallows humor. “My generation, huh? What are you, like twenty-five years old?”
He smiled softly. “Yeah, we’ll go with that.”
Bobby didn’t ask me too many more questions about Seth. Instead, he told me some horror stories from his own romantic pursuits. I think he was trying to make me feel better about my questionable taste in men, even though none of his tales involved abuse. Toward the end of our conversation, Bobby asked me if Seth was my first boyfriend.
