When I pull into my driveway, Christina, Tania, and Katie are waiting for me. Thank God they’re in one car. I open both garage doors and tell Christina to pull inside.
If Luke comes by and sees a car here, I know he won’t leave.
I make another mental note to call the real estate agent I’ve been meaning to call, but keep putting off.
My girls don’t ask what happened. They already know what I need. They move around my kitchen like they’ve done it a hundred times, and within minutes, the margarita machine is roaring, and someone has Jimmy Buffett playing like we’re about to vacation our way out of reality.
I give them the short version of my day. The parts I can say out loud. I’m infinitely grateful they don’t need details of the mental hospital to believe me when I say it was all based on a lie. They know me. That’s the whole point.
At some point, Christina turns my phone back on to connect the Bluetooth speaker. Texts pour in. One after another. Notifications of voicemails stack up like bricks.
We ignore them.
We crank the music. We take the margaritas and the hot tub and the laughter, and we build a wall out of it all. For one night, I don’t have to be strong alone. Everyone stays over. We’ve done this enough that they have clothes here, and whatever they don’t have, they know they can steal mine. Except my toothbrush.
It feels like college again, when the world was smaller, and problems had edges you could see.
I don’t know what I’d do without them.
By Friday,I’m determined to have a normal night. Or at least a version of normal that includes alcohol and my friends.
I still haven’t talked to Luke. I still haven’t responded to his daily texts. I still haven’t changed my number. But I have started going back to the gym. I’m not letting him run me off from one of the few places that ever felt like home.
We meet at a small sports bar before heading to the club later. Tonight is my real birthday celebration. With my real friends. After my last performance, I left the club without even finding out if I advanced to the finals. I didn’t care then, but when Mitch texted me that I’m one of five finalists performing next weekend, the excitement hit anyway.
Now I have to decide what song I’m going to sing.
I have an idea. I just haven’t decided how reckless I should be.
The bar is already packed. We’re sharing appetizers when I hear my name on the TV again. I roll my eyes. “I thought my fifteen minutes of fame were over.”
The silence at our table slams down so hard it feels physical. I look up. Christina, Tania, and Katie are staring at the screen. I turn, and to my horror, I realize why my friends are speechless.
They’re showing the youth center.
A social worker I’ve never met is on camera, listing reasons I might be a threat to children. They’re questioning who approved me. They cut to a parent demanding that I be suspended until an investigation is conducted.
I stare at the screen, stunned by how quickly people turn on someone they don’t even know.
They don’t know it’s my money funding that center. They don’t know I’m the one filling those kids’ stomachs, making sure they have supplies, tutoring them, driving them home when their parents don’t show, standing between them and danger when nobody else does.
But suddenly, I’m a monster because a picture exists.
The reporter holds up publications with headlines about the mental hospital, the youth center, and my “attack” on my foster father. Vultures. All of them. Tearing me apart without the first shred of truth.
Innocent until proven guilty doesn’t exist in the real world. It’s guilty until proven innocent… and even then, the stain remains.
I put my face in my hands and breathe until I can see straight. This is not me retreating. I’m not giving up, nor am I caving. I’m refortifying.
I raise my head and look at my girls. “It’s about time to head to the club,” I say, and my tone leaves no room for debate.
At our usual table sit the usual suspects: Shane, Will, Brandon… and Luke. His back is to me. He doesn’t know I’m here yet.
Good.
I walk to the DJ booth and tell him to queue up a song. I’ve had a few drinks. I’m pissed. I’m hurt. And I’m not going to swallow any of it tonight. I’m going to make it audible.
“Just A Fool” is a duet between Christina Aguilera and Blake Shelton. Tonight, I’m singing it solo. And I sing it with every ounce of emotion boiling beneath my calm façade.
