Howie, the bus driver, pulls out of camp. He ignores the flasks and lights a cigarette out the window.
I’m squished into a seat with Ava but she turns her back to me when we get on the main road. She starts talking to Craig, leaving me out of the conversation. It irks me and I think back to what her dad called me—townie—and how much is still unsaid between us.
Imogen pops her head up over the seat in front of me and leans forward, her arms dangling down to tickle the tops of my thighs.
“You okay, Goldilocks?” she says, resting her chin on the top of the seat.
I nod and look out the window.
“Mope city over here,” she says.
Her head’s cocked to one side, concern furrowed in her brow. My heart softens. “Just a mood, you know?”
“Not a good one.”
“Nope,” I say.
Imogen reaches for my hand and squeezes and then sits back down with Tommy in front of me. It’s one of the things I love about Imo. She doesn’t feel the need to make everything better or say trite bullshit. She gets that sometimes shit is hard and you need to feel it.
Meanwhile Ava doesn’t even notice something’s wrong. I grab her flask from her purse and take a big gulp. Then another.
By the time we get to town I’m nice and buzzed, but I don’t feel silly or confident like I usually do after a few drinks. Instead, there’s anger and rot floating around inside me.
When we push through the entrance, I’m relieved to findTruly’s is mostly empty. I make a beeline for the bar, where I wait for the old guy behind the counter to notice me. It takes a second, but when he finally comes over, he’s not there to take my order. He sets down a plastic cup full of something dark, smelling of whiskey.
I must look confused because he nods over to the corner. When I look that way, I spot Cal Drummond sitting on a stool by himself. His face is obscured by a Roxwood hockey beanie even though it’s summer, but his eyes are drunk and sad. He raises a beer bottle in my direction and my face flushes, unsure of what to do or say. I take the drink, my insides hard, and sip it gingerly, tasting the offering like it’s poison. It’s a whiskey and Diet Coke. Heller’s favorite.
The taste burns and I’m back in Heller’s hut, where the cold crept in through the windowpanes. It’s a random November night. Cal and Trina are playing ping-pong andGoodfellasis on, the movie cast against a white sheet hanging from the far wall. Ruthie puts on some crappy country-rap song and Heller and I exchange looks likewhat the fuck is this?
We both stifle laughs, sly smiles spreading on our faces. Heller comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist, looking out at the party—at the group he invited me into. He leans down, his lips grazing my ear. I can smell his breath, the sweet booze on his tongue, as he whispers softly, “I’m so glad you’re here.”
But that’s not now. That’s not real. Heller and that night are memories, ones that means nothing anymore. I take another sip and steady myself against the sticky bar. I squeeze my eyes shut and tell myself the truth.
You’re at Truly’s. Heller doesn’t love you. Heller is dead.
“Whoa, you okay?” Craig comes up behind me and rests a hand on my shoulder, but I flinch instinctively, needing to get away fromhis touch. “Geez, I was trying to help,” he says, holding up his hands.
“Sorry,” I say even though I’m not. “I need some air.”
Craig takes a step toward the group of counselors and I rush to the back of the bar, which opens up into an alley. I push through the door and step into the warm night. I let it slam behind me and slide my back down against the side of the building, so I’m squatting on my heels. My stupid platform heels that make no sense here in Roxwood.
I inhale hard and try to ignore the stench coming from the trash. I press my hands to my temples.How did I get here?
But then the door swings open behind me and I rush to stand, to act like everything’s normal and I’m fine. I expect to see an Alpine Laker coming to take a piss after learning the bathroom line was too long, but when I turn around, I run straight into Cal’s chest.
“I’ve been trying to get ahold of you since Fourth of July,” he says. Cal’s dark eyes are stormy and half-closed, like he’s had a lot to drink. But his shoulders are slumped, and all of a sudden it hits me that he’s a long-hauler, like me. Someone who won’t be able to move on from Heller’s death so easily. My whole body softens.
“There’s no service at camp.”
Cal sighs. “Look, I need Heller’s badge back.”
“I don’t have it on me.”
“Bullshit,” he says.
I open my purse and dump the contents on the ground, watching as my mascara and some out-of-ink pens roll around on the concrete, no badge in sight.
Cal shakes his head and squats to pick stuff up.
