car, when I was spinning and careening forward on the ice, the wheel useless in my hand. I’d felt the same helplessness in the semi after we passed the first exit; but it was worse, much worse, because the fear of it lasted so much longer. Even now, my hands felt like they were shaking, though when I looked down at them, they were still.
On the way to Jimmy’s, Gretchen stopped at a liquor store. I did not protest. In fact, I gave her ten dollars. When we got to Jimmy’s, she made margaritas while I misted the plants. She found pretty drinking glasses and even little umbrellas, and she told me to just sit at the counter and sip while she worked on the macaroni and cheese. Again, I did not argue. I liked the taste of the drink.
“Do you think we can use some of their milk?” she asked. “Or is that very expensive too?”
She was referring to the note Jimmy had taped to the wine rack off the kitchen: ALL VERY EXPENSIVE, it read. DO NOT DRINK OR EVEN TOUCH.
“We can buy more,” I said. The counter was stainless steel, and I could see my reflection in it, blurry and warped. The alcohol burned into the cut on my lip, but inside, I felt a pleasantly numb sensation radiating out from my mouth. I knew I should probably hold off a bit until after we ate. I usually wasn’t much of a drinker.
“Please.” Gretchen took a carton of milk out of the fridge. “I think he could spare a bottle of wine. Look at this place. He’s got some serious disposable income.” Her gaze moved over the shiny appliances on the counter and up to the skylight, now dark, above our heads. “Does that Simone girl live here with him?”
“I think so,” I said. I had not told even Gretchen that Simone’s real name was Haylie, or that I’d known her from home. If the poor girl wants to be someone else, let her be someone else. I took another long sip of my drink and looked around the big kitchen. This was where Haylie/Simone ate breakfast. It was strange that I should know this much about her new life as well as her old one. I wondered if even her mother or little brother or incarcerated father knew where or how she was living, or that she’d changed her name.
“What’s this?” Gretchen touched a few buttons on the wall, and Latin music that was loud but not horrible swirled out from some invisible center of the room. “That’s so cool.” She picked up her drink and moved in a slow circle. “I don’t even know where it’s coming from.”
She turned the volume even higher. I swung my legs to the drumbeat. I wasn’t sure if I should be worried about the neighbors. Outside, the lawns were neatly trimmed, and all the cars were hidden away in garages. It didn’t seem like the kind of street where you could blast music late at night. I took out my phone to check the time and saw that my mother had called.
Gretchen turned down the music. “What’s the matter? Who was that?”
“No one,” I said. I had not told her that my mother had hung up on me that morning. I had not mentioned my mother at all. I was too embarrassed. Everything else that happened that morning was mostly bad luck and timing. But my mother’s response, or lack thereof, seemed to point to something damaged in her, and maybe in me as well.
“It was Tim,” I said. “Just Tim calling.”
“Oh.” She used a fork to take a piece of macaroni out of the boiling pot, but she continued to look at me. “Are you…are you in a fight or something?”
I shook my head, looking away. I wasn’t a good liar when I was sober. And now I felt a little hazy all over. I held my glass with both hands. “He wants me to move in with him. Next year. He’ll pay the rent, he said.”
She blew steam off the piece of macaroni. “This is a problem?”
My phone beeped. I looked at the screen. My mother was calling again. I hit ignore. Too late! Too late for you! I took another drink.
Gretchen looked concerned. “Was that him again?”
“Yeah.” I nodded, agreeing with myself. “Yeah. He’s really, you know, he’s really gung-ho about it. He keeps calling.”