Idiot - Laura Clery Page 0,46

to break up, right? To be deeply betrayed by a horribly toxic person so there’s nothing left to salvage between you two?

Since Rudolf was not going to be that person, I would have to step up. What a cross to bear, what a sacrifice. You’re welcome, everyone.

I was out one night on Sunset Boulevard and I met an Irish guy. His name was Kevin. Or Devin. We were both very drunk.

“Wanna go to Mexico?” he asked after thirty minutes of talking to me.

“Ummmm. Yeah, I do. Let’s go.”

I picked him up the next afternoon. In the cold light of day, I tried really hard not to regret everything I’d ever done to lead me to this moment. He had an angry face, with eyebrows that looked perpetually mad. He sighed like everything took way too long for him. He had a weird scar next to his eyebrow that looked like he got a bad piercing, felt self-conscious about looking gay, and then took it out.

Maybe I was projecting a lot of bad things onto him, but also he sucked. He was so condescending. On the way down, he found a bag of ecstasy in my glove compartment and became infuriated.

“Do you KNOW how much trouble we could get in for having this when we cross the border? Do you KNOW we could go to Mexican jail? I’m throwing this out.”

Can we ignore for a second the fact that I forgot I had a bag of drugs in my glove box? Kevin was a prick. Of course I would pick the worst guy in the world to trek into another country with. I swerved my car, trying to grab the bag back from him.

“DON’T THROW AWAY DRUGS. DON’T! I’ll put them up my vagina if I have to.”

He threw them away. I wanted to punch him in the face.

We kept fighting about everything. Where to actually turn (MapQuest was not in business, you guys), what music to play on the radio (I wanted hip-hop like a sane adult and he wanted Nine Inch Nails), and whose soda got to be in the cup holder (my car, my drink). There were some red flags.

But I kept driving.

We stopped in San Diego for the night at some seedy motel near the beach. I’d had enough of him at this point. I wasn’t trying to get out of my near-marriage so that I could fight like a married couple with this random asshole. Ugh. He got some whiskey for us to drink in the room. It was becoming clear that we both had issues with alcoholism. But as much as I loved to drink, I hated being there with him more.

“I’m taking a walk,” I told him.

Kevin didn’t answer; he was either swigging some whiskey down or giving me the silent treatment. I slammed the door on my way out.

The beach was cold and dark, so I couldn’t even see how beautiful it was or reflect on my life or some shit. It was just pitch-black. I kept walking.

A guy approached me. He was wearing a snapback with a muscle tee and boardshorts. Finally, the San Diego party I wanted.

“Um, hey. Me and my buddies are having some beers in the garage over there. Want to join?”

Okay, let’s see here. A strange group of men in a garage . . . at two in the morning . . . near a pitch-black beach . . . with beer. Beer!

“Hell yeah, I do.”

He motioned his arm like SCORE as he led me over to the two other guys in the garage. That’s right, I WAS a score. I deserved to be hanging with guys more fun than fucking Kevin.

I sat down with the two other guys, both of whom were also in muscle tees and boardshorts (come on, guys, the sun went down seven hours ago). Bro #1 handed me a beer.

I sipped it. For the first time, it didn’t feel good. It didn’t put me at ease. It wasn’t strong enough. I drank faster. I grabbed another, gulped it down, not realizing it was empty until I was shaking the bottle over my mouth. I lowered the bottle, embarrassed. I felt the guys looking at me.

I looked around the garage. Zip ties. Pliers. Duct tape. These things are always in garages, right? I’m being paranoid, right? Bro #3 was smiling at me and breathing through his mouth.

What the hell am I doing?

I looked down at my legs. I didn’t have pockets. I didn’t have