Never Enough(48)

I've got to fucking do something, get myself out of it, so I roll over onto my knees and drag myself up until I'm standing, most of my weight on the kitchen counter. Slowly, unsteadily, I walk around Liam and up the stairs, to my bedroom, so I can shower and see how fucked up my feet are, and as long as I don't look at the bed and as long as Marisol's not left anything there, it's okay.

But I'm almost to my bedroom, head spinning, when I make the mistake of looking over at the bedrooms across the hall, the one where we tacked a blanket over the window and then spent hours on the floor, reminiscing about Dirtshine's first days in London, the wretched flats we used to live in, the wretched girls, the wretched people.



       
         
       
        

And then a few last snapshots: the girl coming out of Liam's room, high as a kite, not even looking at me as she left.

A knot unwinds in my chest.

Me, standing in the doorway of the room with the blanket over the window, looking down at Liam on the floor. Syringe in the back of one hand as he pushes down the plunger and the rush of sheer jealousy that tore through me.

Liam leaning against the wall, eyes half-closed, his words slow and dreamy.

Sorry mate, that's all.

Me nodding and turning, even though my haze knowing that it's for the best. Then Liam's voice: wait.

Here.

He tosses a tiny bag full of white powder at me, and then his eyes slide shut, his face ecstasy as I catch it. Then my memory's blank again.

I barely make it to the sink in my bathroom before I vomit Jim Beam, because now I know why I feel like I'm itching inside my own skin, why my feet don't hurt as much as they should.

I sit on the toilet, shaking, and try to think, but then I hear Liam stir downstairs, get up, trip over something, curse. I think of Marisol's books on her dresser and then of Marisol, the Korean restaurant where we had our first real date. The night I told her everything, or almost everything, and she took me home with her anyway.

My hands are shaking, but I manage to get my phone out. The battery's nearly dead, the screen completely shattered, but after a few tries I get Nigel's number up.

I hit the green button and hold the phone to my ear.





44





Marisol





Wednesday afternoon I finally give in and call. I still don't know how I feel, but I know that this is killing me. Whatever's happened I just want to hear his voice, talk to him, because even a day without Gavin has left a strangely-shaped hole in my heart.

But it rings until it goes to voicemail. I try again an hour later and the same thing happens. Both times I hang up without leaving a message, because you don't leave a message for this kind of thing.

Hours pass. I text.

Marisol: Can we talk?

Later:

Marisol: Please?

Later still:

Marisol: Are you okay?



I'm eating a burrito and skimming back through lecture notes when my phone rings. I nearly knock my chair over getting to it, then nearly choke on my burrito trying to swallow.

Nigel.

I consider not answering. I'm not sure that I can have a calm, rational conversation with him about the next steps in Gavin and I's relationship right now. If I hear what event or restaurant or show Gavin and I are supposed to go to next, I might throw up or cry or do both at the same time.

But then I'd just have to call him back later, so I answer. 

"Hi, Nigel."

"Hello, Marisol. This is Nigel."

That's why I said Hi, Nigel.

"How are you?" I ask, hoping to get to the point soon.

There's an awkward pause, more awkward than most of Nigel's pauses.

"It's about Gavin, actually," he says.

My heart feels like it's been filled with lead and it's dropping.

"What happened?" I blurt out.

"It's a bit complicated," Nigel says. "He's, well, technically he's fine, but he has gone back to rehab. Would it be possible for us to meet in person?"

I don't answer for a long moment, but I sit heavily on my bed, eyes filling with tears, the books I got on addiction directly in my line of sight. All I can think about is Gavin, on my bed as I studied, lying on his side, engrossed in one of them.

I remember looking over, seeing that, and thinking, he's really trying. I took it as evidence that I wasn't doing something stupid by being with him, but I guess I was wrong.

"Yeah," I whisper, because I don't trust my voice. "Where?"



After arguing logistics for at least twenty minutes, Nigel and I wind up at a burger joint in my neighborhood, though that means I have to listen to him complain about parking for a good five minutes, my nerves slowly being frayed and rubbed until they're down to just the electrified wire.

"I don't care!" I finally whisper-shout.

Nigel's halfway through removing his windbreaker, and he looks startled.

"I don't care where you parked or how you had to walk four whole blocks to get here, just tell me what happened!"

He clears his throat. He adjusts his glasses, and though he looks ruffled, he at least doesn't look upset.

"I'm not exactly sure as Gavin didn't enlighten me on the particulars," he says. "He simply called, said he wanted to go back to rehab, and gave me a few instructions. I haven't seen him or spoken further."

Before I grab him and shout what were the instructions, he puts a cardboard box about the length and width of my forearm on the table between us. I pull my hands away from it like it's filled with spiders or something, because a heavy sense of dread presses against me, threatening to suffocate me before we even order.

It feels like a goodbye. If you want to work things out with someone, you answer their calls. You don't send a delegation with a gift.

"He asked me to give you these," Nigel says.

"What is it?"

"They look like tapes."

I feel like I might puke on the box, my heart slamming in my chest, but I take a deep breath and open one flap. Nigel's right. It's half-filled with cassette tapes in plastic jewel cases, the labels on them scribbled and written over and crossed out in Gavin's terrible handwriting.

It feels even more like a goodbye, and I hold my breath so I don't cry, my throat slowly closing off.

"He also asked that I initiate the agreed upon transfer of funds," Nigel says, his voice a low whisper. "As we discussed, Larry's firm will be in charge of making sure that it goes through all the proper legal channels and you're credited as a consultant-"

"Am I supposed to play these?" I ask, still staring.

"I assume so?" Nigel says. "The labels are rubbish, so I've got no clue."

I pick one up and turn it over in my hand. On the label, I can just barely make out the words shrimp heads, and on the back, rubber gloves. The night we went on a secret, unplanned second date for fish and chips. We walked up and down the beach in the dark, holding hands, and even though I didn't admit it I knew there was something, even then.



       
         
       
        

They go on. Bathtub. Chopsticks. Queen Bess, all stupid nonsense phrases that couldn't possibly mean anything to anyone else, but I feel like I've been knifed through the heart.

And now I'm crying, tears rolling down my face helplessly as I clench my teeth together, fist in front of my mouth, trying desperately not to make a scene in the middle of a restaurant.

He's getting rid of them.

Nigel looks politely baffled at my reaction, and folds his hands on the table in front of himself.

"We can discuss the matter of your continued involvement in a few weeks when he's out again," he offers. It sounds like he's trying to be gentle, and I just nod because I don't trust myself to actually say anything out loud.

This is my fault, I think. I shouldn't have left like that, I should have stayed and talked about it. I just...

I swallow hard. My hands are shaking, but another label catches my eye, this one crossed out twice before it reads, simply, say yes. I stand, nearly knocking over my chair.

"Thanks," I manage to whisper to Nigel, my voice coming out weird and strained. "I gotta go."

"We've not even-"

I don't hear the rest of whatever he has to say, because I'm already out the door at nearly a run, desperate to get out of there before I have a full and total meltdown.



The box of tapes is sitting on my floor, and I'm on the bed, elbows on my knees, face in my hands, staring at it. I'm crying so hard that tears are running down my arms. I've got the hiccups, so every breath I take goes breath-hiccup-sob, and I'm a snotty mess to boot.

It's wretched. I hate Liam, and I hate Nigel, and I hate Gavin, but mostly I hate myself for thinking that this could work. I hate myself for believing that I could help him, that my presence was going to make any difference at all in his life.

Because he was always going to go back. He was always going to relapse. Junkies only love one thing, and it takes a long time to get over her.

I don't want to open the box again. I don't want to look at the labels on all the tapes, and I don't want to find a tape player in the box as well, but I do. I shouldn't pop in shrimp heads / rubber gloves, but I do.

It takes me a long, long time to hit play. At first it's just static. The sound of something being bumped, then resonating, a guitar maybe.

Gavin clears his throat. He strums a chord. Stops. Fiddles with the guitar for a bit. I'm on the floor next to the tape player, curled against my dresser, huddled in the dark, praying that there's nothing on this tape even though I know there is.