I’m not going to Mean Myrtle’s, I tell myself. It feels like a lie. I leave my phone in the house, refusing to reply to the invitation and head outside, collapsing into the rickety plastic chair on my porch. I reach over to the side table and take out a cigarette from one of my hiding spots in a dying potted plant and take a few moments to enjoy the smell of tobacco. I prefer rolling my own, a habit I got from my grandma. She loved to make them out of raspberry leaves, and on nights I allow myself to indulge after a particularly rough day of customer service, I roll my joints with them. Quitting these store-bought cancer sticks has been a bitch, though. With one last inhale I crush it in my palm, tossing its remains over the railing as if I was trying to prove to myself that I can resist temptation. With a sigh, I collapse further into my chair. I don’t want to go to Mean Myrtle’s. The only reason Christine invited me was to serve as a buffer between her and Eli. Most times I’m third-wheeling it with them I find myself wondering why he stays with her, but it’s simple. We all have our vices, our proverbial crosses to bear. Mine is smoking, his, Christine. But with time we find a way to moderate and control it, a dangerous habit that hurts us and calls it comfort, we must relearn that the sensation is actually pain. After a stint in the hospital, I quit smoking, for the most part. But Eli would never quit Christine, and who am I to judge. 20 plus years of friendship and loyalty, I haven’t found a way to, either. The newly divorced Ms. Lederman leads her greyhound Thunder past my house and I wave at her. She smiles back. I’m feeling antsy, but it’s not for a smoke. The sun’s setting and a warm desert breeze rolls through. I go inside put on some boots and grab my jacket and keys.
I join a game of pool with a few friends from the tattoo parlor that neighbors my boss’s Wiccan shop. While waiting for my turn, I glance back at our booth, Christine and Eli huddle close together. Her curly hair a dark halo, her dark eyes staring at Eli with intent as she taps her finger on the table emphasizing whatever point she’s trying to make. Eli, still in his greasy Mechanic overalls, responds, refusing to the bait I’m guessing as she shoves at his shoulder and turns to face away from him. She wants him to fight back. He drinks his beer instead. There’s something different about tonight I can’t quite figure out. Eli, a former church kid had been shy back in middle school. But after his father died, it seemed the deeper he got lost in his grief the more he blended into the background. Most of our classmates left him to his solitude, content to pretend he was invisible, but not Christine. She’d write him notes to tell him about the gossip we learned at lunch or the fight at recess. Before class, she’d sneak her snack cakes in his desk whenever her mom packed them in her lunch and every Friday, she’d ask if he wanted to come over with us to do homework before watching some scary movie came on the SciFi channel. Then one day, he said yes. She nursed him back into the side of the living and he’s been stuck on her ever since. That’s always been her. She sees the crooked in everyone and knows it can be straightened out. The irony in her ability to pleat everyone else’s life is the fact she’s never been able to see the answers for herself. To her, her bends are broken, scattered shrapnel she grew tired of maneuvering a long time ago.
Bruce, a piercer and my teammate, makes his shot and wins the game for us, and Tony his roommate offers to buy a round of drinks for us. I order a coke, and he doesn’t question it. Bruce glances at the booth and offers me a sympathetic smile. They all know why I’m not drinking. “GeeGee! C’mere!” I turn to meet the gaze of my best friend, her glassy eyes and mirthless smile beckoning me over. I slide into my seat and Tony drops my drink off, “I got you next time, Georgia” before making his way over to his friends. Christine turns her attention to her boyfriend, “So you gonna tell her?” she challenges, holding his gaze.
Eli’s composure is the epitome of calm, except for the turns his Kevlar wallet in his hands.
“Tell me what?”
Eli forfeits the staring contest answer “I’m taking a job in California, I finally got a chance to use my degree,” he preens.
“Seriously? That’s great, bud!” Christine scoffs, drinking the last of her vodka soda.
He continues, “I’m leaving next week, whether or not Christine comes with me.”
“Whether or not she—wait, why wouldn’t she go with you?”
She arches her brow, “Really? Me in California? What the hell am I going to do there?”
“A lot more than you can do here, that’s for damn sure,” I fail at keeping the indignation out of my voice.
“So what? Sit around playing housewife while he’s off building bridges?”
“Chris, this ain’t the 1950’s, get a job, find a hobby, it’s not rocket science, this is a good opportunity for you two.” She just ignores me, climbs over Eli and makes her way to the bar. She starts up a conversation with a regular and soon she has a small crowd around, her mood completely different. Eli laughs to himself.
“What’s so funny,” I ask, playing with the condensation on my glass.
“God,” he pauses. His jaw worries and he looks like when the principal came to class to get him the day his father died. “It’s going to hurt so bad when I leave her.”
I still. I look him in the eye, ready to argue that they’ll be back together by Sunday, but the look of solemn resoluteness in his eyes shuts me up. The crowd laughs at something she says. And he smiles, at her or a memory, I’m not sure.
“My mom’s taking me to the airport next Friday, I’d like you to be there. I know I never said this, but I never hung out with you just because you were friends with Chris.” He opens his wallet to a picture of us at Red Rock Canyon back in high school. Eli was sandwiched between us as we stretched on our toes to try to kiss him on each cheek. The random old woman who took the photo said he was a lucky guy. “You’re my best friend, too.”
I hold back tears but reach over to grab his hand. He stands up and I follow suit. He opens his arms and I walk into them, giving him the tightest hug. He squeezes back. “I am so proud of you,” I say, trying to ignore how much this feels like a goodbye even though I know it’s not final. “And as soon as you get settled, I’m visiting, so buy a good couch,” I sniffle, silently pleading with the tears threatening to fall. We let go. He opens his wallet, takes a few bills on the table and walks over to Christine who watched the whole thing but will never admit it. He kisses her on the forehead and says something to her. He turns to me and offers a wave before heading towards the door, and Christine follows, “You asshole, really? Y’just gonna leave me here?” I roll my eyes and follow. At least that’s the same.
“Eli, Eli, baby seriously just stay here and talk to me please!” she begs, pulling his arm, I gently peel her off him. He turns to face her, and I can’t help but notice how tired he looks. “Christine, I love you, so much, but I can’t stay and watch you do this anymore. I never thought I could repay for what you did for back then, but I know that leaving you is my way of doing that. One less person giving you permission to fuck yourself over.” That sobers her for a moment, and she steels herself, back rod-straight, she straightens her dress and wipes her eyes. “You’re right. This has been a long time coming. We were always making two things try and fit together that were never supposed to. Nothing good ever comes from something like that. It’s hard to love something like that, at least in a way that lasts.” He scoffs, “Chris, this doesn’t have to be forever, you know that right.” She goes on, “We’re just not a good match, you know what I mean? We are two astral bodies following an orbit. Two separate paths destined to never merge, merely expand farther apart.” Eli starts walking off, “I can’t do this with her now.” He gets to his car and leaves. “She turns to me, “You know that too. It was never in the stars for us, he’s always been such a fucking Aquarius, at most I should’ve prepared for this day. And what does he mean by ‘repay me?’ Who measures a relationship like that? That fucking Asshole!” She screams that last bit so hard her body lurches, making the ugliest noise before she throws up. I do my best to keep her from falling in it. I direct to my car, letting the top down so she can get some air and make way to her trailer at the western edge of town. I turn on the radio and end up on the blues station, she sings along even though she doesn’t know the words. She slouches against the door, hanging out the window. It brings me back to when we took an impromptu road trip. Eli was away at college and we were bored so we decided to take the long route to his university, pick him up, then make our way bigfoot country in Washington, if for nothing but the souvenirs. I think I still have a t-shirt. Anyways, after a creepy exchange with a motel owner, we decided to drive into the night to crash at his dorm while he was in class before getting on the road again. That night, we got into a huge fight. I don’t remember about, it’s never that important anyhow, but the thing that stuck with me was something I said, “Well, maybe it’d do everyone some good to leave you out here, then!” I huffed back to the car and cranked it up. Through my window, the headlights illuminated the road ahead and in the rearview mirror, I saw her basked in the glow of the red taillights. I thought maybe it was a sign, and just sat there thinking trying to figure out what message my boss would infer from it, a few minutes passed, and she eventually walked back to the car and we made it to Eli’s campus, we silently chalked it up to exhaustion. Nights like these take me back to that day, and of all the places we’ve visited, I have yet to see anyone of them compare to a desert’s night sky.
I get to her home and leaving the car running, standing in the light to find her key from all of mine, and eventually get the door open. I drag her the short distance to her bed and grab a small trash bin to put near her for the inevitable round two of her notorious bodily eruptions. In her tiny bathroom, I find some ibuprofen. On my way back, I grab a bottle of water from her fridge and leave them on her nightstand when she grabs my wrist, “How could he ask me to do that, G? Huh, how could he ask me to leave my best friend?”
I smile, “Go to sleep, bug, don’t worry about it.”
“Who’d take care of me the way you do?” she mumbles, eyes refusing to open now. My smile feels plastic as I tuck her in. I get to my car and head home. The night sky closes in as if I could reach out and touch the stars. I can’t help but feel a bit betrayed, the wind drying my tears before they really fall. I don’t want to deal with her alone. I loathe the idea, but I shun it away because she’s my best friend. Because together we grew and shifted and revealed, fought and laughed and that type of energy and devotion transcends logic. This friendship is a scale fighting to be balanced with dirty secrets and confessions, blue demons and white knights, our bias making us blind. Together we stand off-kilter and wobbly-legged and we learned to take those steps together. I’ll never regret my dear Christine. But sometimes, after nights like this, when I drive her to her trailer near the edge of town, and the car smells still like sick, I let myself wish I left her on that fucking road.
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