Page 42 of Unwrapped
I shudder, thinking about how close I came to having sex with three football players from another college. It was right before Thanksgiving break. My roommates and our guy friends had gone home for the holiday. Since Jude didn’t have a home to go to, and I had to work at the coffee shop all weekend, we chose to stay on campus. I wasn’t dating Ryan yet, but I’d already humiliated myself trying to kiss Dean.
I was sad and lonely as fuck when I crashed a party my coworker had mentioned. I have no idea how much vodka I drank that night. I don’t know who answered my ringing phone when Jude called to check on me after I didn’t come home from work. That guardian angel—whomever it was—gave him the party’s address. I can’t fathom what would’ve happened if he hadn’t shown up.
I vaguely remember being forcibly kissed by more than one guy, but then I blacked out. Although a chunk of time is missing, my memory holds flashes of a scuffle.
The next morning, I woke up on Jude’s couch, wearing his clean clothes, with a puke bucket beside me. He was sporting a black eye and a split lip.
He relayed how he busted into a room where a trio of guys had me partially undressed. I was barely conscious, but they were still clothed, which made him believe the worst hadn’t yet happened. He said he went apeshit and dragged me out of the bedroom, then brought me back to his place. Once we were safely in his suite, he stripped me down and put me in the shower—twice—because I kept barfing all over myself. He slept on the other couch so he could keep an eye on me. Then, after breakfast, he drove me to a clinic to get checked out—just in case his earlier assumptions were incorrect.
“Slightly tipsy is OK. I don’t want to be anywhere near the level of drunk I was at that party. Like, ever again. I try not to think about that night.” Or talk about it. I was too ashamed to tell my roommates what happened. Jude kept his mouth shut too. To this day, he and I are the only ones who know about my stupidity.
“Same here. I’m sorry I brought it up.” He clears his throat. “My point is, I need you to trust me about the wedding. I’m driving, so you’re more than welcome to have a few worry-free drinks. I won’t let you get wasted, and I promise to get you home in one piece.”
“Thanks for having my back.”
“I’ll always have your back, Cami. What time do you want me to pick you up?”
“The ceremony starts at four, so three would be great. That will give us plenty of time to get there in case there’s traffic.”
“Perfect. I’ll see you then. Do me a favor and relax, OK?”
“I’ll try.” I’m not sure the wordrelaxationis in my vocabulary, but I don’t want to burden Jude with that.
We end the call, and I return to my book, comforted by the fact that I’ll have moral support for the wedding I want to skip.
Now if only I could skip ahead to the part where my heart stops hurting.
Mood Music: “You’re the Only Place” by Josh Groban
My mother is the reigning queen of disappointment, and she has zero qualms when it comes to making people aware of her disdain. Her current problem? Me. I was supposed to take her to Midnight Mass at her church because she loves the Christmas Eve festivities, but I had the audacity to cancel.
It’s noon. I just woke up after working the overnight shift at the hospital. It was crazy in the ER—like it always is during the holiday season—and I’m too fucking tired to deal with my mother’s dramatics.
“I never see you.”
“We had lunch two days ago,” I remind her, pinching the bridge of my nose. I’d eaten three quarters of my meal—while listening to her drone on about my brother’s campaign—before she even asked how I was doing. Not that I would’ve told her about my broken heart, but still. It would’ve been nice to feel like I mattered for once.
“Ryan won’t be around either. What, am I supposed to sit in a pew all by myself?”
“Ask Gail.” She’s my mother’s ornery, judgmental neighbor. Gail likes to complain almost as much as Mom does. I’m sure they’ll love criticizing the other parishioners’ outfits.
“I don’t want to go to church with Gail, I want to go with you.” She sounds like a petulant toddler now, and it’s pissing me the fuck off.
I squeeze the phone in a vise grip. “I’m sorry, but I can’t take you this time.”
“What could possibly be more important than spending time with your mother?”
“Gee, I dunno, my fucking mental health,” I snap, as decades of frustration bubble over.
“Dean Thomas West, you watch your mouth when you speak to me.”
“Watch my mouth?” I release a humorless laugh. “Funny, I expected something along the lines of, ‘Are you OK?’ but evidently, that’s too much to ask.”
“Excuse me?”
“Look, I’m sorry I can’t do church tonight, but I am thirty-four years old. I don’t need to explain my reasons to anyone.”
“I don’t care how old you are, I’m still your mother, and I don’t like your tone.”
