Wish You Were Here: A Novel

Hours later, I was startled awake by the sun blasting through the large loft window. I was naked and alone in Adam’s bed. I glanced down at my buzzing phone and noticed three missed calls, all from my mom. I quickly texted Helen.

Me: I’m fine. Thanks for caring.

Helen: You guys bone?

Me: I’ll call you later.

Helen: That’s a yes, Major Humperdinck.

Me: Stop texting me.

Helen: Your mom called here twice. Said your phone was off. I told her you were at church. HAHAHAHAHAHAH!

Me: I’ll call her in a sec.

“Adam?” I called out, but he didn’t answer. I figured he was in the bathroom.

I dialed my mom’s number. She picked up on the first ring. “Church? Please. You’ll have to tell Helen to come up with something better than that.”

“I went to get donuts.” I was trying to rush the phone call before Adam came back into the room. “What’d you call for?”

“Nice manners. I just called to say hello. Am I allowed?” she snickered.

“Of course. Sorry, Mom. I’m fine, really.”

“Are you still coming to dinner tonight?”

Right then Adam walked into the room and looked at me peculiarly. “Hello,” he said in a timid voice.

“Ummm . . .” I was tongue-tied.

“Did I hear a man’s voice?” my mother said.

“No. Um, so yeah, I’ll be there for dinner. What time?”

“Around six?”

“That works,” I said. Adam was still staring. He walked over and picked up my clothes and set them on the bed before heading toward the kitchen. That was weird.

“Love you, Mom, I gotta go.”

Just then I heard a loud crash punctuated by a breathy groan from Adam in the kitchen. I ran toward the commotion, sporting just the sheet. He was buckled over, grumbling, “Fuck, fuck!”

I ran around the bar and put my hand on his back. “Oh my god, are you okay?”

He was wincing in pain, holding his hand to his head. “Adam, did you cut yourself?” I looked in the sink at the broken glass and then at his hand. There was no blood. “Adam, I said are you okay?”

He was groaning, clenching his jaw. “I’m okay,” he said finally. “I just . . . too much alcohol last night, not enough sleep.”

“We didn’t drink that much.”

“You know, you’re not really my girlfriend.” And then he glanced toward my clothes on the bed. “I don’t need your help, okay?”

I stared at him for a moment, then stood up and pulled the sheet tighter around me. “Trust me, I wasn’t confused by last night.”

I rushed over to the bed, fighting back tears, grabbed my clothes, and went into the bathroom. What the fuck is happening?

When I walked out of the bathroom, he rose from the kitchen floor and rushed to the door to head me off. “Tell me something.”

“What?”

“Why did you lie?”

“What do you mean?”

“That story . . . of us being together . . .”

I was starting to feel sick to my stomach. “You lied, too.”

“Why’d you do it?”

“Because you wanted me to? Because I wished it were true?”

He shook his head, pinning me with his stare.

“I’m sorry.” I meant it. I was sober and it all seemed so stupid now.

His expression softened. He reached out to touch my face but pulled back. “I think you should go,” he said.

“I’m already one step ahead of you.”

I opened the door and left without looking back.

ONCE I GOT home, I proceeded to mope around my apartment while Helen watched me like a hawk. I had told her everything, watching her face transform from totally excited to completely horrified.

“Did you get his phone number?”

“I know where he lives, Helen. I don’t need his phone number. Also, I never want to see him again.”

She was sorting laundry on the couch, looking on while I opened the refrigerator, stared into it uncomprehendingly, and closed it. Over and over again. But there was no point; I had no appetite.

“I think you should go over there and be like, what’s up? Tell him you’re a grown-up and you know what a one-night stand is. He didn’t have to be a dick.”

I replayed the night and morning in my head. “The weird thing was that he seemed more disappointed than rude.”

“Some guys just aren’t straight up about it. They like to make girls feel stupid so they’ll leave without being told.”

“Oh, he told me.”

I opened the refrigerator again.

“You’re letting all the cold out, Charlie.”

“Do you want to have dinner at my parents’ tonight?”

“Chuck the Fuck gonna be there?” She was referring to my golden-boy brother.

“Who cares?” I said flatly.

“I just hate how your parents dote on him right in front of your face.”

I plopped down on the couch next to her folded laundry. “Mom doesn’t.”

“No, I guess not. Pops is just hard on us.” My parents treated Helen and me like we were sisters. Helen sometimes called my mom “Mom” and my dad “Pops,” though I don’t think he was very fond of the nickname. Growing up, she had spent many weekends at our house, so it was just natural, but I think my dad felt that Helen and I had an unhealthy relationship. Maybe we did, but I didn’t care; she was my only friend.