Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
What would it take to cross the ever-widening distance between us? I was afraid it would take pills. Needles. A crack pipe. I’d grown up with addicts, and I’d always sworn I wouldn’t be one, but standing alone in the middle of hundreds of blissed out people, with my ears hurting, and my heart hurting, I wanted drugs. I wanted to sink down in oblivion and never rise again. Love lies.
Love dies.
Someone shrieked in time with the music, an ear-splitting noise that set me on edge. The person next to me reeked of body odor and the beats were endless, duh duh duh duh duh duh duh duh, over and over to oblivion. My feet throbbed in time to jackhammering rave music, but I couldn’t sit down anywhere or I’d never get the filth off.
I watched Simon on the dance floor, his long hair bobbing, his eyes like deep, black holes in his head. He thrust his hands in the air, waving his arms. His cuffs fell down almost to his elbow. His wrists were so thin. When had he gotten so thin? He was so frail, but I couldn’t shelter him anymore. I had to get out of here before I lost my mind.
I turned and headed back the way we’d come in. Let his friends get him home. Or better yet, let them all die here in this concrete rave death box. Let him bury himself here with the people who idolized him while slowly killing him. I didn’t care.
I covered my ears and pushed my way to the exit. The doorman laughed at me, but it didn’t matter. I knew, finally, that I was doing the right thing. It wasn’t his friends killing him. It was me. I was killing him by letting him kill himself.
No, that couldn’t be right. My conscience was in knots. It wasn’t my fault. It was his. Wasn’t it?
After the stultifying stench inside the club, the humid night air felt cool and cleansing. I tottered down the block. No cabs. I was too tired for this. Fuck it. I was going to sit down and rest, and if any of the jacked-up night crawlers around me tried to mess with me, they’d get a Fendi heel in the eye socket. I was done with this shit. I found a spot free of litter and vomit and planted my ass on the sidewalk, and laid my head against the rough stone wall behind me.
Love lies. W had done everything in his power to show me I was a fuck-up, that my thing with Simon was lame and untenable. Not that it was any of his business. I pressed a fist against my heart. What was I feeling? Tears burned behind my eyes, and I wanted W. I needed W. I needed him to hurt me and punish me, and be really real with me.
I fumbled in my bag for my phone. I had his number from when he’d called me. I’d never tried to use it, for obvious reasons, and now that I needed to use it, I knew it wouldn’t work. He would never have connected us like that, and given me a way to bother him when he didn’t want to be bothered. I called anyway, held the phone to my ear and listened to the whole “this number is not in service” spiel before I shut it off.
I thought for a moment, and then I dialed Henry. When it went to voicemail the first time, I dialed again.
“Geez, Chere,” he said by way of greeting. “It’s four-thirty in the morning. What do you want?”
“I want to know...” My voice wobbled. I was losing it. I couldn’t ask Henry for W’s phone number. That was so against the rules.
I heard rustling, a soft groan. “Where are you?”
I looked around Meatpacking, watched cobblestones blurring mustard yellow under the streetlights. Where had everyone gone?
“I’m nowhere, Henry.” My voice sounded steadier now. “I’m nothing. You of all people should understand.”
He sighed. “Are you at home?”
“No.”
“Do you want me to come get you? Are you safe?”
“Tell me who he is.” I was begging. I had to beg, because I wanted W’s number in the worst way. I just wanted to hear his voice. No, that was a lie. I wanted to know where he lived, so I could go see him right now instead of going home to my bleak loft and my bleak life. I was feeling dangerously needy. “It’s just...I’ve been meeting this guy for weeks now, and I don’t know his name. Who is E.E. Cumming?”
“He’s a poet,” Henry replied in a hard voice.
“I’m not talking about the poet. I’m talking about the asshole I see every week.”
“I know who you’re talking about, and you know I can’t share clients’ contact information.”
“Please tell me his name,” I said. “I won’t use it. I won’t look him up. Just tell me his first name.”