"That's better." She's consoled.
If she knew, "I didn't mean it," was more an insult than an apology she'd be pissed, but the drugs are starting to cloud my mind. Suddenly I don't care about anything else but getting her into this bed.
Sex with Clare is always rough. It's the only way she likes it. She's like some kind of fucking masochist. She wants to be dominated. And she's into some way kinky shit. Sometimes it's cool. Sometimes it's not. But tonight is different. Everything's playing out in slow motion. Everything's softened. It's vanilla sex compared to what we usually do, which should be boring with her, but it's not. I'm into it. I'm taking my time. I'm kissing. I'm touching. I'm pleasing her. And she's pleasing the hell out of me.
When we're done she doesn't want me to leave her bed. So I don't.
I didn't know it then, but that was a mistake. The culmination of many, many mistakes.
When I wake up several hours later, my head feels like a fucking marching band is playing at full volume inside my skull. I stretch and my entire body aches. Then I feel a warm body next to me.
There shouldn't be a warm body next to me.
Please let this be a stranger in bed with me, I think. But I know it's not. And I know I've just fucked up royally. I sneak a peek and sure as shit Clare's next to me. "Shit." This I do say out loud.
Her eyes are closed. "What?" she says. Her voice is still half asleep.
I roll my eyes. "Nothing." I slide out of bed and start looking for my pants. I find them by the door and pull them on. I'll look for my underwear later; I need to get out of here.
She's watching me now, and I can't figure out how she could possibly be smiling at me like that when she took the same shit I did last night. Why doesn't she feel like hell? "Last night was hot," she says. "You're sweet when you want to be. When you let your guard down."
Shit. Shit. This just keeps getting worse. I'm racing through my fuzzy memories of last night and can't come up with much after we got in bed. It's like my memories aren't related to anything physical, but instead take on this dream-like quality. And they're completely unattached to Clare, completely separate. They're hazy and vague, but warm and tender. Like I was some place totally safe. Somewhere I never wanted to leave. I felt love and loved.
Her voice breaks my trance. "I've never had someone make love to me before." She looks like she just won a prize and it makes my stomach churn because for some reason that I can't explain, I know she's right. I didn't fuck her, I made love to her. I'm so confused. I need to get out of here.
I slide the bedroom door open and am about to escape when her next words explain everything. "You called me Bright Side last night. What does that mean?"
I feel bile rise in my throat and there are tears stinging the backs of my eyes. That name from her mouth is desecration. I can't think of anything worse right now than hearing Clare say her name. I turn on her instantly and am standing over her pointing my finger an inch from her face. "Don't you ever fucking say that name again!" I'm yelling.
Her face has flipped from triumphant to shocked.
Franco's out of his bunk now. He's got ahold of my arm and is pulling me out of the room. He sits me down at the table near the driver, and hands me a cigarette and a lighter while he tells our driver, "Pull over, Ed. Gus needs to get out and cool down." My hands are shaking so badly I can barely light the cigarette.
Ed, our driver, pulls the bus to the side of the road and I slip on my Vans and coat, not bothering with a shirt or socks. I step off the bus into the snowy shoulder of what I assume is Dutch countryside. I'm pacing next to the bus and almost done with my first cigarette when Franco joins me.
"What's up, punk ass?" He's wearing his concerned face: brows furrowed and lips tight, turned down in a slight frown. It's the same face he wears anytime something bad happens.
I shrug as I inhale more nicotine into my body. It isn't calming me down like it usually does. My head is throbbing, my heart is racing, and the whole of my body is shaking inside and out. "Did you hear the whole conversation this morning?" The walls are thin; if he was awake, he heard it.
He nods apologetically. "And last night."
I squat and bury my face in my hands. I'm not just embarrassed, I'm lost. I rub my eyes and my hands come away wet. I light another cigarette. I'd rather cut off my right arm than hear the answer to this question, but I force myself to ask it. "What did I say to her last night?"
He eyes me. "You don't remember?" It's not really a question, he knows I don't. He's stalling.
I shake my head.
He scratches his bald head. He doesn't want to answer me, but I know he will because that's what good friends do. They give you the bad news even when you don't want to hear it. "I'm not going to get into all the details, but you kept calling her Bright Side ... while you were having sex. You told her you loved her, dude."
I turn around and scream with everything I've got in me. It feels like my head is splitting open. The pain is excruciating, but it only makes me want to scream longer and louder. When the screaming dies out I can't catch my breath, and before I know it I'm doubled over retching into the snow. I don't remember what I ate last night but it's all over the ground and my shoes now. My stomach empties quickly but my body doesn't relent. I keep heaving. It makes my eyes fill and spill over. And when the heaving stops, I realize that I'm bawling. I'm on the ground now, knees wet with vomit and snow. I bury my face in my forearms and crouch down on the wet, snow covered ground. I'm crying like I cried the moment she died. Crying like my fucking world is about to end. Franco kneels down beside me and puts his hand on my back. "My heart hurts so fucking bad, dude," I gasp. "I miss her. I miss her so much."