“Come on, Libby. I know when something is up.”
I pause. Then I say, “Caleb’s back.”
There was shocked silence. Gladys Knight was on the radio. Jim’s fingers are absently tapping the steering wheel to the beat of the song.
“He’s back.” This comes as a statement instead of a question. I can hear the distaste in his voice and I don’t blame him. Caleb had always been a thorn in Jim’s flesh, especially when I eventually chose Caleb over Jim.
“Olivia,” he turns the radio off and stubs out his cigarette, which means I’ll get to watch the whole lighting process again in a few minutes. “In what way is he back?”
I have no intention of telling him about the amnesia.
“I don’t know. He’s just back and I don’t really care why.”
Jim narrows his eyes and appears to be looking suspiciously at the road.
“I don’t know what it is with you and that ass**le. Four years and a bad breakup later and you’re still in a f**king chemical romance with basketball Ken.”
I don’t want to hear it. Not from Jim. Not from Cammie. In my wildest dreams I never imagined this twist to my story. A thousand girls could tell me that they would have done something different than what I did the day I pretended not to know Caleb, and I wouldn’t care. This was my re-do.
“It happened by accident. I didn’t go looking for him, so just shut the hell up about it.”
We pull up to the front of the club and I hop out before the valet can open the door. I wait for Jim as he unwinds his long body from the car and tosses his keys to the attendant. He is pissed. I can see it on his face. More than once he’s accused me of using him as a fall back when Caleb’s not around. I walk in front of him, ignoring the beating his eyes are giving me. I feel kind of badass tonight, so it’s not hard. It’s none of his damn business anyway—meddling, eyeliner wearing, punk. Jim hates weakness, and by God, Caleb is mine. But I have faith that by the time we start dancing, he will get over it.
The Wave is filled wall to wall with vibrating bodies. Jim grabs my hand and pulls me through the throng of dancers until we reach the bar. Most of the girls turn to look at us. What is a razor edged rocker doing with a softie like me? I bristle under their curious eyes, fanning out a couple of dirty looks.
Jim lays a fifty on the slimy bar and orders four shots of tequila. I ready our limes, and smile at him.
“Are you still mad?” I ask.
The bartender slides the shot glasses towards us and we both claim two. Jim shrugs.
“Does it matter?”
I pour the first one down my throat and suck on a lime to pull the flavor. Tequila is gross.
“I don’t want you to be mad. I hardly get to see you.”
Jim does this triple blink thing that makes him look really annoyed and then he kisses me on the cheek.
“Let’s just have fun.”
He orders two more shots and we clink our glasses together. We linger at the bar for a few minutes watching the dance floor. We are still too sober to let loose.
“Let’s go do some dance floor humping,” he says, tossing his lime peel into the trash. I follow him into the wiggling crowd as the tequila finds my head.
We dance until my feet feel numb and my hair is damp with sweat. Jim touches me more than he usually does. I equate it to Caleb’s return. Men always need to piss on everything they feel is theirs. I let him pull me close. I am too drunk to care. It reminds me of the scene in Dirty Dancing where Baby crashes the employee party clutching the watermelon. We are dancing face-to-face, dirty. Jim doesn’t believe in the bumping and grinding, the token dance of teenagers. He calls it dirty spooning. We dance face to face. I find something very honest in that.
We don’t leave until the D.J. starts packing away his equipment.
“You okay to drive?” I ask him. I felt like I am bobbing in space.
Jim snickers. “I’m as sober as a Preacher on a Sunday morning,” he twangs in a mock Southern accent.
On the ride home I keep my eyes closed and let the wind blow over my face. We don’t speak much. Jim plays an old Marcy Playground CD that we used to listen to in college. Sex and Candy. I giggle when he sings loudly to the words.
When we pull up to my apartment, he hops out of the car and follows behind me to the door.
“Was this a date? Why are you walking me home?” I laugh. I dig around in my purse for the keys while he watches.
When I look up, he is staring at me funny.
“Jim?” I ask, taking a step toward him. “Are you okay?” I think that maybe he is sick. His face is blank and a little flushed, like someone who is deciding if they are about to throw up. I pull to a stop when he suddenly jerks forward. At first I think he is going to be sick but at the last minute he veers right for my face and tries to kiss me. I turn my head so his lips land in a wet mess on my cheek. When he pulls back, his eyes are red. “What are you doing?” I ask. Jim and I never go there. It’s an unspoken rule of mine.
He is so close that I have to bend my head all the way back to see his face. We haven’t kissed since college.
“Is it because I’m not him, Olivia? Fucking, Caleb?”
I shake my head. I feel so fuzzy. I can’t seem to formulate words quickly enough.
“It’s not like that with us, Jim. Why now?”
“You know sex doesn’t always have to mean something. It can be done for fun.”
His eyes are blinking, blinking, like he’s trying to expel me from his vision. What am I supposed to say to that?