Chapter 21
Casey was never one for drowning his sorrows, but right about now, bellying up to Beers’ bar was all he could think to do. And it seemed to fit his mood pretty well. If only Darryl, Elliot, and Nate would shut the hell up and let him drink—and ruminate—in peace.
But no—Darryl was talking. Again. Or was it yet? Either way, it was irritating as hell.
“I dunno. Maybe George is right,” he ventured, hesitating a bit when Casey glowered at him. Didn’t stop him entirely, though. Nothing much ever did. “Maybe you should listen to her, man.”
“Oh, right. I’ll just let the woman I love walk away, and I’ll go date someone else because she told me to. That’s brilliant, D.”
The other men flinched, and Casey rolled his eyes. Of course the use of the “L” word, from Casey of all people, who’d never talked much about his love life (sparse as it was), would be a shock. But they didn’t have to act that thunderstruck.
Elliot, most recently married and still stupid-in-love with his wife, was the most sympathetic. “It does suck, Case,” he said, leaning past his friend to grab the fresh bottle of beer Charlie Junior set down for him. “I mean, I like George. And I like Celia. You got yourself in a pickle.”
“That’s the best you can do?” Nate demanded. “Just talk all folksy? Give the poor boy some real advice!”
“I don’t see you offering up any,” Elliot challenged.
“Well, I’m biased. After all, I’m Team George—”
Nate stopped short as Casey gave him a withering look. After the fiasco of the Fourth, several days ago, Casey had forbidden his friends from uttering the words “Team George” or “Team Celia” in his presence ever again. He’d also confiscated their shirts and pitched them into the farm’s burn barrel. And he’d forced them to stand there and watch them go up in flames.
“How about we don’t talk about it at all?” Casey snapped. “No offense, but you guys are as useless as a sack of marshmallow hammers.”
The men spread out along the bar as the place thinned out, each taking a stool, Darryl to Casey’s left, Elliot and Nate to his right, and they drank in silence for a while. It didn’t make Casey feel as good as he expected, but it was better than their yammering.
When Darryl reached his limit for allowable silence—and alcohol tolerance—he started muttering, head bowed, as though talking to the brass rail. Unfortunately, Casey caught one comment—something along the lines of “those crazy Down girls anyway.”
Casey drained his beer. “Don’t fixate on what happened with you and Sera,” he cautioned. “That’s a totally separate issue.”
“She outed me.”
“I know. I was there.”
“She
outed
me!”
“You said you were ready.”
“Yeah, I
said
that. Didn’t mean I meant it.”
“Well, how the hell was she supposed to know?”
“I don’t know! She just . . . was!”
“Oh, that makes a lot of sense.” Casey heaved a sigh. “We’ve been having this same conversation for a dozen years. You know that, right?”
“So?”
“So you should be having it with Sera, not me. Maybe you’d finally clear the air, be friends again.”
“Not a chance.”
“Dammit, you’re as stubborn as ‘those crazy Down girls’.”
They glared at each other blearily. Neither Darryl nor Casey was backed up by Nate and Elliot, who were engaged in a heated debate about the local triple-A baseball team. Casey would have preferred to join in that conversation if he’d caught it from the beginning; as it was, he wasn’t sure if they were arguing fielding or coaching or the quality of the hot dogs at the concession stand. Just as he started to tune in to what they were saying, Darryl boomed out again.
“Are you telling me all this time you thought Sera was right?”
“I never said that,” Casey droned, tired of repeating the same tired lines for this many years.
“So you’re just taking her side because you’re hot for George?”
“There’s no connection, D. But over the years I have learned one thing about the Down girls.”
“What’s that?”
“They can see right through you.”
“Me?”
“You, me, anybody. And they take matters into their own hands. Sera probably figured you wanted to be outed so you didn’t have to do it yourself.” He added in an undertone, “Turned out she was right.”
Darryl seemed to inflate to twice his size. “Dammit, Bowen!”
In spite of himself, Casey tensed, wondering if Darryl was going to take a swing at him. He never had, but the way Casey’s luck was going, he wouldn’t have been surprised in the least if today was the day. And, he had to admit to himself, he’d kind of welcome it. A good, physical knockdown might get him out of his funk. He goaded Darryl a little more, curious to see what would happen.
“What’s your problem? It’s the truth, isn’t it?”
Darryl deflated almost immediately and hunched back over his beer. No punch today, then. Relieved, Casey let out the breath he’d been holding. Could’ve been ugly. Darryl was soft, but he had a whole lot of leverage behind him.
“Stop analyzing my life and take a look at your own, instead,” Darryl growled.
“You brought it up!”
“You heard me.”
“I know what I want. It’s George who doesn’t.”
“So go convince her you love her.”
“I tried. Didn’t work. I’m not taking your advice anymore. ‘Fix it,’ you said. And look what happened. She shot me down. Again.”
Darryl started chuckling. “You say it’s not payback for what you did back in high school, but damn, it sure looks like it. She’s getting you good.”
“I don’t think she’s trying to punish me.”
“Think again, buddy.”
Things that happened during my relationship with Lucifer that I thought were all right and now realize were Very Wrong.
- We didn’t argue. We merely tensely disagreed. This is not civilized; it is twisted. You need a good shouting match to clear the air every once in a while; otherwise the dark thoughts build up like poison. But not too much shouting, of course. Couples should fight intelligently and—although it sounds weird—in a caring manner in order to air grievances, fix things, and move forward. Not clearing the air leaves you stuck. And believe me, it’s all too easy to lie to yourself and believe not arguing is a good thing. Then you hide behind your false peace. And you never move forward. And when the poison reaches too great a level . . . well. Death.
- I had no friends. This is not proof that your significant other is all you need in life; it’s isolating. I found that out when I needed to call someone to talk about my problems and realized everyone I had known even a couple of years ago were no longer on my radar. I’d voluntarily left them behind, at the passive-aggressive nudging of Lucifer. (“She’s not a very good friend to you; I don’t know why you hang out with her,” etc.) You need friends, and your significant other shouldn’t feel threatened by your having them. If s/he does, check his/her mental state.
- I had no job. It’s not a bad thing, depending on your situation—if it’s what you and your S.O. agree upon, it can work out fine. But when one person wants it and the other one doesn’t (guess which one I was), it can turn the jobless person into a prisoner in the relationship. It also didn’t help that I had no outside interests, and when I tried to establish some, Lucifer discouraged me until I gave those up too. Just another type of isolation.
- Lucifer gradually, subtly convinced me that everything he wanted was correct and everything I wanted was not.
Nobody is right all the time, and anyone who tries to convince you that they are is Very Wrong. In a romantic relationship, both sides’ views should be considered equally. When one side’s score is one hundred percent and the other side’s score is zero, you’ve got a problem. (Hint: You can find the problem easily—it’s the side with the one hundred percent score.)
- Over time, I forgot who I was. I was nobody. I was an extension of my boyfriend. I abandoned all my interests (because I was told they were Very Wrong) and adopted his. When I left, all I took with me were my clothes and my toothbrush—nothing else, not even my opinions. Because I didn’t have any. They’d all been mocked and belittled right out of me, and I was too intimidated to form new ones. Don’t let this happen to you.
That’s enough for now. I’m sure I’ll think of other stuff later. Hey, it’s what subsequent blog posts are for, right?
George sat back and stared at her old blog entry, her insides roiling. Seeing the remnants of her former self stirred up all kinds of emotions, and they were all violently colliding, like she was hosting the world’s smallest demolition derby in her chest. But she reread every word. It was imperative she remind herself of what happens in relationships, what had happened to her just a few years ago. She’d almost forgotten, and she could never allow that. If she did, she ran the risk of repeating the same disaster with yet another guy . . . and she had to be honest, if anybody was going to get her to cave and make another massively bad decision, it was Casey.
Then a tiny voice shouted over the cacophony of crashes in that echoing cavity where her heart was supposed to be:
Hey, Casey wouldn’t do the same thing to you. Even Sera says he’s a good guy.
Oh great. The Optimism Fairy. George just couldn’t manage to kill that thing, no matter how hard and how frequently she tried. She told it to shut up and go stand over there, right in the middle of the arena, and await further instructions. There, it’d get pancaked between two half-demolished cars—maybe three, if she was lucky—any second now. She waited quietly for the anguished scream that proved the little Optimism Fairy had met its maker.
It didn’t come.
She decided she needed more ammo. Oh yeah, this old entry should do the trick.
Hi DoLlies. I had a dark, backslidey moment the other day, and I wanted to tell you about it. My roommate brought home a new boyfriend (she goes through quite a few, and rather quickly), and as I was listening to them go at it on the other side of our adjoining bedroom wall for the third time in as many hours, I hate to admit it, but I started wishing I had someone special in my life. (Get your fingers off that keyboard! I have told you time and again I am not up for grabs! I said it was a moment of darkness, not a change of heart!)
Anyway, it sort of made me want to booty-call Lucifer, or—even worse—contact him at a normal time of day instead of three in the morning, and ask if he’d like to “get some coffee” and “just talk about things.”
Did I actually call him? No, I did not. Is that progress?
God, she was so weak. More reminders. More.
Guest post! Please welcome Andrea and behold her Tale of Woe:
I had been going out with Vlad the Impaler for about a year. Okay, he’s not actually a vampire, but he managed to stick a fang in my hopes and dreams and drain them dry before I even knew what hit me, so the name applies. He led me to believe we’d be together forever. He told me he loved me. I believed him. I was an idiot.
We went on vacation to Mexico. We were in a market, browsing the stalls. The proprietor of one stall struck up a conversation with Vlad. I had taken Spanish in school, so I can make out some of it, but darned if I can speak it anymore. Anyway, I overheard the guy ask Vlad if we were newlyweds. I blushed, thinking it was so sweet. Even though I played it cool, pretending not to be paying attention, I was listening really closely, because I couldn’t wait to hear what Vlad was going to say.
He practically bit the guy’s head off—started yelling that we were
sólo amigos,
“just friends.” Yikes, right? He knew the Spanish word for “girlfriend,” but he refused to use it. In fact, there was no “amor” in there anywhere.
I didn’t say anything, but when we got back to the hotel, he started acting all weird, and then, out of the blue, he freaked out and broke up with me in the middle of our vacation. Because a total stranger thought we looked cute together and innocently asked if we were married. I got dumped in the middle of Mexico, where I’d never been before, and I had a really fun time trying to make my way back to Mexico City on my own to get out of the country a week earlier than planned.
Whatta guy, right?
Oh yeah. That was a good one. George paused and listened closely for any sound of the Optimism Fairy, maybe fluttering her wings feebly as she tried to extricate herself from the midst of a many-car pileup.
Nothing.
Nothing was good.
George knew the Mexico entry would do her in. Because there was no “Andrea.” The entry was one of the ones she’d made up early on, before she’d built up a following and people started sending in their dating horror stories. “Vlad’s” real name was Freddy (maybe she should have used it in the blog entry to really convey what a horror show that relationship was). They’d done the too-fast-too-soon two-step and crashed and burned quickly. Yeah, she had a million of her own Tales of Woe—if nobody else had ever sent her one, she could have kept the blog going with her own anecdotes for a good long time. God, so humiliating, but there it was. She sucked at picking guys. She’d have loved to blame the men, but if she channeled Jaz and looked for a common denominator, she had to acknowledge it was her.
This was probably one of the entries Casey had read and figured out she was the real author. How did he
do
that?
I know you,
he’d said. Good grief, what if he really, truly did? What if he could see right through her? There would be nowhere to hide. And she really, truly wanted to hide.
She knew a good place for that. As long as Amelia was actually napping for once (miracle of miracles), she could hide in her blog. First she went back into the Vlad the Impaler entry and put an asterisk after the name “Andrea,” then added a footnote stating it was really her. Then she did the same for the other entries she’d fabricated. Time to come clean with an entry explaining her past foibles and begging for forgiveness from her DoLlies. She hoped they’d accept her apology; it was better late than never. After that, she’d check her inbox. There was sure to be a whole batch of new messages; it was time to start mining for some gold.