The door swings open and I am greeted by neon brilliance. Hues of pink, purple, and blue flash upon the club’s interior. The pounding of electronic bass drums through the soles of my feet. Another flash of color provides a glimpse of the entangled sweaty bodies moving to the music: gyrating, jumping, fists pounding into the air. I divert to the bar.  

        I order a gin and tonic as I feel a thick bead of sweat slide down my temple. It had to be ninety degrees in here. I sip the drink gratefully and to survey the crowd. I spot her instantly. Somehow, she stands out.

She is holding a drink, swaying back and forth to the beat. The blonde leans forward and whispers something in her ear. Clarice throws her head back in laughter, more than half of her drink sloshing to the floor. She glances at her mess, mocks a pout, then breaks into more giggles. I realize I’m smiling too, as if included in her group, but I’m not and force my lips back into a straight line.

Clarice turns from her friends. A skinny guy in tight jeans reaches for her hand, urging her backwards. He has smooth dark skin and perfectly tousled hair. He has the type of face women like. Clarice shakes him off. She moves for the open spot beside me and rests her forearms on the bar top. She leans forward, probably hoping the bartender will pick her out among the sea of thirsty guests.

I gulp my gin and tonic… this is my chance. It is literally now or never. “Hi,” I stutter, revolted by the insecurity in my voice.

She smiles then refocuses on the bartender.

“I…” begin but can’t seem to form words. My mouth goes dry and I down the rest of my cocktail. “You’re Clarice, right?” The gin gives me just enough courage to speak.

Her brow furrows. “Yeah. Do I—”

“It’s me, Billie. Billie Dunne. I don’t know if you remember—”

“Billie!” Her eyes go wide. “Holy shit! I thought you looked familiar, but I never expected to run into you here of all places. You look so different.”

She looked different too. A diamond sparkles from her small nose. Her hair is shorter than it had been in high school, hovering just above her shoulders. But what hasn’t changed is her eyes. Big pools of sky blue. They are the type of eyes that cause you to go weak in the knees if you stare into them for too long.      

“It’s good to see you, Clarice.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Everyone calls me Clare now… I prefer it.”

I frown. There is so much I don’t know about her.

“Clarice is a bit Hannibal Lectorish, you know?” Her cheeks dimple. We laugh.

“Yeah, I suppose so.”

She studies me, perhaps waiting for me to say more. “Can I buy you a drink?” I ask.  

###

“Come on, Billie,” she says while pulling on my arm.

“I don’t want your boyfriend to get mad,” I blurt, reminded of the skinny guy with nice hair. The guy who had pulled her back when she’d turned to leave. The last thing I need is an altercation because of some misunderstanding. Things escalate quickly when alcohol and women are involved. If the police were to get called, that could end badly for me.  

“My boyfriend?” Her forehead wrinkles. She hooks a thumb back at the skinny guy. “You mean Mason? He’s not my boyfriend.”

I nod. Women are not my area of expertise, but I know that when a woman says the guy they’re with isn’t their boyfriend, the guy probably feels differently. And if they really aren’t the boyfriend, you can damn well bet the want to be.

“Follow me,” she says, her hand still attached to my arm.

So, I give in and allow her to drag me through the hoard of sweaty dancing bodies. The pounding of the bass and flashing of strobe lights is overwhelming. I squeeze her hand tighter. If I were to lose her now, I’m not sure I’d be able to find her again.

We push deeper into the swarm. The drink I attempt to steady in my hand spills to the floor. Glassy eyed drunks step into our path. Someone even slaps my ass as we pass by. Sweat pours down my face. We might never get out of this mash of drunk people. Then, I see an opening. The light at the end of the tunnel, or more accurately, the word ‘Lounge’ illuminated in incandescent red. Clare leads me to an empty booth in a corner where the music is quieter. I slide into the seat across from her and sip what meager portion remains of my cocktail.

“It’s insane in here tonight,” Clare says.

“Tell me about it.

We proceed to talk our way through each other’s lives. Asking and answering all the questions people have after not seeing each other for eleven years. Where do you live? What do you do for work? Do you remember so and so?   

I learn Clare attended New Hampshire University and majored in English. She works at a small publishing house specializing in nonfiction books. It’s not the best job, but it pays the bills. Writing and reading poetry are her secret pleasures. She had a serious relationship for three years before they split. He wanted kids, she wasn’t ready.  

The questions prove increasingly more difficult for me. My life is significantly less interesting and the secrets much greater than poetry. Lies threaten to form on my tongue but honesty is usually better. When your honest you don’t need to worry about forgetting the lies later. So, I tell her about my gig stocking shelves at the convenience store. I share a few funny stories about Gus and Darlene. I say I have a tiny apartment which isn’t entirely a lie. I just fail to mention my apartment is a closet.

“How are your parents?” I ask.

“They’re good. To be honest, they haven’t changed much in the past decade. They’re still living in the old neighborhood. My dad wants to downsize to an apartment, but I don’t think my mom’s ready.” She sips her drink. “How about your… I mean… have you been back to visit?”  

I take a long swallow of my drink before shaking my head. “I haven’t been back in eleven years.” The memory surfaces.

Blood.

There is so much blood.

“Yeah, I understand. I’m sorry. I should have never brought it up.” Her gaze falls to the table. “I wasn’t sure if you still talked to your brother.”

“No, we lost contact,” I manage to mumble, but the images are consuming my mind. The deep red pool is expanding. My step father kneels before it, a human heap in front of him. He is screaming. God, he is screaming like I’ve never heard him do before. It’s a horrible cry that feels like a glass has exploded in my head, shards sticking into my brain. My throat hurts. A bad taste in my mouth. What has he done?

“Billie?” Clare places her hand on top of mine.  

“Sorry.” I recoil from her touch, desperate for my gin and tonic. The remainder of the beverage glides smoothly down my esophagus. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t even want to think about that day ever again, is what I want to yell. I let Clare steer the conversation instead. She is smart enough to know that I do not want to talk about my family.  

“Remember when we were kids? We were, I don’t know, maybe fourteen and we spent all summer trying to climb that damn oak tree in your back yard,” she says.

“Ugh, that was horrible. Those branches were so gnarled we could barely get our footing.”

 She smiles. “No matter how many times we failed we’d be back out there the next day.”

“I don’t think we ever did make it to the top of that tree. Well, I definitely went higher than you, but—”

“Liar,” she says, giving me a playful swat.

I smirk.

“We thought those days would last forever,” Clare admits, looking down. “I guess we grew up.”

I want to object, but it is true. We never did play again. Our dying friendship wasn’t intentional. We just drifted apart. That fall we started high school. Clare grew her hair long and started wearing makeup. The guys took notice. She evolved into the type of girl that people stopped in the hall to gossip with, that got invited to parties, that skipped school to drive to the beach and drink beers stolen from parents. I, on the other hand, failed to thrive. I was never really bullied, not in the conventional sense anyway. No one called me a loser or pushed me against lockers. Instead, I was invisible, which sometimes I suspect is worse.

Once in geography Mr. Tyler called my name and a girl up front replied, “We don’t have a Bill in our class.” Mr. Tyler pointed to the back corner where I sat. “Yes, we do. He’s right there.” The whole class spun around and stared at me like I was an alien the government captured and put on display behind bars.

        Clare did not recall that particular incident and I let her tell the stories for the rest of the night. We are really hitting it off. I feel like we are picking things up right where we’d left them.

        “I used to see you peeking through the fence when I’d be out tanning,” she giggled.

        Oh no! Heat rushes up my neck and onto my cheeks. “I… I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that.” But I did know why. I simply couldn’t help myself. We’d been sixteen and she was beautiful. She would take her bikini top off and lay on her stomach and, if I looked at just the right angle, I could make out the swell of her tanned breasts glistening in the sun.  

        “It’s okay.”

“No Clarice… Clare, it’s not okay. I was young, stupid. I didn’t want you to know I did that ever.” My hand rises to my forehead, wiping at the new sweat beginning to form.  

“And I didn’t want you to know that I liked it,” she says with a mischievous smile.

        My mouth nearly falls to the table. If all this time she liked me, how did we manage to drift apart? Why had she gone to homecoming with Brett Cushing instead of me. I want to ask her all these things, but suddenly the lights flick on. The music comes to a sudden halt.  

        Clare glances at her cellphone. “Oh my God, it’s already 1:00a.m. Time flies. While I’m thinking of it, let me get your phone number.”

“I don’t have phone.”

“You can’t be serious?”

I nod. “Call me old fashion.”

“All right, well we will deal with that later. Night cap at my place? It’s right down the street.”

Once again, I follow her.

Next Chapter: Chapter 9