32. Renee

Post-traumatic stress disorder—or, as I like to call it: too many words for stating the obvious.

No hate to the field of psychology, but I feel like “bad thing happened, so now, you”re fucked in the head” is something us peons who”ve been living with no medical insurance already knew.

Too harsh? Maybe. But what”s really harsh is thinking you swept up all the glass from your fiancé’s most recent tantrum, only to step on a shard of it the morning after.

Harshis the way it slices through your vulnerable, bare foot, sending you stumbling over your own toes and into a series of attempts to stay upright that end in you unceremoniously sprawled out on the floor, bleeding like a stuck pig.

The thing is, it won”t be the pain of the glass or even the fuck-your-funny-bone fall that makes you start to cry—it”s the memory of the night before.

The specific decibel of shattering glass.

The unforgettable image of a camera being smashed to smithereens.

No matter how hard you hope that it was all a dream, the corpse of that camera and all its disembodied parts collected on your counter is undeniable proof.

That”sharsh.

When I get myself together—well, as “together” as I can be right now, anyway—I tend to my foot. It”s a pathetic baby deer hobble to my bathroom. Tweezers. Alcohol. There”s a brief thought that maybe if I allow my foot to get infected, I could sue Deacon for giving me sepsis.

On second thought, maybe potential loss of limb isn”t worth it.

When my foot is sufficiently stingy and probably clean enough, I try to have a normal day.

Hour one: DoorDash myself some morning In-N-Out.

Hour two: Ignore a handful of calls from my mother and delete the voicemails without listening to them.

Hours three through infinity: Doomscroll photography sites for a new camera, making myself sad again, knowing any new camera I get will be at the mercy of Deacon”s wrath.

I”m in full depresso mode. A steaming cup of why-me, topped in a dollop of where-did-I-go-wrong and sweetened with a dash of how-do-I-end-this?

Is it pathetic?

Yes.

Do I care?

Not even a little bit.

Lost in the sad sauce of my own making, I drape face-down on the couch. “Siri, how long does it take to suffocate yourself in couch cushions?” I mumble into the cushions.

I wait. But my phone doesn’t answer.

It does start buzzing a second later. I grimace. Ten bucks says it”s one of my parents calling to remind me what a disappointment I am to them. It keeps buzzing, though, and I realize that the cadence of the vibrations is off. It’s not Satan or his mistress calling me—it’s a text message thread.

I swipe open to see something I needed in the worst possible way.

DANNI: I miss girls’ nights! We need a girls’ night. So we”re having a girls’ night.

MICHELLE: Is that a question or an order?

DANNI: It”s whatever you want it to be. I miss Renee. Let”s go out

MICHELLE: I”m down. I wanna drink

MICHELLE: Renee, where you at? Come w/ us

MICHELLE: Just cuz Weston”s a steaming pile of shit with a little :eggplant emoji: doesn”t mean we can”t be friends still.

I laugh. Can”t help it. Weston definitely doesn”t have a little eggplant, but the pettiness is appreciated. There are a series of questions that need to be answered first, though.

Can I get away with going out? I think I can finagle it. I can”t drink, but that doesn”t mean I can”t have any fun.

What if Deacon finds out? That question is poison in my mind. I hate that I immediately go there—having to consider Deacon”s reaction to something that shouldn”t even be a problem. He”s allowed to go out with his friends. He”s allowed to get shit-faced and fuck and feel his feelings. Why can’t I?

Do I give a shit if this all goes south? The most important answer of all: no. No, I do not.

Furiously, I type out a message. Fuck yeah, I”m down. Give me an hour or so.

But I don”t hit send.

My thumb hovers over the button. Hesitating. I think about my camera.

What will he break next if I do this?

This timidity feels fucking gross. I left Deacon once. I made the choice that most women in my forced-by-birth social circle would never do: I chose to face the world on my own two feet, not letting a man—be it my father or my partner—tell me what I was going to do or how I was going to do it.

But things are different now. I have something to lose. I have a baby to think of.

I delete my first response and type out a new one.

RENEE: Can”t. Busy. Sorry.

I toss my phone aside, but even that is half-hearted. My eyes sting as my phone buzzes several times with new messages I don”t look at.

Suck it up, buttercup. This is the life you chose, remember?

Regret is a thing of the past.

I spend the rest of my day wallowing in my own misery. It’s embarrassing, really. But there”s no one around to witness my spiral, so I just let it happen. When night falls, I”m ready to hit the bed early.

But something stops me.

Deacon, stumbling his way once more through my part of the estate.

He comes barging in, clothes disheveled. That acrid booze-plus-sex-sweat combo lingers on him. Where he finds the time to hunt down women who actually consent to sleep with him, I don”t know. I don”t think I want to know, either. Some dirty secrets are better left uncovered.

I don”t want a repeat of the night before, so I clear my throat and say in a neutral, polite voice, ”Deacon, this is my side of the house.”

He tumbles onto the couch with a wordless grunt. Ironically, I think this face-down position is exactly how I was earlier, minus the stale vodka oozing out of every pore.

”Deacon?”

He doesn”t reply. Panic jumps into my chest and I rush over to him, flipping him onto his back.

”Deacon!”

What happens if he dies? How do you fix alcohol poisoning? Would anyone believe I had nothing to do with this?

I used to watch a lot of Law Order. This feels like the set up to a very cheesy but highly entertaining did-the-battered-wife-off-her-husband episode—which is the last thing I need in my life right now.

Fuck, fuck, fuck?—

Suddenly, Deacon lets out a riotous snore.

And promptly rolls off the couch into a puddle of pathetic limbs on the floor. He mutters something in his sleep that sounds vaguely like, “Wanna fuck?” I gag a bit, my stomach turning at the thought. It occurs to me that maybe that”s why he”s here, drunk.

Did he seriously think he was going to come on to me? After last night? Like this?

Like a light switch, my self-pity is flicked over to absolute irritation. Who the fuck does Deacon think he is? Destroying my shit, thinking he can lord over me? Thinking he can come into my designated part of the house to fuck me?

I. Don’t. Think. So.

I snatch my phone up, opening the group chat with Danni and Michelle.

DANNI: Awww. No girls night, Renee?

DANNI: It”s been so long I miss you! :crying emoji:

MICHELLE: It”s okay we can catch you another time.

MICHELLE: If you change your mind, we”re here.

Below the message there”s a geotag of the bar they”re going to. It”s a fifteen-minute Uber away. By Los Angeles standards, that’s practically right next door.

Alright.

Fuck it.

I”m out of here.

Deacon is so plastered that I manage to shower, get dressed, and move around the pool house without him so much as letting out a drunken fart on the floor. Not wanting to catch a charge, I do check on him to make sure he”s still, y’know, functioning. His pulse is strong despite what smells like an entire brewery in his system.

Pettily, I snap a picture from his least flattering angle just in case I need blackmail material for later. It’s quite the sight.

Tongue: out and trailed on the floor. Spittle on the lips for added effect.

Clothes: wrinkled beyond dry cleaning help.

Hair: greasy, sweaty, and smelly.

Since he”s all about appearances, the last thing he”ll want is this bad boy spreading around—and unfortunately for him, I”m very familiar with social media.

Satisfied with my tiny dose of revenge, I shoot the girls a text. Change of plans. I”m in. Meet you there.