Another week later and I still didn’t know how to feel. One, I’d gotten what I wanted out of Thomas. Two, I was a terrible human being for it. I tried to tell myself it was just sex, but it wasn’t just sex. We made love that day. Our bodies molded together perfectly that day. The phrase “meant for each other” danced in my head that day. It was beautiful. It was magical. But then the proverbial clock struck midnight, and the coach turned back into a pumpkin. “Cinderella,” that is, Thomas, had run off. Putain.
Again, no word from him. I cried myself to sleep every night since then, knowing full well it was a fluke. Thomas had gotten what he’d wanted as well. Used me. Threw me away. Ran back to his wife like nothing had ever happened. Part of me wanted to tell her, just to spite him, but the other part of me thought better of it. There was a kid to think about, I reminded myself. A young life I knew better than to ruin.
Complicated shit. Merde.
Since then, one Vicodin at a time became two. The high was amazing. For four glorious hours I could lie there and Thomas didn’t exist. Mae had a girlfriend now, and was no longer home as much. Which left me to my own devices. Or, vices, as the case may be. During one fantastic high, my phone had vibrated under my pillow, startling me. It was a text:
Where are you hiding yourself these days?
It was Eric, my friend who co-owned the Crydamoure record label with me.
Nowhere. Home, I guess.
You need to get out more, dude.
Sorry, you’ll have to drag me out kicking and screaming.
That can be arranged. ;)
I dragged myself out of bed and made myself presentable. I’d actually grown a beard since that day with Thomas. I sighed. Eric was right, I needed to get out more. I threw a baseball hat over my greasy, shaggy hair and threw on my old, worn leather jacket, waiting for Eric to show. It didn’t take him long.
“Ça va?” I greeted him at the door, closing it behind me.
“Not much, just wondering why you haven’t been around Crydamoure.”
I shrugged. “Just been staying home.”
“I can tell, you look like shit.”
Eric patted me on the shoulder. “No problem, buddy.”
“Where are we going?” I wondered aloud.
Eric shrugged. “Out. The bar, the club, anywhere just to get you out of that house.”
I groaned. I didn’t mind bar-hopping and clubbing, when I was dressed for it. But right now I looked like shit. And to top it off, my high was wearing off.
“What’s the matter?” Eric questioned me. “You look like your cat just died.”
“Rien,” I insisted, rubbing my face with both of my hands. “My pain meds are wearing off, that’s all.”
“Pain meds? What’s the matter?”
I shrugged. “I just like the high.”
“Heroin?” Eric stopped in his tracks and questioned me.
I shook my head. “Just Vicodin.”
Eric looked me dead in the eye. “Vicodin is just as bad as heroin.”
“So I’m told.”
“You ever wanna give heroin a try, I can hook you up.”