My world crumbles when you are not near – "I Try" by Macy Gray
Quil
When I phase in for my patrol shift, it's immediately clear Embry wasn't expecting company just yet.
He's watching his own personal porno in his head. Bethany, very naked, sprawled on top of him.
Gross.
Sorry, he blurts when he senses me phase in, and I feel the embarrassment burn at the back of his neck as if he were human. He snatches the images back, but it's too late. I'll have to bleach my eyeballs. And my hippocampus.
Have they always looked like that, or is that a pregnancy thing? I ask, directing myself up toward the coast. Our routes these days are decent—a hundred-mile radius around the rez, give or take.
Embry chuffs a laugh, relieved I'm not overly mad at what I just saw. You really wanna talk about Bethany's nipples?
Hard pass, I say. I just mostly wanted to take the piss. She doing okay, though? She said last week she was only getting four or five hours of sleep a night.
She must have left out the part where she spends all her waking hours napping. (And fucking, I assume.) Flashes of warmth hit my heart as Embry pictures Bethany, tangled red hair splayed over whatever surface she's found to use as a pillow.
I start to run down an unfamiliar scent, but it doesn't raise my hackles like an enemy would, and I let it go pretty quickly. These shift feel less and less important, and I'm starting to wonder how long Jacob will make them continue before we all call it quits for good. You guys have plans tomorrow night? I ask. It's Omar's birthday.
Sadie's in Port Angeles for the week with Bethany's mom, Embry tells me. That explains all the sex. If B can stay awake, we'd be down to do something, I think.
Aw, what, she hasn't started nesting yet?
This week she's mostly focused on how expensive maternity scrubs are and that she's going to have to have four more children to make them economic.
Wow, I say. Four more? Should I start looking for commuter vans for sale?
Bite me, Embry retorts, but I already know if Bethany wanted twelve more, he'd give them to her without batting an eye.
I wonder if Claire's changed her mind about kids at all. (Last time I checked, she was firmly in the camp of 'I Was Traumatized by Watching a Jacob-Sized Baby Come Out of Nessie's Vagina.')
I wonder about Claire a lot these days.
With the addition of the satellite campus several years ago, the area between Forks and the school have slowly (slower than molasses at Christmas, which is another one of Hannah's made-up idioms that makes me smile and miss her and hurt like hell all at once) developed. There are a few bars and restaurants and apartments out that way to accommodate the influx of college students, however small it may be.
But it's summer—nearly July—and those students would rather be anywhere but near campus. To accommodate for the off season, locals get their first two drinks half-priced at this specific bar. It sounded like a cool place.
What Omar didn't tell me, though, is on Fridays it's a karaoke bar. It's his birthday, though, so I don't have the space to complain.
I arrive at 8:15, a little early, but these days I usually do. Where else do I have to be? Who else do I have to see? (Plus, if it's a social setting, the alcohol head-start eases my How's Claire anxiety.)
I grab a beer from the bar and a few tables off to the side, but it looks like saving seats is going to be irrelevant. There is a grand total of five people in here, counting me and the bartender and the DJ.
While I wait for the others to show up, I scroll through my most recent text exchange with Claire.
Claire: I can't believe people still farm like this. Apparently it's cheaper for them to upkeep the chickens than it is to buy eggs at the store. I foraged my own breakfast this morning!
Me: I don't think you call picking up eggs from a chicken coop foraging ;) and I thought you thought cooked eggs smelled like wet dog.
Claire: They absolutely do, but I'm a guest. I can't exactly turn down food. And I'm trying to stretch my money for as long as I can.
Me: Care to share how much you've got left? Flights can't be cheap.
Claire: I've been finding some really good deals on those. I've got plenty of money, Dad. ;)
Claire: Did you know Solomon is a charter pilot when he's not surfing? He flies an island hopper to all the islands, even the remote ones.
Me: Nice try on the subject change, but I know you better than that. Please don't Dad me, Claire. I just want to know you're okay.
Claire: I'm okay.
Claire: Gotta go. Love you
She's like that these days, giving me only the upsides of her stay in Hawaii with Rebecca and Solomon and their six kids and menagerie of farm animals. How Becca paints landscapes and sunsets for tourists but these beautiful abstract pieces for herself.
How she's sharing a room with the two older girls, Sarah and Amelia, and has learned that, for the most part, teenage girls are the same in all places and cultures. They've already taught her native Hawaiian curse words.
My heart aches when I think about our swear jar.
"Got one of those for me?" Brady Fuller says, swiping my beer from my hand. That's usually my move, which has to be what pisses me off. Surely it can't be missing Claire that turns my heart black and bitter.
I snatch it back. "Get your own."
Omar is next to arrive, then Dave and his wife Julia. I haven't seen Dave lately outside of a few lunches, since he switched shifts with Brady, so it's nice to catch up.
Aaron claps me on the shoulder as he passes by to get a beer for the newcomers.
Brady is already up on the stage, performing a horrible and terrifying rendition of "Don't Stop Believin.'" It's horrible because it's Brady, and it's terrifying because he's not even halfway finished with his first beer. He is sober.
A whoop lets out near the door, and I turn my head to see Embry holding it open for Bethany while she waddles through.
I wave them over and pull out a chair for her.
She collapses into it and immediately steals the one across from it for her feet. "Someone buy me a shot of tequila."
Embry's eyes light up, turn mischievous. "Yes," he says. "Someone please do."
"But—" Omar looks at her round belly and fear flashes in his eyes. Does he say it? Is he going to say it? I silently dare him. "Are you going to… drink it?"
This is the first time they've met, and Bethany will milk that to every drop. "What's that supposed to mean?" She rounds her eyes to portray innocence, when everyone who knows her knows that is farthest from the truth.
"Well, I just mean…" Omar looks to me for help, but I shrug. He swallows loudly. "You're—"
"Holy shit," Brady says weakly from the makeshift stage, directly into the mic, and we all turn to see what has captured his attention. He's staring at the door, where Mia Shelton has just walked in.
Or someone who looks an awful lot like Mia.
She looks… different. Her hair, normally pulled back in a tight bun, is down and wavy around her shoulders. I don't even think I've ever registered the color before. It's like honey. Her outfit looks nice enough: form-fitting dark jeans and a light top that also fits pretty well, plus some heels. Subjectively, she's a shapeless blob, the way I see Bethany or my mom—anyone who isn't Claire. Objectively, she's probably pretty hot.
My theory is confirmed by Brady, who still hasn't resumed singing. On screen, the lyrics scroll past in rapid green highlight. It's weirdly silent in here, despite the instrumentals.
Omar recovers first. "Hey." He rises to his feet and gives Mia a side-hug. Over his shoulder, Brady gives a half-hearted attempt to finish strong. His eyes are little slits of jealousy as Mia greets us all. "Thought you couldn't make it tonight."
Mia shrugs, throwing a smile to the table at large. "Got stood up. Didn't want to waste the effort it took to look this hot." Her eyes snag on Embry and Bethany, unfamiliar faces.
"This is Embry, my brother, and his wife Bethany." I gesture to them. "This is Mia."
"I'll buy you a drink, but you have to let me smell it," Bethany says, hoisting herself to her feet. Suddenly they're not as swollen. If I asked her to get me a drink, she'd strangle me. And Embry would hold me down while she did it.
Brady stumbles off the stage in a daze, his beer forgotten on the stool behind him. The DJ calls him back.
"Damn, how many songs did you put in?" Dave says. There's not even enough people to warrant yelling.
Brady's cheeks turn a little red, his gaze still on Mia. "Nobody else is willing to embarrass themselves for fun," he says back. "I'm taking one for the team."
"What song did you pick?" Embry asks curiously.
The title card for "Shake It Off" by Taylor Swift shows on the screen, and we all burst into laughter.
"Do it with me," Brady says—begs—anyone who will listen.
Dave throws up his palms in surrender. "Not a chance."
"I don't know this song," Embry says. He's a liar. He and Sadie sing this every Friday morning while waiting in the school drop off line.
Brady looks at the rest of us miserably as Mia takes an empty seat next to Bethany. I think about Claire again and manage to find just enough pity for him to force me to my feet.
Omar stands, too. "Let's get this shit over with, I guess."
What Brady fails to mention is: in addition to knowing every word to this ear worm of a song, he also knows every dance move. While Omar and I stumble through the lyrics, Brady delivers the lyrics flawlessly, all while trying to teach us the moves on the fly.
It is as hilarious as it sounds.
By the end, Brady is out of breath but still going. Embry and Bethany are leaning on each other to prevent falling over from laughter. Dave is in such a good mood he's already told the bartender next rounds are on him. Aaron recorded a portion of the performance and sent it in our station group chat, Chief included.
Even Mia—stoic, hard-edged Mia—is trying not to smile.
That alone makes Brady puff out his chest. And then put his name in two more times.
It takes a few more rounds (thanks Dave) for others to loosen up, but soon Aaron is doing "Mr. Brightside" and Omar is belting "Neon Moon" and after several drinks, Mia shocks us all with a spot-on rendition of a Beyoncé song that has Brady swooning. Bethany sings "Buttons" by the Pussycat Dolls; she's sober and has absolutely no excuse for being so bad.
And since there's always that one guy, some random Joe Schmoe from town has decided we all need to hear "Pony" by Ginuwine, complete with hip thrusts that are far too revealing.
Even I sing "Hands Down."
But that makes me think of the concert I attended with Claire, right before Christmas, and how it was my favorite band we were seeing but she still knew every word and screamed and clapped at all the right places with me. How I was happy because she was happy because I was happy, on and on and on.
My eyes sting a little bit by the time I'm done.
Brady is back up after me, and I can tell based on the flush on his cheeks that he's feeling more than a little tipsy. He almost knocks the mic stand over as he stumbles onto the stage. "I want to dedicate this song to Mia Shelton," he slurs, pointing directly at her. "I'm the love of her life and she doesn't even know it yet."
"Oh God," Mia groans, her forehead finding the table. Bethany snickers. It's no surprise two of the most badass women I know have become fast friends.
I take a video of Brady singing "I Try" by Macy Gray with a surprising amount of accuracy and send it to Claire. She would love this. By the time Brady gets to the bridge, he's off the stage, dragging the corded mic as far as it will allow toward our table—toward Mia.
"You're really not into him?" I murmur, noting her eyes following Brady's every move.
She drops said eyes to her drink, appearing uninterested. "He's a try-hard."
"You're playing hard to get," Dave counters.
"I am hard to get," Mia says. "And there's nothing wrong with that. If he wants it, he's going to have to work for it."
Bethany gives her a high five. "Yes. That. Always." She winks at Embry and I try not to gag. "You know what you should do?"
Listening to Bethany's plan, Mia manages to jump the song queue—which is still full of Brady. I think she slipped the DJ a five-dollar bill.
She grips the mic with both hands. "I would like to dedicate this song to a very special guy," she says, and proceeds to sing "You're So Vain." It's even better than it is in that one movie Claire likes.
I'm not sure what Mia's angle is, but it works. Brady's eyes narrow into slits, and Embry and I snicker as he turns a deeper shade of red. Between the alcohol and the annoyance, he's the color of a stop sign.
He stomps to the DJ, throws a tenner at the guy, and barks his song choice.
We're all just spectators at this point, as they volley back and forth. Brady does "Don't You Want Me." Mia sings "No Scrubs" next, and Bethany nearly pisses her pants laughing and buys that girl another drink. Brady's next song is "Quit Playing Games with My Heart," and Mia follows it up with "Since U Been Gone."
Brady must have had a fifty-dollar bill or something, because he hits her with four in a row: "How Am I Supposed to Live Without You." "I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)." "You Belong with Me." "Just the Girl." His musical taste is stuck in 2008.
For every song, Mia takes a heavy pull from her drink. Dave already bought her another. She will need it.
And a ride home.
Brady is somehow still a little drunk, even though I don't think he's taken a breath in twenty minutes, let alone another pull from his beer. I bet it's warm by now.
Mia marches to the DJ at the same time Brady does, and they both start trying to yell over each other to get the next song, throwing cash at him. On my way to the bar, I catch him roll his eyes.
I'm staring down at my phone, noticing Claire still hasn't read my message, when the shouting grows.
I glance up to catch the DJ yelling at them, "—this song, or you're done."
Reluctantly, the two of them head to the stage. Together.
"Julia," Dave says, tapping his wife's arm. "Record this."
It takes me until Brady starts singing to place the tune, but when he does, I bark out a laugh. That DJ is getting a huge tip from me, and probably a thank-you card, too.
I don't think Mia's going to play along, but she comes in as scheduled. She sounds as good as Olivia Newton-John. She is nowhere as enthusiastic as Brady, standing there with her arms crossed, but by the time she's telling Brady he "better shape up" for the second time, she's fighting a smile.
"Do you want me to put your name next?" I ask Omar, eyes still glued to the stage. "You said you wanted to do Poison. And it's your birthday, after all."
"No," he says. "This is the best present I've ever gotten."
"How long do you think it'll be before they finally get together?" Embry asks.
"Oh, they're fucking," Bethany says off-handedly.
The entire table gasps, and our focus turns away from the stage.
"She told you that?" Omar says. "When you were in the bathroom?"
Bethany rolls her eyes. "I promise, if they haven't already, they are tonight." She grins devilishly. "I'd bet on it."
The DJ allows Brady and Mia one more song before he cuts them off for the night, and they're able to cut through the smog of hormones and hatred long enough to decide on one together.
"Islands in the Stream."
A hot, serrated knife twists through my heart, dragging my lungs along for the ride. I can't breathe, the memories flashing hot behind my eyes.
I just want to hear her voice. Need to. Pushing back from the table, I head for the door. I feel eyes on me and know they're Embry's, but I don't stop when he calls my name.
The air is brisk at this time of night, but I immerse myself in it anyway, the synthetic melody fading as the door seals shut behind me. My hands shake as I press her name on my phone, soft rain falling on my shoulders.
"Hey, this is Claire. Sorry I missed you. Leave a message!"
Fuck. "Hey Claire." I clear my throat. "It's me. I don't know what you're up to, but I haven't heard from you today, so I thought I'd check in. You're probably off running from chickens or something. You'll never believe it, but Brady and Mia are inside a bar right now singing 'Islands in the Stream.'"
I run a hand down my jaw, digging my fingers through the coarse hair of my beard. "And it made me think about that one time, on your parents' anniversary, when they were dancing in the kitchen to that song. You got grossed out because your dad touched your mom's butt, and I didn't tell you then, but it was exactly the kind of love I wanted with you. The kind of love I still want."
Rocks crunch under my feet as I redistribute my weight. Everything feels unsteady. "I don't think that love goes anyway just because she's gone, Claire. But you did. You left. And I miss you and I love you, but I'm so fucking mad at you."
As soon as I say the words, I realize they're the truest ones I've spoken since she left. The tiniest chip of rock loosens from my heart.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to do without you, or if you want me to chase you, or—fuck, if I'm even supposed to keep calling you. I feel like we broke up without the words, and I hate every second of every day without you."
My breaths are harder to come by now, and I fight to drag air into my lungs. My eyes are hot and stinging. I didn't think I was that drunk, but I must be.
"Your dad's halfway addicted to sleeping pills, and your sister's smoking and drinking and breaking curfew, and I can't—I can't—"
I can't breathe. That's what.
I clutch the phone so tight I think it might break, and force my ears to stop ringing. Fight to make the red recede from my vision. I'm jealous. Lonely. Sad. Drunk. I shouldn't be leaving her angry voicemails. I stab the screen, aiming for the pound sign, and when prompted, press to re-record.
"It's me," I say this time, and I wonder if she'll be able to tell I've been drinking. "Thinking about you. Miss you."
And when I hang up, instead of throwing my phone into the woods the way I want to, I turn it off and go inside.