You Can Never Go Back

Chapter Twenty Four: You Said You'd Never Have Regrets, Jesus Is There Someone Yet Who Got That Wish

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: Who doesn't remember their graduation party? I don't, I don't. Good god, it was all kinds of awesome. So to celebrate puking on the streets of NYC and NOT remembering, a chapter of…this! I don't know what's up with this massive chapter title. Yes I do. I just couldn't cut it in half. It's one of my favorite verses from that song.

Apparently my mother views grocery shopping as a form of torture. To get back at me for not taking Ike out yesterday, she's sent me to run all her errands today. I came home from work, exhausted once more, and she wordlessly passed me a list and pushed me out the door.

Meanwhile, Stan's not answering any of the text messages I've sent him. And okay, it's only actually been one, because I don't want to come off like a chick, but still. It would be nice if he would send me a giving-you-a-hand-job-was-a-life-changing-experience-I-don't-at-all-regret text. Because I regret it. Well, I regret not letting him go down on me, anyway. I even had a wet dream about it last night. Which might be why I'm so antsy for him to message me back, so we can get down to the fun stuff.

Yes, I'm a sex-starved pervert. I'm a twenty three year old boy. What do you expect?

So anyway, I'm pacing the aisles of the grocery store trying to find fucking fabric softener when I don't even know how to use it. I'm seething mad, staring at blue, green, and purple bottles with names like 'Cuddly Soft' that might as well be in Arabic for all I know about them.

Then I hear crunching. Like someone's munching on chips the next row over. Pissed off enough at my mom and Stan that I really just want to yell at someone, I drop my eyes from the shelf and make my way into aisle three. Colorful bags of tortilla chips nearly distract my eyes from the perpetrator, who I'm prepared to ream out for eating chips without paying. I'm good at the whole moral indignation thing; it's genetic.

Sadly it turns out to be the one person in the world who won't care if I come flying at them like a bat out of hell. So instead I say in a calm voice, "Surprise, surprise. Who else would be stuffing his face in the chip aisle?"

Cartman groans, "Suck my balls, Jew."

"Don't you know that you're technically shoplifting?"

"And I care why?"

"Because you're a cop, and as such obligated to be a law abiding citizen as a role model for future generations."

Cartman rolls his eyes, "I don't see any future generations. All I see is a scrawny Jew on the rag."

"Promise me you'll never procreate."

"God, do you have to be such a whiney bitch? Kenny shoplifts."

"Kenny's a poor asshole," I mutter, "And you like him."

Immediately, Cartman's face reddens, "I do not. Take that back."

"Um. No. Deal with it," I glance down at my shopping cart, "Dude, what're you doing in town anyway? Something going on tonight?"

"Clyde Donovan's throwing a party," Cartman says smugly, "I happen to have an invitation."

"I see."

Stupid Clyde Donovan didn't invite me to any stupid party. Whatever. It's a work night, and I'm technically not drinking right now to prove a point. But still.

"Wanna come, Jew?"

I stare at Cartman, and okay, the alcohol resolution can only hold out for so long.

"Yeah, fuck it. Let's go."

Looks like mom might have to wait for her damned groceries. Serves her right.

"We've got to buy beer."

"You've got to buy beer," I correct, "I wasn't invited."

"Are you going to Jew me out, Kyle?" Cartman's eyes narrow, "Because I will kill you, and no one will ever, ever find your body."

I shudder, believing him. It's hard not to. Even though I've been friends with him for twenty three years, or maybe because of it, the guy's a damned psychopath.

"Okay. We've got to buy beer," I squeak. Better poor than dead, after all.

The party is banging. Cartman immediately moves in on an attractive looking boy that I don't recognize. I predict he'll get laughed at in about point oh two seconds, but I leave him to find beer.

Instead I find Wendy. A rather intoxicated Wendy. Standing next to the keg, looking like a million bucks except for the dopey, wasted expression on her face.

"Kyle!" Wendy cries when she sees me, happy as a puppy dog.

"Hi, Wendy. I thought you worked nights," I say, too blunt. Then I realize that might not have been very polite, as Wendy looks positively crestfallen, "Not that I'm not happy to see you."

She brightens, "I have the night off."

I grab a red cup from Clyde's kitchen counter. He may be all super educated, but he still lives with his parents. That gives me the slightest bit of smug satisfaction, I'll admit.

I start downing beers as Wendy gushes all about her and Stan, and her job, and her and Stan, and her friends, and her and Stan. It makes me mad at Stan for not breaking it off with her yet. I mean doesn't giving each other hand jobs mean that we're like, together now? I mean, he said once that if we ended up as a couple we'd be mutually exclusive. And okay, so we haven't talked about it yet, but…I'm fucking jealous as hell. I want to pour my beer all over Wendy's glossy black hair and tell her to stay away from my man. Which is really not like me, and I don't appreciate the whole idea of my having a man, but I do like having a Stan. Who is mine. Now. At least I think so.

He still hasn't answered my text. I excuse myself from Wendy and try calling him. He doesn't pick up.

Maybe he's taking a nap or something. Yeah. That's got to be it.

I make my way back to Wendy, who has been coerced by the host himself to take some shots. Cartman's there too, cheering and calling her a coward, a skank, and a goddamned hippie. Typical Cartman insults. I notice he's thoroughly sloshed, so I play catch up with a bottle of tequila that makes my stomach churn because it smells so strong. After five shots in quick succession, I realize that I haven't drank in a few weeks, and that downing so much liquor in such a short period of time might not have been such a good idea.

Clyde pours a beer down my throat. I feel like I might puke.

I am saved when Wendy, attempting to shotgun a Natty Ice, does. Clyde's kitchen now smells like vomit. The result is he abandons trying to force me to drink in a rabid attempt to clean up. He is too sloshed to actually do anything other than make more of a mess, and instead evacuates the kitchen.

Cartman looks thoroughly grossed out, possibly because his jeans are spattered with chunky Wendy-hurl.

"I think we should take her home," I tell him, watching as Wendy apologizes profusely to a wall.

"Yeah okay. Move it ho-" I send Cartman a reprimanding look, and he corrects himself, "I mean sweetpea."

He turns slightly green at the words 'sweetpea', which brings about the question of why he thought the term was acceptable, but whatever. Nauseous Cartman is hilarious.

Unfortunately Wendy has finely tuned instincts which tell her never to listen to Cartman. The result is that she bolts from the room.

Cartman frowns at her, "Fuck this Jew. I try to be nice, and the bitch turns tail and runs. Obviously that whole honey draws more flies thing is total crap. You go after her."

He then leaves the kitchen, possibly in search of some sucker who will have sex with him. I notice he's only going after blond guys tonight. I wonder what that means. I think I know, but then I think about Kenny, which makes me feel bad. Both for setting Cartman after him and for being a dickwad myself.

I find Wendy in Clyde's bathroom, defending her position from a very drunk couple who obviously wants to have shower sex.

"Mine," she yelps at them, like a fierce little Chihuahua.

I usher the couple towards Clyde's bedroom and then peek my head in, "Wendy?"

"Kyle? Go away."

"Um. No."

"I said go away."

Instead I scoot inside, finding her hugging the toilet. She's been puking, if the brownish liquid filling the basin is any indication. And the retching noises I heard when I was still outside.

"Wendy, I'm going to get you home."

"No. I don't want to go home with you. Call Stan. I want Stan."

I dig my cell out of my pocket and try calling Stan. I've got three missed calls from my mother, but I ignore him. Stan doesn't pick up.

I try again, "Wendy, let me drive you home."

"No. My mom can't see m like this. I want to go to Stan's."

I try calling him again. Nothing.

After four more phone calls, I say, "Wendy, Stan's not picking up. Come on, you can't fall asleep in the bathroom. Someone might pee on you or something."

"Ew."

"Come with me," I try to lift her by her arms, but she doesn't budge.

"No! I don't' want to go with you."

I sigh and sit beside her. She's looking slightly more coherent now, so I ask, "Why not?"

"Don't take this the wrong way, Kyle, but since you've come back to South Park, Stan's changed," Wendy bites back a scathing laugh, looking at me through bleary eyes, "Or maybe I should say reverted."

"What?" I ask, confused at the total bitterness in her voice, "Wendy-"

"Oh!" she glances up at me, flustered, drunk, "I didn't mean it was your fault. Well, actually, I did. But…I mean, you haven't done anything. Have you?"

Now her gaze is hopeful, like I can tell her that I've done something totally horrible that has turned her boyfriend into…well…wait. She didn't explain that part.

"Um. I don't think so. Reverted how…?" I prompt, reaching out an arm to keep her from slumping down into a spot of vomit that missed the toilet.

"I don't know," her voice breaks. Tears well up in her eyes.

Shit.

I never know what to do with crying girls. She begins babbling.

"The way Stan was in grade school…so…immature. So…idealistic…all that stuff…it was fine when he was a little boy. I liked that about him. But then we met up again, and he was so…caring, sensitive, and kind," she smiles softly in remembrance, "Everything about him was just perfect. He became a man. And then the second you returned it's like…he's back to being a boy again. He's so unsure of himself. He's always second guessing everything. And I feel like it has something to do with you."

Oh.

"And…" Wendy sobs in a voice so soft that I have to bend down near her vomit stained lips to hear her, "I don't like it. I don't like it at all."

Guilt washes over me in waves.

"Um. I'll try calling Stan again. Actually," I look at her, "Can I borrow your phone?"

I have to dig it out of her purse, which I find in the foyer, still too close to the noise of the party. I'm staggering from being too fucked up. The room is spinning.

Stan finally picks up, "Hello?"

"Stan? Um, it's Kyle," I say, and I wonder if he knows that already. I mean, I called his phone a million times. He wouldn't pick up once for me. Yet he has no problem picking up when he thinks its Wendy. I'm jealous, and I know it.

"Oh."

I can't figure out why his voice sounds…well, annoyed. He sounds irritated that he has to be talking to me.

"Stan?"

He sighs, "Yeah. What's going on?"

"Your girlf-I mean…Wendy. She's really drunk. Um. She doesn't want to bring her back to her house, 'cause…" I trail off. He knows why. Even though Wendy is a capable, working woman, she still lives with her parents. I doubt they're properly equipped to see their little angel dribbling vodka-flavored puke all over the carpet.

"Is she okay?"

"Just a bit weepy."

Last time I glanced at her she was still sobbing into her hands, blubbering about some puppy she didn't get when she was eight. I guess Stan and I aren't the only ones who get her panties in a bunch.

"Yeah, she's kind of an emotional drunk."

Kind of like the guy who crushed a glass in my kitchen one time.

"Bring her on over," Stan says.

"Okay, and Stan?"

I don't get to ask my question. He's already hung up.

Jerk.

I feel my temper spiraling out of control. What the hell is going on? Why is ignoring me? So I'm not an expert at gay sex or anything, but I know Stan. I know him. He wasn't lying when he said it was okay that we didn't fuck. He wasn't! He's not a very good liar in the first place. So what the hell is it?

Against my better judgment I grab my car keys. We have three near accidents on the way there, one with a very stubborn telephone pole that kept moving up and down the street. Or maybe that was my vision.

I help Wendy stagger up the stairs to Stan's apartment. When I knock on the door, he answers, dressed only in blue boxers and a tight black t-shirt.

I have flashes back to him, in my bed, with his hands down my pants.

Shit.

He takes Wendy from me, carrying her princess-style to the couch. She passes out instantly. After he sets her down he turns back to the door. He looks surprised to see me still standing there. Like he expected me to leave.

I'm me, so instead of saying something like, can we talk, I say, "What the hell is your problem, anyway?"

Wordless, Stan walks over to the door, taking me outside and closing it gently so he won't wake up his precious girlfriend. His eyes are blazing when he looks up at me, "My problem?"

"Yeah. You fucking wouldn't answer any of my calls or texts. You look fucking mad to see me!"

"You sound like a chick."

I wince. Yeah. I do. I expected that.

"Well what do you want? You do-that-with me and then want me to disappear or something? I thought…"

"You thought what?" he demands.

I can't say it. I can't say what I thought, because I'm the biggest pussy that ever lived.

"Look, Kyle. Last night was a mistake. I know now."

"Know what?" I practically scream. My heart's dropped to my toes, like a rock. I feel like I might suffocate. His face is a cold mask, one I don't recognize.

"That you could never love me. I get that. There's no way you could ever really feel that way about me."

"What?" I'm so beyond confused. Is this because I said the bet was off the other night? I want to ask, but I'm too drunk. My knees feel like they're giving out from under me, turning to jelly. I don't understand what Stan's saying.

He just shakes his head, "You smell like a brewery dude. Go home. Go to sleep. I've got to take care of Wendy."

He slams the door, leaving me standing on his welcome mat.

What the hell just happened? Why does Stan think I don't love him? Why? Aside from the fact that he has the emotional maturity of a five year old?

And then I remember.

"Yeah, love. I don't want to be pushy, Kyle, but do you love me?"

"Are you going to start sounding like a fucking girl on me, dude?"

I avoided the question.

Okay, so maybe I have the emotional maturity of a five year old too. Shit. Even just now, when he looked at me, when he yelled at me, I couldn't say anything. My thoughts were, are too muddled.

God, I can't even remember what day it is.

And then it hits me.

I dig my cell out of my pocket. What day is today?

It's two in the morning. April ninth.

Which makes the night Stan came over April seventh. April seventh, as in the last day of our bet.

Fuck. No, no, no.

I remember Stan telling me to fall in love with him.

I should have told him. I never wanted to be that person. You know, that person with scars on their heart at only twenty three. I wanted to be one of the normal ones. One of the people who didn't get messed up till their mid thirties, at least.

Screw that. I'm going to tell him. I'm not going to lose him because of a stupid misunderstanding. He needs to man up, stop being a pansy bitch, and listen.

I start pounding hard on the door, so loud that all the neighbors must hear me. No answer.

I pound even harder, yelling, "Stan, open the fucking door!"

Someone's going to call in a noise complaint, but I still don't care. I hit my fists as hard as I can, feeling the skin of my knuckles begin to tear, "Stan!"

The doors swings back, and I almost slug Wendy in the face. She has on her most stern look as she says, "Kyle, you're being noisy."

A tremor crosses her face, and she promptly bends over and pukes.

All over my shoes.

A/N: So much drama. Ugh. We're almost at the end of it. Three chapters left. Three, count 'em. I can't believe it. This whole fic has ended up being way more angsty than I thought it would be, but honestly, being drunk tends to amplify drama. I'm told I spent half an hour of my graduation party yelling at my boyfriend because I thought the hot sauce on my falafel were tomatoes, and I hate tomatoes. How's that for drama? Heh. Not that I remember it. Best party ever. Totally digressing. We are almost at the end! Please review.