Everyone deserves to be loved without conditions or pain.
The Party
POPPY
I’M STILL SITTING in my car down the block from Lance’s place when headlights start to flicker on around me. A swarm of people come from the direction of Lance’s house, taking up the entire sidewalk. I roll down my window a crack and catch some of the conversation as they pass.
“I don’t know what happened . . .”
“I’ve heard he loses it like that sometimes.”
“Sucks that he kicked everyone out—”
“—Hope we get invited back again.”
Car doors open, numbers are exchanged, and people make plans to head to local bars. Engines rev to life and cars pass me as I sit there, until the street is virtually empty. I guess the party is over, and I have to wonder what exactly was the impetus for that. I’m not egotistical enough to think it’s me, but I’m suddenly starting to regret the way I reacted to this entire situation.
I have no idea what his history is with that woman, but I assume whatever it is, it can’t be good, or simple, because nothing about Lance is. Well, there are good parts, but nothing is really simple based on my experience so far.
I sit in my car for another minute or two before I decide that maybe I should reconsider whether or not I want to leave. Despite everything that’s happened, I know that none of it was intentional up to this point. Not the night at the bar, not what happened with Kristi. I wasn’t honest with him from the beginning, so it’s not fair for me to put this all on him.
What I’m having the most difficulty with is the knowledge that so many of the rumors I’ve heard over the years appear to be true. I don’t know what to do with that, because I’ve seen that side of him that made me fall in love with the idea of a boy so many years ago. I know he’s in there. I just don’t know what happened to turn him into this man with two sides, one I’m not sure I want to manage.
I stay there for a few more seconds, debating my options. I could go home and never talk to him again. It wouldn’t be hard. Or I could go back there and see if there’s something worth staying for. Eventually, I turn off the engine and get out of the car. It’s cold out, so I pull the edges of my sweater closed and rush along the sidewalk, back to his house.
It isn’t Lance who answers the door. It’s Randy. I hate the look of pity on his face.
“Can I talk to him?”
Randy sighs. “He’s not in good form right now, Poppy.”
“I was just here fifteen minutes ago, and he seemed fine then.” This isn’t quite true. He didn’t seem fine at all, but I still want to see him, because I feel like I’m part of the reason for him not being okay.
“It’s really not a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Who the fuck is here? Is it Tash? Tell her to fuck off. I’m done with her shit.” There’s a distinct slur in Lance’s voice.
“You should really go, Poppy. He wouldn’t want you to see him like this.”
“Like what?” I push past Randy and he steps away from the door, allowing me into the house.
The table that usually holds a vase of flowers—something I found strange, considering a hockey player lives here alone—is surrounded with broken fragments of glass.
“What happened?” I ask, moving farther into the house as I go in search of Lance. He can’t be too far away.
The sound of glass breaking startles me and Randy runs a hand over his face. He grabs my arm as I turn in the direction of the noise. “You really don’t want to see this, Poppy.”
I wrench my arm out of his grip and head for the living room. What I find is a lot more than a broken glass. The coffee table has been overturned, the glass top shattered all over the floor. And that’s just the beginning of the damage. It looks like the place has been ransacked from a break-in. But it’s clear that isn’t what happened, because in the middle of the ruin is the man I’m here to see.
“Lance?”
He spins around. I can see he’s struggling to focus on me, he’s so drunk.
“Poppy? What’re you doin’ ’ere?”
“I wanted to talk to you,” I say meekly.
He shakes his head vigorously and waves the bottle in his hand around, sloshing amber liquid onto the floor. “You shouldn’t be here.” He trains his unsteady, angry gaze on Randy and he stumbles through the debris toward me. “You shouldna let ’er in.”
As I survey the wreckage, I have to wonder if I can handle any of this. This is a broken man I’m dealing with. He’s not a fifteen-year-old boy kissing me in a closet for the first time. He’s a grown man whose past haunts him in a way I still don’t understand and it makes him volatile. It’s right for me to worry that one day I’m going to end up on the receiving end of his hostility. And then where will I be? Who will I be but a victim that allowed herself to become one?
I should leave. I should walk away.
But I don’t.
Because it’s what he expects me to do, and if I abandon him now, I’m leaving everyone else to clean up the mess. One I’ve helped create.
I step carefully around broken glass, and when I’m close enough, I take the bottle from his hand and set it on the closest table. “Let me see your hands,” I say softly.
He holds them out for me. His knuckles are shredded and bloody.
“You shouldn’t have come back. You were right to go. I’m not a good person, Poppy. My head—” He taps his temple. “—It’s all messed up.”
I ignore the part about him being messed up. I don’t know if he’s referencing his current state or if he means in a more permanent way. The things I know about this man lead me to believe it’s the latter, and it makes me sad that he feels this way about himself. “We should get you cleaned up, don’t you think?”
I gently take his hand and lead him toward the staircase. I’ve never been to his room, although I know exactly where it is in this house, having stood outside the door wishing I could get my things and go that night over a year ago.
Lance doesn’t protest. He just lets me guide him to his room. He’s unsteady on his feet, bumping into the wall and me as we go. His room is mostly tidy, although a small pile of clothes lies in a rumpled heap on the floor near his closet. A towel hangs over the edge of his huge king-sized bed, and the sheets are messed up on one side, like maybe he’d taken a nap.
I keep going, walking all the way to the other side, to the bathroom. “Do you have a first aid kit in your bathroom?”
His nod is sloppy.
I push the door open and flick on the light. Shaving instruments are scattered on the white marble top. Towels lie discarded on the floor after a shower. His toothpaste has the cap left off, another sign he was distracted or in a rush, or maybe it’s not something he cares all that much about.
I flip the toilet seat lid down and give it a pat. “Have a seat.”
“I should clean up.” He waves a loose hand over the counter.
“You can worry about that later.”
“You need me to do anything for you?” Randy asks from the doorway. His hands are shoved into his pockets and he looks uncomfortable standing where he is.