I don’t know how longI wait; minutes, hours, days maybe for Sean to wake up, and justwhen I can no longer take the frigid temperature or theheartrending scene in front of me, he stirs. He moans softly as heshifts and moves, like he’s trying to remember how to use hislimbs. I just stand there statically, watching him come back tolife. Finally, he opens his eyes and takes in a deep breath. Helooks around a little disoriented, like he’s not sure where he is,then his eyes fall on me. They’re bloodshot and hollow and theyhave purple rings around them.
“Alana?” he croaks, staring at me vacantly,trying to decipher if I’m a mirage or truly flesh and blood.
“Sean?” I answer. My body goes numb, and ithas nothing to do with the temperature in the room. He looks like ablood starved vampire.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he asks,the question rippling with so many emotions; fear, concern, terror,dread.
“You need to come with me,” I tell him, notwasting any time with small talk.
“For what?” He gets to his feet andstraightens his sweatshirt, pulls at his baggy pants, then yankshis hood over his head.
“Don’t play dumb. Ryan’s in jail, theyrejected his deal.”
Sean paces the small room like a caged cat.Back and forth and back and forth, agitated and uptight. “I can’tAlana, I’m sorry.”
I step towards him cautiously, “Sean, listento me. Ryan needs you-”
“No, Alana,” he snaps his head up and I seeso much sorrow in his eyes.
“Sean, don’t abandon him,” I plead earnestly;careful not to spook him, “he’s already given up his future foryou, now you’re asking him to give up his life.”
Sean takes one, slow, tentative step towardsthe door. “I’m so sorry, Alana,” he says with such intense grief,it strikes my chest like lightening, shattering my heart.
“Sean-” I say trembling, circling aroundhim.
“For what it’s worth,” he adds quickly andsolemnly, “I never thought you were going to hurt Ryan, you reallyare the only one who’s ever loved him right.” Sean’s words rattleme straight to the core, because they sound like a goodbye. Then hebolts.
Damn it.
I dart after him through the long, narrowkitchen and out the back door where the sun is setting like a dyingfireball behind dull, ashy clouds. He’s so goddamn fast,maneuvering effortlessly through the back yard that’s scatteredwith old tires and junk. He scales the six-foot chain link fence atthe back end of the property and I know then that I’ve losthim.
“Sean!”I shout slapping the fencewith my palms, the links jingling and clinking, “Sean, comeback!”
But he quickly disappears out of sight.
“Shit!” I scream, shaking the fencefuriously. Then, hopeless and defeated, I sink down onto the coldground, and all I want to do is fucking cry.
Pink plasticpenises.
That’s what’s bouncing around like two alienantennas on top of my cousin Emily’s head. Two, pink, rubberypenises attached to a cheap headband.
I don’t know how people celebratebachelorette parties in other parts of the world, but in the NorthEast they dress the bride-to-be in sashes and tiaras, force them towear pink penis paraphernalia and sacrifice them to male exoticdancers. Emily doesn’t seem to mind though. She’s sipping champagnehappily in the back of an Escalade stretch limo as we drive throughNew York City.
“Alana,” says Jill, Emily’s maid of honorwhose personality is just as fiery as her red hair, “we were takingbets as to whether you were going to come or not.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” I ask curiously.
“I don’t know?” she holds her hands up likeshe’s balancing a pair of scales. “Cutting a year long trip toEurope short or staying and hanging out with all those hotties onthe French Riviera?
“Sun and Speedos get old after a while,” Ijoke.
“Well maybe some American Speedos will reviveyour interest?”
“I doubt it.”
“Is the straight-laced Alana Remington tooprim and proper for a male strip show?” Jill digs.
“She’s only prim and proper on the outside,”Emily jumps in, defending me.