“And then what?” Roza asked. She appeared unimpressed.
“That was basically it.” My glass was empty and I cradled it in my hands. “I mean, everyone blocked me. I managed to find out she didn’t lose her hand—it was her right hand, so that would’ve been awful. More than awful. And she almost did. She severed some tendons and had to have a bunch of surgeries.”
“Alex.” Roza lowered her chin. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”
The words wormed through my brain, now vibrating from the liquor. Roza stood and brought back the bottle, refilling my glass. I took a tiny sip. She was patient as I considered. This part of the story was in the basement. This part was under lock and key.
And I’d kept it hidden for so long. Who could I tell? Ursula, maybe, but I hadn’t wanted to drag her into it. I hadn’t wanted her to see the shame that buzzed around me like flies.
Roza waited. It was like it had been destined, for the truth to come out here.
“Wren and I went out a lot together.” My voice suddenly felt unused, croaky, and I cleared my throat. “We drank a lot. We were probably alcoholics, to be honest. I mean, everyone in their twenties in New York is, right? So we’d go out and we’d want to meet guys. And we usually did. But if we came back alone together, we often slept in my bed. I don’t know when it started. At some point Wren just climbed in and said she needed to cuddle. She wasn’t a physically affectionate person, so it was kind of surprising. She’d spoon me and stroke my hair.” A smile jumped to my lips. “She used to drunkenly call me her soul mate. She was kind of kidding but kind of not. And it felt… I don’t know. I knew what she meant.”
Roza nodded, leaf-green eyes blazing.
“So.” I looked down. “At some point, maybe a year before everything ended, she started kissing me. Only in those situations—drunk, in my bed, like three in the morning. And it was a little confusing, but she made it seem like it was the same as the cuddling.” Something tightened in my chest like a closed fist; I’d never told anyone about this aspect of our friendship. “So that went on for a few months—you know, every once in a while; it wasn’t a lot. And then I started seeing this guy, Nick. It was pretty casual, but he was just an over-the-top person, giving me flowers and things like that. Wren said she didn’t like him and would just constantly make fun of him. I never thought she might be jealous. But then one night out he and I argued—because of something he’d said to Wren, actually, that had offended her. So she and I went back home alone. She took a shower. And then she crawled into my bed. But this time… she was naked.”
It came back to me: the scent of Wren’s expensive shampoo, the smoothness of her limbs, the surprising swell of her uncovered breasts against my shoulder blades. “She made me turn around and she started kissing me, and then she started touching me. I tried to stop her but she told me to relax. And then…” I felt suddenly feverish. “She went down on me.”
Wren had always said she was one hundred percent straight, that she liked male bodies and smells and energies too much to explore anyone else. How, then, had she been so good, so practiced, her tongue sliding in a perfect repetitive movement, her fingers knowing exactly what to do? Even now, retelling the story, it felt like a random sex dream I’d had.
“How was it?” Roza sat back and crossed her arms.
“It was good.” One of the strongest orgasms I’d ever had, in fact.
“And did you pleasure her?”
I shook my head. Afterwards, we’d kissed and I’d tasted myself on her tongue. I’d slipped my hand between her legs, feeling like I should reciprocate, even if I didn’t really know what I was doing. But she’d pushed my hand away, saying she was tired. “She didn’t want me to.”
“And then what happened?” Roza asked. In my liquor-hazed state, the memories were almost too full in their realness. I stared at the patterned rug on the floor, not seeing it.
“Well, when I woke up the next morning, she wasn’t there.” The dread flooded my belly, the same trepidation I’d felt walking around the empty apartment. “I texted her and she didn’t answer. She came home late that night and… I don’t know, I could tell something was off. She was on the phone and went into her room and slammed the door. I thought she’d come out at some point because it was Sunday night and we usually watched a movie together. But she didn’t. And after that…” I shrugged. “We didn’t talk about it. It was like it hadn’t happened. She kept acting cold but I figured we’d move past it at some point. But then two weeks later she announced she was moving out. It shocked me. I thought she was joking at first. But no.”
Roza gave a sharp nod, as if she were a doctor whose diagnosis had been confirmed. “She projected her guilt and shame onto you. You became first irritating, then repulsive. She told herself that it had to be you, that it was your fault.”
“Yeah.” I rubbed my eyes. “Maybe that’s true.”
We were quiet, staring at the fire, which crackled and spit.
“You know what?” Roza said. “People who don’t know pain—deep pain—are bad writers. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I don’t know. I guess that makes sense.” I’d expected my confession would make me feel relieved. But instead I just felt sad and exhausted.
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned,” Roza went on, “it’s that the worst conditions are the most conducive to the best work. I wrote my first book sitting next to my dying friend, who was literally rotting away. The smell…” She closed her eyes. “All of it was horrific. And every day I brought a little notebook with me and the words just poured out. My anger and helplessness connected me to something, a powerful and primal energy. And the only corridor to it was through utter despondency, utter desperation.”
I nodded, setting the empty glass on the table. The pep talk was only making me more miserable.
“Darling.” Roza was suddenly gripping both of my hands. “Wren did you a favor. She gave you a gift. She killed you, in a sense—because of her fears, her confusion about how she felt. She had to make you dead to her. It was the only way she could survive, going back to her buttoned-up little life.” Roza’s eyes narrowed. “Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I said, but the words weren’t quite making sense. What had Wren felt towards me? What had I felt for her, for that matter? It had burned out so quickly: a match struck, bright and brilliant before crumpling into a dark, bent piece of nothingness.
“So,” Roza went on, squeezing my hands. “Now you’re dead, trapped in the underworld. You feel empty, stuck. And you know what? It’s actually the most powerful place to be. You need only reach out to the pain and grab it, use it. But if you don’t?” Her expression turned mournful. “Well, then you stay dead. And in effect she’ll be killing you twice. I don’t know if you can come back from that, dear. I really don’t.”
I stared into her eyes, mesmerized. A tiny speck of hope, no larger than a piece of dust, floated through my mind.