Summer Days and Summer Nights (38 page)

“I'd drive us home, but I don't have a license.” Pierre sticks his hands into the pockets of his dark blue jeans. “I guess we could take a cab, but—”

Audrey shakes her head. “You're not taking a cab back to the suburbs. It'll be, like, a million dollars, and I'm pretty sure none of us have that kind of cash right now.” She pauses for a moment, then nods toward me. “Rashida, what if you drive the three of you back to my place?”

My mouth drops open. “Why do all of us need to go?”

“Because she's hammered,” Audrey says in a matter-of-fact way that makes me wish I'd kept my mouth shut. “It'll take more than one person to get her back there and into bed.”

“What are you going to tell our family … and her friends?” Pierre asks, clearly as worried as I am about taking on this challenge together. He gestures to the house, where the sounds of the party have started to float onto the porch. “Should I go in and say something?”

Audrey bites her lip as she glances toward the back door, the outlines of guests in the kitchen visible through the screen. “I'll tell them she got food poisoning from lunch.”

“But what if she doesn't
want
to crash at your place?” I ask. Pierre and I are doing our best to think of every excuse possible to make this not happen, but Gillian doesn't look ready to leave, anyway. She looks as if she'd be content to frolic around for quite a while.

“Oh, she's about ten minutes from passing out.” My cousin puts her hands on her slender hips. “You won't get much of an argument.”

Just like Audrey knew she wouldn't get much of an argument from us, because Audrey is the sort of person people listen to. I've seen her take charge in a crowd of protestors hundreds deep.

The three of us manage to hustle Gillian from the backyard to the side of the house just as the first guests venture out onto the deck. Pierre and Audrey hold Gillian's arms on either side. She's distracted by everything in her line of sight—a glittery red, white, and blue party hat smashed against the curb, cream-colored petals floating from the tree that hangs over the sidewalk, a stray cat wandering down the path ahead of us.

“
Kitty!
” she cries out, lunging after the scrawny tabby.

The cat escapes, wide-eyed and lithe, and we herd Gillian to the car. Audrey was right. Her eyes are closing, her words slurring more as her lips find it harder to move.

Pierre opens the door, and Gillian immediately falls inside, sprawling across both seats. Her legs are completely slack, loose as cooked spaghetti. Pierre lets them dangle over the edge of the car for a moment, then says, “I should probably ride in back with her.”

I shrug, trying to make it clear that I don't have an opinion about any of this. I'm here only because I have to be.

Audrey watches them get settled in the back, leaning down to peer in the window at Gillian before turning to me. Her shoulders slump with fatigue but her eyes are appreciative. “Good luck. See you soon.” She drops Gillian's car keys into my palm and briefly closes her hand around mine. “And thanks.”

Once I'm inside the car, I put on my seat belt. Gillian is no longer awake. Pierre has shifted his sister so that her head is resting on the edge of his thigh. I'm reluctant to speak to him, but I have to ask: “Seat belt?”

“Yup,” he replies, just as brusquely. He pauses for a moment. “How far are we going?”

“Andersonville.”

“Is that far?”

Oh, right. Gillian's family is from the west suburbs, out in Oak Park. I wonder how often he comes into the city—if he's familiar with other parts and if it's just this area that he doesn't know. And then I'm mad at myself for wondering. I know everything about Gillian and her family that I need to know.

“We can probably make it there in ten minutes,” I say, checking my seat belt again.

I see him nod in the rearview mirror as I adjust it. Then I turn on the headlights. And still I don't touch the ignition.

“What's up?” Pierre asks.

“I … It's been a while since I've driven. Especially at night.” Dad has a car that I can drive whenever he's not using it, but we live in Bucktown, right near the Blue Line and buses, and there's never a shortage of cabs if I'm really desperate. Lately he's been complaining that the area is too busy, that we'd be happier someplace more quiet. But it's the house we lived in with my mother, dead garden and all, and I think he recognizes that our fragile relationship will hold up longer if we stay there until I leave for school.

“There's no rush,” Pierre says. “And you said it's not far.”

“Right,” I say. It's not far.

I turn the key and classical music fills the car as the engine rumbles to life. I'm surprised, because I don't know anyone who listens to classical besides people my dad's age. Gillian seems as if she'd be more into pop or hip-hop or electronic—something with a good beat that fits her boundless energy. But I'm grateful for the strains of string instruments floating through the car. It's soothing.

I keep my hands at ten and two and drive a few miles under the speed limit; some people pass me, but no one looks mad. Just as I'm getting comfortable, Gillian whimpers in her sleep, a noise that becomes increasingly louder by the second. I glance at them in the rearview mirror when I stop at a red light, thinking maybe I should pull over, but Pierre seems to have it under control. In the dim streetlights filtering through the car, I see him rub her shoulder, whispering a barely audible, “It's okay, Gilly. We're almost there.”

He continues comforting her until the whimpers stop, soon replaced by soft snoring. The uneven breaths mingle with the classical music coming from her speakers and, once, her snores are timed so perfectly with a particularly dramatic part in the music that Pierre and I can't help but laugh. We catch each other's eyes in the mirror as the laughter fades.

“You're a good driver,” he says quietly, and then looks out his window for the remainder of the ride.

Which is just as well, because it takes much too long for me to stop furiously blushing at a compliment so decidedly innocuous. And I want to know what's changed since we've been in the car. Because five minutes ago I could barely stand to look at him, and now my cheeks are on fire. Audrey always says I should give people the benefit of the doubt, and I don't always agree with her, but maybe Pierre isn't as bad as I thought. Maybe.

By some miracle, I find a parking spot a few doors down from Audrey's apartment building, and it's even wide enough that I don't have to parallel park. I sigh in relief—witnessing me try to squeeze a strange car into a tight space would most definitely make Pierre retract his previous statement—but it doesn't last long. Because Gillian won't wake up long enough for us to get her out of the car. She swats at Pierre with her eyes closed when he softly pats her face and tells her it's time to sit up. She doesn't respond at all when I say her name loudly and tug on the bottom of her pants.

“Audrey lives on the third floor,” I announce, once it's obvious we'll have to carry her upstairs. “And it's a walk-up.”

“Shit.” But then he sighs and adjusts his glasses. “Help me get her over my shoulder?”

The whole undertaking is a struggle from start to finish. Gillian may still be in great shape from her days as an athlete, but her limbs are deadweight as we try to maneuver her over Pierre's shoulder. She becomes alert every so often and tries to push us away. She shoves at me so hard that I stamp my foot and step back.

“This is really shitty,” I say, wiping my damp forehead.

“I'm the one who has to carry her up three flights of stairs,” Pierre counters, his arms wrapped tightly around Gillian's middle.

“We wouldn't have to do this at all if—” I stop myself, but not fast enough.

Pierre looks up sharply. “If what?”

“Never mind.”

“You're not the only one who feels this way.” His voice is strained, and I can tell that whatever silent truce we called back in the car has expired. “Can we just stop complaining and get her up there so we can be done with this?”

I've never noticed how many entryways you have to pass through to get to Audrey's front door—the gate, the main entrance, the interior door that leads to the staircase—but by the time I'm inserting my copy of her house key into the lock, fifteen minutes later, I think maybe security measures are overrated.

“How … can such a small person … be … so …
heavy
 … when she's … passed … out?” Pierre grunts as he carries Gillian to the bedroom at the back of the apartment.

The bed is gone, along with the rest of the furniture. All that remains is the air mattress Audrey will sleep on until they leave for San Francisco. Pierre deposits Gillian on the slightly saggy mattress and I pull the covers up to her chin. She kicks them off and turns on her side, which saves us a step, because movies have taught me that you're not supposed to let drunk people sleep on their backs.

“Fuck,” Pierre says as we exit the bedroom. “That
was
shitty.” His breathing is steady but heavy as he bends at the waist, his palms planted firmly against the tops of his thighs.

“Want something to drink before we go back?” It seems like the polite thing to suggest.

He nods, and we head to Audrey's tiny kitchen, where I hope she still has something to drink from. A short stack of paper cups sits on the counter beside a freestanding roll of paper towels. “I guess tap water is the best I can do.”

“Tap water is still water,” he says, and I fill up a cup, which he quickly drains, his Adam's apple bobbing along as he chugs.

I step aside so he can refill the cup himself, and open Audrey's refrigerator. The jar of sweet pickles has disappeared, leaving the single brown egg sitting on the top rack. Audrey loves to cook. I feel unsettled, seeing her kitchen so bare.

A groan emerges from down the hall, guttural and urgent. “Aud,” Gillian croaks, just loud enough for us to hear her. “Audie, I need …
Aud
…”

We rush back to the bedroom where Gillian is trying unsuccessfully to get out of bed. She gives up, her head draping over the side of the air mattress. “I'm … gonna…”

I dash across the hall to grab the bathroom trash can and slip it under her head just in time. She heaves and vomits, and it smells terrible. I stand back while Pierre holds her braids away from her face. Her light-brown skin has gone almost pale, but he tells her everything will be fine, the same voice he used in the car.

He sits with her while she spits and moans and then dry heaves and falls back onto the mattress. I bring her a cup of water, and Pierre convinces her to take a few sips before she rolls back over.

“Listen, I don't want you to think Gilly's a drunk asshole,” Pierre says as he stands. “Sometimes she drinks too much when she gets nervous, and she was nervous about tonight.”

I frown, confused. “About a party?”

“About watching everyone say good-bye to Audrey. She thinks…” He lowers his voice, even with the impossibly loud snores now coming from the air mattress. “She thinks you guys hate her for taking your cousin away.”

I should reassure him that of course we don't hate her, because Audrey is an adult and she wouldn't leave if she didn't want to. But I don't say any of that. Unfair or not, a part of me does hate Gillian. She
is
taking away my cousin. Audrey would stay in Chicago if she'd never met Gillian, because Audrey
loves
Chicago. Even when it's covered in sheets of ice and piles of black, slushy snow and the windchill registers at negative double digits, Audrey says this is her favorite city.

“Ah.” Pierre raises his eyebrows. “She's not wrong.”

“Nobody hates Gillian.”
Not really.
I hesitate, because I'm afraid my voice will become too thick, like it does every time I think about Audrey leaving. “We just really love Audrey is all.”

He nods. Not dismissively, but a nod where he makes eye contact with me, one that says he hears me. He understands.

“Well, we can't leave her like this.” Pierre sighs as we move to the front of the apartment. “She'll be really confused if she wakes up and she's alone. And if something happened to her because of me … I should stick around. I mean, if your cousin's cool with me being here.”

“She'll be cool with it, but what will you do?” I look around the empty apartment. There's no television, not even an idle magazine or book. Everything has already been taken away or boxed up and moved to the edge of the room. My voice echoes against the nothingness, and I think about how depressing it would be to sit in here all alone.

“Quiet isn't so bad.” He shrugs. “And I'm sure you want to get back to the party…”

Part of me wants to do that—Audrey
is
leaving in a couple of days. But it wasn't the sort of party where you have fun. The bocce, drinks, and Motown-themed merriment felt forced, like we were all pretending it was an ordinary Saturday night gathering. And I can't even hide out with my father, not with Bev around, being awkward and asking the wrong questions.

Considering the way things started out between us, I can't believe hanging out with Pierre is the better alternative. But I think about the car ride over, how sweet he's been with his sister. And I can't ignore the fact that the only moments tonight that I haven't felt wrapped up in a cloud of anxiety are the ones I've spent with him. Maybe arguing isn't much better, but I'll take any emotion over crippling sadness. And, well … we're not arguing
now
.

“Or I could stay,” I say, shocked at how confident the words sound in my mouth.

Like they belong there.

Like
we
belong here. Together.