“She’s pretty broken up. She wanted me to come out here and tell you it was all a mistake, that you were just being paranoid.”
We sat in silence for a long time. I refilled his glass, then my own.
“I couldn’t do that,” he said. “I’m worried about you. You haven’t been right, not for months. I don’t know what it is, but you should get to a doctor.”
“I don’t need a doctor,” I snapped. The liquor had melted the numbness and left burning anger and bile, my constant companions. “I need a friend who doesn’t fuck my girlfriend when my back is turned.”
I threw my glass at the wall. It bounced off, leaving tequila-stains on the wallpaper, and rolled under the bed. Dan started, but stayed seated. If he’d stood up, I would’ve hit him. Dan’s good at crises.
“If it’s any consolation, I expect to be dead pretty soon,” he said. He gave me a wry grin. “My Whuffie’s doing good. This rehab should take it up over the top. I’ll be ready to go.”
That stopped me. I’d somehow managed to forget that Dan, my good friend Dan, was going to kill himself.
“You’re going to do it,” I said, sitting down next to him. It hurt to think about it. I really liked the bastard. He might’ve been my best friend.
There was a knock at the door. I opened it without checking the peephole. It was Lil.
She looked younger than ever. Young and small and miserable. A snide remark died in my throat. I wanted to hold her.