By Brendan Gillen
“I feel nothing of the sort,” Alaina said.
We had just ridden the Drop Zone, a two-hundred-eighty-foot asshole tightener. It was her idea. I went along because that’s what you do on the third date. Now we were in some low-ceilinged back room with aching white walls and fluorescence so bright you could hear it rattle.
“Your blood pressure is extremely low,” said the EMT. She was heavy-set and sweet and smelled like baked bread. Her name tag said SCARLET.
“Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” Alaina said. “I’m fine.” Her curly hair was matted to her cheek. She had sweat stains rimming her tank top. She was embarrassed. I hardly knew her. If our roles had been reversed, I would have run away. At least her puke didn’t hit anyone.
“Take a few slow sips at least,” Scarlet said. She handed Alaina a bottle of Aquafina. Alaina did as she was told. Scarlet then produced a cold compress and applied it to the small of Alaina’s back. Her eyes rolled up into her head and she sighed with pleasure.
“God in heaven.”
It was the same thing she said after tasting good food. I had taken her to an Italian place on Prince that specialized in Arancini. Crispy on the outside, chewy on the inside. Perfectly salty. An umami bomb, as the Food Network psychos would say. Alaina invited me back to her place and we got undressed almost immediately. I’m no mattress hero; she told me exactly what to do with my tongue.
“You already look better,” I said.
Alaina opened her eyes and looked at me. She smiled. “You screamed like a girl the whole time.”
Scarlet laughed. “You couldn’t pay me to get on that thing.”
“From the top you can see clear to Newark,” I said.
“Yeah, no thank you,” said Scarlet.
“Maybe we should have just waited longer,” I said.
“What did you eat?”
“We split funnel cake and a milkshake,” I said.
Alaina puffed out her cheeks. Scarlet flinched.
“Are you—”
She retched but nothing came and there was a moment of tension, as though we’d just disarmed an explosive.
Alaina looked at me again. Then she began to cry.
“Oh no,” said Scarlet. “Hey, hey. It happens!”
But I knew she wasn’t crying because she spewed at the apex of the Drop Zone. She was crying because her fiancé was dead. Colon cancer. Boom. Just like that. A year ago, she told me, but sometimes, out of the blue, the pain blindsided her as though it was seconds old. She was crying because this was the kind of moment you needed a partner, someone who knew you inside and out, not just the blurry birthmark on your inner thigh. I had a feeling there would be no fourth date, that this would be a tale we’d tell friends over eggs benedict and Bloody Marys, laugh about with our future spouses on a lazy morning in bed.
“I’m so fucking stupid,” Alaina said, and my heart broke. She sniffed and wiped her tears with the back of her wrist, so I made a show of hustling for the box of tissues that sat next to the industrial sink.
“Thanks,” she said, and blew her nose with a little honk.
“I’m going to grab you a Powerade,” Scarlet said. She patted Alaina on the knee then ducked out of the room.
We were alone. We were lonely. I tried to offer a smile and Alaina did the same.
“Who knows,” she said. “Maybe this is the spark we need.”
I couldn’t tell if she was joking.
“I’m still having fun,” I said.
“Makes one of us.”
“Your aim was impressive. Not a splash on anyone.”
“You should see me on the cornhole field. Field? Pitch?”
“Sounds like a threat,” I said, and Alaina laughed.
Scarlet came back with an orange Powerade.
“How’d you know my flavor?” Alaina said. She took the bottle and tipped it back for a long glug. “You want a taste, cowboy?”
I took the bottle and drank. It was room temperature and way too sweet.
“Tastes like Little League.”
“You never told me you were an athlete,” Alaina said in her sultriest voice.
“How’s that tummy?” Scarlet said.
I was dying to know what she thought of our relationship. If the awkwardness hung about us in a way we could never see, or if we were just another couple doing our best to hold on.
“Tummy no longer mad,” Alaina said. “And I bet the line for El Toro has died down by now.”
Scarlet and I shared a glance.
“Kidding,” Alaina said. “Jesus, guys. Half my intestines are baking in the sun out there. All I want right now is my bed and a J Lo flick.”
We were quiet on the drive back to the city. Alaina leaned her head against the seat as I drove. Tom Petty warbled low on the stereo. Occasionally, I glanced over to see if she had fallen asleep. Part of me wished she would so I could be alone with my thoughts. Not that they were worth much. It’s just when someone has experienced as much pain as Alaina has, it gets heavy resting in the knowledge that nothing you can ever do will make it better.
“Our fair city,” Alaina said. “Majestic. Bold.”
The skyline materialized in the haze as I sped north on the turnpike. Summer was dying, but the heat didn’t get the message.
“Guess it’s your turn,” Alaina said.
“My turn…”
“To spill your guts.”
She arched her brows in a dare, then read my confusion and laughed, deep and easy.
“I’m kidding, dude. It’s your turn to pick our next activity. Have some confidence.”
“I’ll think on it,” I said. It took everything I had not to grin like an idiot.
She patted my hand on the gear shift. “Don’t hurt yourself. There’s already enough pain to go around.”
I drifted over to our exit. It was impossible to know if things would last. But if there was going to be pain, wasn’t it worth taking a chance on a balm?
“I’ll drop you off?” I said.
“If you want,” Alaina said. “But I wouldn’t say no to company.” She closed her eyes as we entered the tunnel. “At least for a little while.”
Brendan Gillen is a writer in Brooklyn, NY. His stories have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best Small Fictions and appear in the Florida Review, Wigleaf, Necessary Fiction, Maudlin House, Taco Bell Quarterly, New Delta Review, X-R-A-Y and elsewhere. His first novel, STATIC, is forthcoming from Vine Leaves Press (July ’24). You can find him online at bgillen.com and on Twitter/IG @beegillen.