Page 11 of Burn the Script

Carmen

What happened?

Me

I’ll explain later.

Bring two bottles.

Carmen bursts through the door with a grocery sack and a to-go bag from a restaurant. “I brought Moscato, chocolate truffles, and spicy pho.”

“You’re the only person who knows how to love me the right way,” I murmur. Talking hurts when I’m lying face down on the sofa with a beaded pillow embedded in my cheek.

“Oh, shit. The wallow hasn’t been this bad in months.”

She dumps everything on the coffee table, including half the contents of the slouchy tote that slides down her arm. A tube of lip gloss rolls across the distressed wood, destination unknown. I relate to its journey while she kicks off her shoes and gets comfy on the chaise.

“Tell me everything, starting with who sent you those flowers.”

A pretty bouquet of not roses fills the crystal vase on my dining table. After Graham had left the coffee shop, I salvaged the flowers that didn’t touch the bathroom floor and tossed the rest in the trash.

“A ghost gave them to me. He popped up out of nowhere, like Casper.” I frown at the beige wall behind the TV. “Casper would be a cute baby name.”

An open bottle lands in my direct line of sight before Carmen says, “You’re not making any sense, Miguel.”

“Graham came to see me. He dragged me into a bathroom and stole a kiss. That has to be a misdemeanor, right? Petty theft, at least.”

“Wait. Back up.” Her hands flap, warding off evil spirits and my wayward thoughts. “Start from the beginning.”

I prop myself on an elbow and recap the eventful morning as we share the first bottle. We’re swapping germs—gag—but I’m too miserable to care. By the end of my sordid tale about trespassing, impersonation, and hostage negotiations, Carmen’s fanning her face.

“Damn, he’s fearless. It’s kinda hot.”

Something between a growl and gargle rumbles in my throat as I swallow a mouthful of sweet Moscato. She heeds the warning, shifting her focus away from his romantic prowess and back to my distress.

“If I remember correctly, you swore on your sewing machine that you wouldn’t speak to him when he showed up. What changed?”

I fling an arm out. “I’m an addict, okay? A graham cracker junkie. Which is why I had to cut myself off!”

“Calm down and drink your wine.” She pats my foot, and I kick at her hand. My effort is feeble, barely making contact.

Sitting up, I swig from the bottle and examine her outfit from the corner of my eye. Her hair is swept up in a high, sleek ponytail, and her open trench coat reveals sheer pants and a sparkly crop top.

“Why are you dressed like a detective genie?” I ask.

She glances at her generous cleavage and shrugs. “I’m going out tonight. Thought I’d find a lonely soul and grant them three wishes.”

“You’re so freaky.”

“Thanks.” A proud grin accompanies her chirped response.

Men and women flock to Carmen’s beauty and whimsical aura. I shared a wall with her for years and know exactly the kind of whimsy she’s into.

Her smile fades to a small, sympathetic one. “How did it feel, seeing him again?”

“Painful.” I slump on the sofa and hug the wine to my chest.

While I haven’t fully processed my feelings about Graham’s surprise visit, there’s no question seeing him again felt like pouring salt and acid on open wounds. His absence from my life burns, but knowing I’ve caused his suffering eats at my soul. A whimper spills out of me, and I press a hand to my stomach. Maybe the wine wasn’t such a good idea.