Jack & Lucy

Jack

I watched Lucy down two more glasses of red wine before I was able to pry her away from the table to drive her home. After Fischer chose Stella, Ariana made it impossible to have a private conversation with Lucy even though she sat a mere three inches away from me in the crowded booth. I also didn't miss Stella's invitation to Fischer to go drinking after we ate. In what universe does Stella Jackson fancy Fuckboy Fischer? She is not one to play games and Fischer loves to toy with women's emotions. 

"You know where the Denny's is on Thomas?" Lucy asks me as I'm exiting onto Grant Street. Her voice suddenly slicing through the silence startles me. 

"Is that the one by the Starbucks?" I ask back and she nods, her eyelids still heavy. I was hoping to talk to her more on the ride home but she quickly plugged her phone into my stereo and passed out before Lizzo sat down in the salon chair. I let her "Pre-game" playlist play out while I rolled down the highway and secretly enjoyed the new Taylor Swift stuff. It's been months since Lucy beat "Cruel Summer" to death, me begrudgingly nodding my head along to it as we drove around Phoenix. 

"I'm behind there, on 17th," she adds while tugging her phone from the AUX cord and I cringe. She isn't in a great area, but I know she's sick of people telling her that. I also know she's drunk, so she might be forthcoming if I ask about it. 

"Why are you living at Steve's? Why not Stella's? Or ask your parents to help get you into an apartment near school?" I ask gently, keeping my tone in check. I want to demand that she get her stuff right now and come home with me, but I also know she'd never go for that. 

She scoffs before saying, "My parents think I self-sabotage. It's apparently my fault Blake cheated, so...after their disappointment of me leaving New York, again, they made it clear I was on my own." She's slurring but the bite is there. I can tell she's bitter and she usually is when her parents are mentioned. 

"Could you have stayed in New York without Blake? Or did you want to come home?" I ask and then watch her head roll against the headrest to face the window. 

"If I wanted ten roommates and to live in a roach-infested place maybe. I wasn't making much at the bakery so, it's not like I would have been in Manhattan, despite what my parents may think."

"So, your parents wanted New York, but not necessarily Blake?" I cautiously ask, wondering how much she'll confide in me.  

"Oh, they wanted Blake. They adored him. I finally was living up to their standards. They finally saw me like they see Lauren." Lucy answers and I also know her older sister is a touchy subject. Lauren is three years older, graduated from Columbia in pre-med and is now doing her residency there to be a neurosurgeon. She has succeeded in anything she's ever done and even found time to marry an obstetrician who went to Yale. Lucy was an accomplished dancer whose anxiety forced her out of Julliard and into a sports bar in downtown Phoenix. They like to compare the two and I know they linger on Lucy's failures and Lauren's achievements. It's driven a wedge between the two so deep that Lucy only talks to her perfect sister on holidays and birthdays. 

"Is that what you want? To be like Lauren?" I ask while wondering if I even have a shot with Lucy if she is looking for Mr. New York Fancypants. My parents are well off here in Arizona, but they don't have New York money and I'll never have a bunch of letters attached to the end of my name. 

"Ha!" She scoffs loudly, "No! Remember how you told me you could tell I was a dancer because I looked like I walk with a stick lodged up my ass?" 

I glance at her, "Oh god, I said that?"

She nods, "Yeah, we were working together and I was on one about something and you said it, but anyway, I noticed Lauren walks with her nose so high in the air it's a wonder she hasn't drowned." I finally spot the Denny's and turn onto the road that leads behind it. She's still staring out the window as she says, "I just want my parents to see my accomplishments and not compare them to hers. I might not be dancing but I am still doing something I love. I never loved dancing. I felt loved because I danced. There's a difference." She points to a small brown and white house with a dilapidated balcony and quickly changes the subject, "I'm in the house behind there." She uses her knuckle to wipe a tear from her eyelashes before looking back to me, "Thanks for the ride."