Feels like Friday

By Allen Renfro

There’s nothing like the feeling of coming home on a Friday afternoon after a hard week of work. To Evan weekends are when life really begins, spending quiet Friday nights at home with Jacob; sleeping in on Saturday mornings; shopping in Market Square downtown; going to the movies after Sunday brunch with friends. It has defined his life with Jacob for twenty happy years.

Then, one Friday he comes home and his whole world is shattered.

Determined to help Evan through his sorrow his best friends, Curt and Donna, decide to keep him distracted by taking him to Curt’s favorite hangout. It seems the harder they try the more Evan resists, that is, until he meets Jase.

The hottest bartender in town, Jase, with his blond hair and blue-eyed good looks, is the center of attention and the object of every man’s desire. Never in a million years would Evan think that Jase could be attracted to someone like him: a nerdy, middle-aged accountant with high blood pressure. It takes Evan’s best friends to convince him that he is the kind of man Jase is looking for.

But just as the relationship between Evan and Jase blossoms, tragedy strikes and Evan is forced to make a decision that will change his life forever. Will he do what his heart tells him or what his guilt demands?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Allen Renfro
• Release date: Apr 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370208999

Allen Renfro

Allen Renfro is a native of Tennessee and a graduate of Tusculum College. A published poet and artist in the zine culture of the 1990s he considers himself a "fringe" artist. He is an admitted history buff, horror movie watcher and reader of fiction. He is the author of twelve novels.

Book preview

Chapter One

We think our lives will have a good ending, not that an ending is necessarily good, but at least one we can accept. You know, the kind of ending that’s like a soap opera; holding his hand at his bedside as his eyes slowly close with a smile on his face, fifty years from now. Any other ending is impossible. We never think it can happen any other way. I didn’t think it could. Not after twenty years.

It really is one of those where were you when moments that you never forget. Looking forward to getting home after a grueling day of fighting the battles that only accountants can win; traffic’s a nightmare, the mindless zombies spend more time looking down at their phones than driving. Fighting my way through the zigzag of cars whose drivers are obviously VIPs that have the right to violate every traffic law on the books, I know we’re going to be beyond fashionably late.

I have to get ready for Austin and Tina’s wedding shower so we can make the twenty-minute trek across town. The frustration of traffic and a hard week at work can’t spoil the excitement of the party. I’ve been looking forward to it all week long. With it being Friday – well, that’s just gravy. The rest of the weekend to ourselves: early Saturday morning breakfast and then to the farmers’ market in Market Square, dinner at Cocoa Moon and a movie at the downtown theatre; Sunday morning, sleeping in, then a jog and off to brunch. The perfect weekend.

I turn onto our street, observing the Caution Kids at Play sign, admiring the lush green of the maple trees that line our perfect middle class sidewalks. Just like every other day. Except, this time, something is wrong. I feel a nervous energy as I approach our Happily Ever After home; our perfectly manicured lawn, the cobblestone walkway we added just last summer that leads from the driveway in a beautiful arc to the front porch of our two-story house; the oak tree we planted finally an epic size that cools the front of the house with shade. The Victorian house I dreamed of all my life, the castle for two princes to become kings.

One of the two garage doors is open as I pull into the driveway. Jacob’s car isn’t there. It’s always there when I get home from work, unless he’s called me and told me. He’s always the first one home. I don’t bother to pull my car inside the garage, opting to step out into the warm summer sun and make my way through the garage to the house.

Working my tie loose, I wrestle the phone from my pocket and dial his number, worry beginning to grow inside my chest, my heart beginning to pump nervously. Straight to voice mail. I stop before I unlock the door leading inside the house and check my own voice mail. The voice inside me about to scream: he’s been in an accident, he’s in the hospital, something terrible has happened. No messages.

Maybe he had car trouble, I think to myself, trying to reassure my fears. I’m just overreacting. Maybe it’s his mom; her health is in decline. Maybe she’s in the hospital and he rushed there. Why didn’t he call me? He would call me. Wouldn’t he?

I open the door and walk along the hallway to the living room.

Jacob? I call out, knowing I’m calling out to nothing. Are you home?

The house is silent and still.

Jacob?

I run upstairs straight to our bedroom. No lights on, just a grayish hue of daylight pushing around the curtains of the windows. Everything is in place. The bed is made, our picture on the nightstand from our trip to Hawaii displaying toward my side of the bed, one of the first things I see every morning when I wake up. Something is wrong. Very wrong.

I try calling him again. Immediately goes to voice mail.

A text. I’ll try a text. I type it in, retype and retype and retype, damn autocorrect. Worried. Where are you? Please call me.

Flopping down on the bed, I squeeze the phone too tightly, my eyes trained on the screen, just waiting, waiting, and waiting.

I can’t sit still, the frantic of not knowing how badly he might be hurt. He could be lying on the side of the freeway dying for all I know. This isn’t happening. It can’t be happening. I walk back downstairs, to the living room, then to the dining room, to the back doors that lead to the patio. Empty. Everything feels empty.

I call his number again. Straight to voice mail.

I text again. Damn autocorrect.

Maybe I should call the police? Maybe I should go out and search for him myself? Should I call his mom? His sister? Should I call our friends?

Without realizing it, I find myself sitting on our bed again. I don’t know what to do. Curt. I’ll call Curt.

Hey, Evan, Curt answers, his voice the light but husky tone that makes me smile every time I hear it. You all on your way?

I already forgot about the wedding shower.

Uh, I stutter. Have you heard from Jacob?

No, why? he replies. I can hear the sound of music in the background. He’s on his way to the party.

He’s not here, I reply. His car’s not here. There’s no sign of him. No phone call, no text. Something’s wrong.

Did you call his sister? Curt replies. Maybe his mom got worse?

I notice the door of the closet, slightly cracked open, the light forming a tall rectangle around the edges.

No, I don’t wanna worry anybody if it’s nothing, I reply as I walk over to the closet. I obviously forgot to turn off the light this morning.

Call Teddy, Curt says. Maybe they went out for a drink after work and just forgot to tell you.

Jacob sometimes did go out after work for cocktails with his best friend. It’s a possibility I rationalize as I open the door to the closet.

The phone slips from my hand.

I can hear the muffled sound of Curt calling out my name over and over like an echo. I hear him say I’m on my way, but it doesn’t feel real.

The right side of the closet is empty; not even hangers remain. His clothes are gone. His shoes are gone. Everything that is his is gone. And the emptiness of the closet becomes an emptiness in my heart, like half of my heart has been sheared away.

I’m still too dense to understand what it means, spinning around the room, searching for an answer, for anything that will explain why his clothes are gone. Tearing the sheets from the bed, looking under pillows, checking under the bed, the nightstand; an aimless confusion like a bird lost in fog. I stumble into our bathroom, not sure if I want to cry or vomit. The rush of cold water from the sink faucet, the splash of water against my face, I stare at the reflection in the mirror. Crows’ feet, the gray around the edges of my dark hair, the signs of age, the blue in my eyes fading. Is this what forty-five looks like? I need to catch my breath before I collapse.

I need something. I need an answer. I need a shot of whiskey.

I zombie down the stairs to the kitchen down a long hallway past memories framed and nailed to the walls that now feel like lies. Stumbling through the dining room designed for parties of ten, to the kitchen that is Jacob’s favorite room, I don’t bother to find a glass as I pull the Jack Daniels bottle from the cabinet and take a swig. For a moment, the window just over the sink is like a movie screen and the children playing next door are a distraction. Their world is oblivious to what real pain is, if they’re lucky.

It’s only when I turn around that reality slaps me across the face. Held to the refrigerator with my Madonna MDNA World Tour magnet, a yellow piece of paper with ruled lines. The words written in Jacob’s handwriting; the words he couldn’t bear to tell me to my face.

Do I even need to read it to know what it says?

You deserve better than me. I’m not ready to get married. It’s all my fault. I should have said something a long time ago. I will always be your friend.

A coward’s way out.

What a crock of bullshit! Curt nearly yells as he hands the letter back to me and flops down beside me on the couch. His eyes are dancing with anger and his round face is red. He’s angrier than me. I’m just numb, sitting on the couch, holding a piece of yellow paper that falls limp in my grasp.

I feel Curt’s hand on the back of my neck comforting me in his own way. I can’t believe he’s my best friend, nearly ten years younger than me.

I say we find him and Lorena Bobbitt his sorry ass!

I offer him a fake smile, staring straight ahead at the dark wide screen television set on the wall across from us. On a normal Friday, we’d be curled up together, Jacob and me, on the couch watching a movie on Netflix.

Normal.

Routine.

Maybe that’s the problem. What am I supposed to do now? Routine is all I know.

We should call Teddy, Curt says, pulling the phone from his khaki slacks. I bet he knows where he’s at.

No, I reply. He’ll call me when he’s ready.

Did I just defend him?

I hear the wheeze of a deep breath as Curt tries to make me look at him. I don’t know what to say here.

There’s nothing you can say, I reply, offering him a more sincere smile. He’s gone. Just like that. After twenty years, he’s gone.

The words are not real. They can’t be real. Just like the steam that rises off hot coffee in the mornings, it’s only temporary, fleeting. The words can’t be coming from my mouth.

Did you notice anything before… He hesitates. I mean, were there any signs?

I just shake my head, my mind racing like a train through station after station without stopping. I won’t let the train stop. I don’t know that I’m ready to see the signs. I’m not ready to stop denying. I’m still having the this is not happening moment.

Curt’s phone rings with a musical ringtone from one of the popular teenybopper singers. He looks at the screen with a groan. It’s Tina.

There’s no way I’m going to the wedding shower now.

Hey, girl, he answers, sliding his hand across his dark crew cut hair. Yeah, I know. I’m gonna be a little bit later than I expected. Evan and Jacob?

He looks at me as I shake my head. He knows what it means.

No, I haven’t heard from them today. He grimaces as he lies. He’s not very good at it. They’re not there yet? What time will I be there? Uh, in about an hour. Yeah, I know I’m the co-host. Yeah, I know Austin’s mom is a bitch. I’ll be there as soon as I can.

He hangs up, his eyes still dancing, staring at me as I sit on the couch, unable to find words, thoughts, or even hope. The muffled sound of my phone ringing from the bedroom where I dropped it causes me to stare toward the staircase. I know it’s Tina. I make no effort to get to my phone.

You need to go, I say, standing up and wiping my eyes with my fingers, the surprise of tears that haven’t fallen. Tina’s gonna need your help.

You don’t need to be by yourself right now, he replies, hugging me, pushing the hair from my eyes.

Actually, Curt, I think I do, I whisper, feeling the dam break and the tears streak down my cheeks.

He hugs me again, tighter. I’m coming back after the party. And I’m bringing pizza and ice cream.

Okay. My mouth is muffled against his shoulder.

What do you want me to tell Tina?

Just tell her I’m sick. The words stumble from my lips. Will you take our present?

Our present. The words cut deep.

Sure, he says. Is it upstairs? I’ll go get it.

Yeah, I reply. It’s in Jacob’s office.

Jacob’s office; do I have to stop saying that now?

I watch from the living room window as Curt pulls his green, ten-year-old car into the street and disappears behind the line of oak trees.

The curtain-covered window shields me from the world, the world that doesn’t know. My world is inside these walls, pictures, trinkets on a fireplace mantel, memories, the smell of him, the sweetness of his breath. My world, which now feels like a prison. As if I have a pillow over my face, I can’t breathe, even though my lungs ache for air. I don’t know what this feels like, this feeling like my stomach devouring my heart, a hole that’s been ripped open with knives, my insides spilled out so wild animals can feed.

Why does it feel like my fault? Like I’m supposed to be sorry for something even when I don’t know exactly what it is? Does he hate me? Am I impossible to live with? I’m too ugly? I’m too old? Did I gain too much weight? Is it because I take medicine for my blood pressure? What did I do? I must’ve done something.

The piece of yellow paper teeters on the edge of the couch. I should tear it to shreds and watch the pieces of his goodbye fall to the floor, but for some reason even strange to me, I fold it into a square and place it on the coffee table. It’s hard to believe that all we built together – our lives, our home, our world – is now summed up in a single, tightly folded piece of paper.

The walk upstairs feels like a climb up Mount Everest. My cell phone lying on the floor like an abandoned corpse, the only thing I can think to do is call everybody we know that isn’t at the wedding shower. Curt’s right. I should call Teddy.

Press the button, place the phone to my ear, listening to the ring, ring, ring, ring. Did I really expect him to answer? He’s Jacob’s best friend. He knows.

I hang up before leaving a voice mail. What’s the point of calling everyone? The ones that don’t know will answer. The ones that do know won’t. Why should I expect anything but the typical from people? Why should I expect them to care? They don’t want to catch what I have. They don’t want to be exposed to old and dumped.

Should I turn on a Pandora sad pop music station? Should I fall to the bed and cry? All I want is a hot shower to burn this feeling off of me, to wash away the sin that I’ve committed, the sin that praying can’t forgive. I believe that’s when the freight train hit me. Standing under the rush of steaming water, my eyes melt and tears come easy, hard, and forever.

* * *

I watch the sunlight around the curtains stretch long across the bedroom ceiling and fade to darkness. The coolness of the spinning ceiling fan washes over my body. The sound of cars rushing back and forth on the street, buzzing on a Friday night with soccer mom SUVs and beer-laden pickup trucks driven by small penis men on their way to the local joint to pick up some stranger. The constant bing of my phone resting just beside me under my hand, another concerned friend Curt has told about my illness. Another lie. Another wrong. Another skip of the heart. Another question I’ll make up an answer for.

The burst of light against the curtains and the sound of a car coming to a stop in the driveway force me to sit up. Curt’s kept his word and has returned. He’ll have pizza and ice cream with him.

He relays every bit of information about the wedding shower, who was wearing what, what the presents were; how concerned everyone was that I’m sick and we couldn’t make it. I try to listen to his eager rambling, his simple gesture to take my mind away from the heart being ripped from my chest.

Maybe it was your breath, Curt says as he flops down on the couch next to me, his mouth stuffed with pizza. Sometimes it could knock over a skunk.

Thanks. It’s the only word that comes to mind as I nurse a shot of Jack Daniels and try to ignore the glow of the television. I know he’s trying to get me to laugh, to cheer me up. It’s not working. Not even the episode of Golden Girls is working.

He swallows loudly and reaches for the bottle of beer resting safely on a coaster on the end table beside him, beads of sweat trickling down the side and glittering in the lamp light. But honestly, your breath is pretty bad. If they ever come up with a Tic-Tac injection, you might wanna take it. Seriously, my ass has better breath.

Very funny, I reply, my eyes constantly darting toward my phone lying on the arm of the sofa next to me.

Curt places the half empty bottle of beer back on the coaster and leans back next to me with a huff. "Oh my God, I love this episode when Dorothy says, ‘I look like the mother of a Solid Gold dancer."

"Do you even know what Solid Gold is?"

Yes, he replies, his tone long with sarcasm. A cheesy 80s music countdown show. I read about it in an ancient scroll discovered in a cave.

I don’t offer a response to the dig about my age, sliding my finger along the screen of my phone.

You know, staring at the phone isn’t going to make it ring.

Does he always have to point out everything? Sometimes silence really is golden.

You know, speaking of breath, I reply, desperate to change the subject. The pepperoni is turning yours into a sewer.

Just means I need to drink more beer. He chuckles, takes a long swig, and rinses his mouth with it.

I stand up and walk to the window, pull back the curtains, and stare out into the street light glow in the front yard that illuminates the leaves of the oak tree. The grandfather clock in a room I call our den tolls eleven times.

I can’t tell you the last time we’ve been apart, I say with a long heave of breath. I don’t remember the last time we didn’t sleep together.

Even when you were fighting? Curt asks, his mouth full again with pizza.

Yeah, I reply, turning back to smile at him, his cheeks full and round like a chipmunk as he chews. The innocence in his eyes is a beguiling disguise to the streetwise nerd underneath. The funniest man I will ever know. No matter what, we always slept together.

Damn, he replies, considering what I just said. That’s amazing.

I fight back tears. I’ve never been alone.

What am I? Chopped liver? He smiles. You’re not alone now. You were the star of the relationship. He was just the arm candy. Everybody loves you.

Were. Was. Words I don’t want to hear.

Except for the one I thought mattered the most, I say in the most passive-aggressive manner I can.

He stares at me for what seems like millennia.

Congratulations, he says with a slow clap of his hands. You’re well on your way to winning the Oscar for Most Self-Absorbed Drama Queen.

That’s not fair, I reply as I sit back on the sofa next to him, rubbing my eyes, my elbows resting on my knees.

Look, sweetheart, Curt says, his mouth spraying pizza and beer, I’m just trying to keep things in check. I know your heart’s broken. I know you have a million questions. I know you need to grieve. But I’m not gonna let you wallow in this.

Twenty years, Curt, I sob. He’s all I’ve ever known.

You’re wallowing, he warns.

I just sarcastically stare at him, whatever that means. Like he’s ever known what this feels like. Like he’s ever had a relationship close to what I have. Like he has a right to tell me what I should be feeling. But everybody does that. When it comes to breakups everybody’s an expert at how you should feel and when you should feel it. I guess I’m different. I feel what I feel no matter who tells me I should or shouldn’t. At least with Curt, I respect him enough to listen to what he has to say.

I’m in shock too, he confesses. It’s not just that he left you. He left all of us. It can never be the same again.

So what am I supposed to do? I ask. Do I just let it all go? Do I just accept that twenty years of my life have been wasted?

Oh come on, Curt scolds. They were twenty good years, weren’t they? Look at all you have! Look at all the memories. At least you’ve had twenty years with somebody. At least he’s not dead!

Curt’s words sink into my skin like acid. Absorbed in my own selfish misery, I sometimes forget what he’s gone through in his life. He didn’t have a choice.

I’m sorry, I whisper as I take his hand and squeeze. He’s the best friend a man could ever have.

Don’t be sorry, he says with a smile. Be glad you had twenty years.

A flash of headlights illuminating the curtains coincides with the sound of a car rumbling into the driveway. I look over at Curt, who offers a shrug and his sly grin.

That’s probably Donna, he says.

No, Curt, I groan. Why did you tell her? Last thing she needs to worry about is me!

I didn’t, he insists defensively. She texted me.

What?

Yeah, she knew before I did, he replies, the innocence in his eyes proving that he’s telling the truth.

Like an explosion, Donna bursts into the living room, practically ripping the front door off the hinges, barreling in like a linebacker, her breasts heaving just above the pooch of her slight belly. Her pink blouse is buttoned up wrong and her jeans are almost too big, lumbering down in folds on top of her sensible shoes. Strands of her dark hair dangle inside the black frames of her glasses, nearly covering the rage in her eyes.

She’s hugging me before I realize. The words that rush from her mouth are the clichéd, typical ones in a situation like this. I’m so sorry. Are you okay? That sorry ass son of a bitch. I got a shovel in the trunk. We’ll drag his dead ass out into the woods and bury him.

I don’t have to answer her; the words are meant to be soothing, but I have no doubt that if I said I wished he was dead that she’d be right there with us burying the body.

I got a text from Brad, she says as she sneers at the greasy pizza box and empty beer bottles dotting the coffee table and hugging Curt at the same time. Jacob, the asshole, is at Exodus all over some guy.

What? It’s all I can manage.

Donna grabs the remote and points it toward the TV. "So put your shoes on, turn off this Golden Girls shit, and let’s go."

She has me by the arm, practically dragging me to the door even as I’m resisting. No, Donna, I’m not going there!

Don’t you wanna talk to him? she demands, surprised by my resistance. You deserve answers.

You don’t have to confront him, Curt says as gently as he can, trying to empty the beer bottle just at his lips. Don’t you wanna see for yourself? Just so you’ll know? Maybe it will help you get over it?

And maybe I’ll go bat shit crazy, I say with a shake of my head. I don’t know how I’ll react when I see him.

Oh come on, Donna scoffs. That’s not you. That’s me.

Look, I say, almost pleading, I don’t wanna see him.

Sounds to me like you wanna hide, she says, folding her arms, looking sternly at me like a third grade teacher would. Like I did.

I offer her a smile, even though her provocation both angers and saddens me. I look at her stomach, the life that she lost just six weeks ago. The baby she and her husband always wanted. Can I ever be as strong as her? I didn’t think I’d have to be.

Maybe I do wanna hide, I reply, feeling a quiver in my lip, the tears about to fall again. Maybe I’m not ready to see him with somebody else just hours after he left me. Maybe I’m not ready to believe that he can just walk away and pretend like the last twenty years never happened.

Finally my words match how I feel. They are speechless for about a minute, staring at me. I can feel their pity and it pisses me off.

You need to tell him that, Donna presses. He needs to know he isn’t gonna get off so easy. He doesn’t get to ride off into the sunset without saying a word to you.

You deserve more than a note stuck to the refrigerator, Curt says softly.

And before I know it, I’m riding shotgun in Donna’s car with Curt in the backseat moving around like an anxious dachshund.

* * *

Chapter Two

Grimacing with the glare of headlights, anxious at the sight of all the college kids bathed in streetlight as they meander along Cumberland Avenue getting their underage drink on, I read the signs on the sides of the buildings, admire the neon-lit nightclubs, the restaurants, the cool hippie hangouts with tie-dyed names and mother earth religions. I feel my stomach quiver.

Have you checked your bank accounts yet? Donna says, a rage boiling in her voice.

No, I…

She interrupts. Check them right now. Get out your phone and check them.

Okay, okay, I reply, wrestling my phone from my pocket. It doesn’t matter anyway.

Why’s that? Curt asks.

We have one account to pay bills but most of our money was kept separately, I say, studying the screen of my phone as I type in a password on the bank app.

I feel Curt’s grin. Sounds like an idea you came up with.

Why do you say that? I ask.

"You’re the