a friend of a friend
I was recently reminded that our lives are a constant journey of us finding where we fit within other people’s lives and within ourselves. I wrote this story as a personal creative project and it provided me with an opportunity to revisit my creative writing after taking a break for nearly a year.
(Written between 10/23/22 and 11/14/22).
“He’s a friend of a friend,” they’d told me, “But that’s all he can be. Just a friend, ‘cause he’s a player, see?”
And what did that mean to me?
I was only there to sink a few shots and make jokes in front of people who had nothing but hand-me-down pieces of information about what kind of person I was. That’s how the first few weeks of college are supposed to go, if you didn’t know: new year, new classes, new friends, new victims.
We told everyone the party was at five, so we skipped our Friday 8 AM’s to buy cheap liquor at Costco. It’s a big gap of time, but you know, we could only ever focus on one thing at a time. “We” as in me and my only friend at school, M, who happened to know everybody at this school before we’d even gotten accepted and was the one out of the two of us who could buy alcohol legally.
Maybe I was riding their coattails, but I already told you! I was only there to debut my stand-up comedy to strangers after a drink or two.
We carted the loot back to M’s car and snuck it through the backdoor of their apartment to dodge the eyes of the RA next door. He probably wouldn’t have cared, and we were probably just overthinking it. But, that was just how we were.
“Maybe we should cover that with a sweater,” M had suggested, looking around worriedly. They held out their hoodie for me and motioned for me to take it.
“This is alcohol you bought with our money, not a kilo of cocaine we smuggled off the street,” I’d replied in annoyance, but I still swiped it from their hands and covered the case of claws to bring into the apartment. I was really good at listening to other people back then.
So, we started setting up, and some people that M’s been hanging out with lately come by to help get things ready. They’re unpacking more liquor and chips and red solo cups—we couldn’t have been more obvious to outside eyes—and that’s when they all tell me about him.
“He’s a friend of a friend,” they’d told me, “But that’s all he can be. Just a friend, ‘cause he’s a player, see?”
And what did that have to do with me?
“It’s just ‘cause you’re pretty,” M told me, “And he’s probably going to try to get into your pants.”
They looked at me pointedly, eyes wide as they tried to telepath the crude image to me to me. I looked back at them with a fluoride stare, and they sighed.
“He’s a whore.”
So, I was going to get to see a whore tonight at this party we were throwing, supposedly! Like I hadn’t seen one of those before.
The sun started going down and somebody couldn’t stand the temptation of the chips on the table anymore. People were showing up in smaller increments and larger groups. The volume of the music on the record player began to climb.
“Shut the windows, though, the RA lives—“
“It’s already shut, you paranoid ass!”
I was warming up on the couch, sipping a screwdriver and jangling my right leg while I counted back and forth on my fingers. Counted what? I couldn’t tell you.
Then, the chatter started again. It was overbearing—the same topic recycled over and over—but I listened anyway. I’m only human, and I was only nineteen.
“Girls get set back a hundred years every time they give into him.”
What an interesting way to phrase that.
“He’s got money, like a crazy amount of it,” someone else had said.
And does it help him with his “whoring”?
“Plus, he drives a brand new Benz—“
“We’re not allowed to talk about it in front of him, though,” A piped up.
We’re not allowed to? Maybe we just shouldn’t.
And it’s good that we didn’t, because then he was there.
A loud knock at the door made everyone in the room still momentarily as the conversation broke before picking up again. M pulled the door open timidly, and before I knew it, I was already looking at him.
Actually, he was already looking at me, but he wouldn’t tell you that. Not even if you threatened to crash that shiny black Benz into a brick wall.
He had an unamused, low gaze that commanded everyone else in the room—including me—to give him more attention that he clearly could stand to be without.
That alone should have told me to listen to M, to everyone else at this party who had said anything about this friend of a friend. But for once, I didn’t.
He moved farther into the room and his cologne cut through the strong presence of alcohol in the air. I couldn’t tell you what scent it was, what brand, or even what kind of bottle it came in. I still can’t. All I knew in that moment was that I was suddenly desperate, combing the air for pheromones like an animal searching for bait laying in a trap that would undoubtedly kill it.
Then, he spoke, and almost all of my senses were attuned to him. Sight, sound, and smell. Taste and touch would follow later.
“What’s up?”
He hadn’t said it to me, or anybody in particular. His voice rode on air, no louder than a whisper. It was low and slow and my face began to heat as if he’d forced me under an interrogation lamp and—
The party resumed. Time seemed to bend back into substance and definition. He’d also brought a case of drinks and set them on the counter. More elixir to fill bottomless stomachs.
It was a Friday night, after all.
So, we all kept drinking. Smaller groups formed, conversations racketeering from topic to topic. The record player continued to spin and I was feeling great.
It was largely due to the fact that I’d been split apart and spread wide open within the mind of this friend of a friend, but also because I was in the middle of a crowd of people who knew little to nothing about where I’d been, where I was going, and where I had yet to be.
I was on fire that night, I have to say. My audience sat on the edge of the dilapidated couch as they waited to hear what I’d say next. I cracked jokes about being a man-eater, a force to be reckoned with. I heralded stories about my crazy ex-fiancee, how even though I’d never been an athlete, I still chucked that steak knife at his big, stupid head like it was my Olympic qualification.
“Only ‘cause he’d taken my car to sleep with another girl, though,” I assured everyone around me. They stared back with slackened jaws and giggled in awe as they swirled their drinks around for another swig.
“You were engaged?”
“You’re so young, though! Only nineteen, right?”
“I was, and I am,” I said, swirling the last two sips of my drink around in the bottle (dramatic effect, of course), “But sometimes, life has a funny way of being exactly what you’d think it isn’t. I used to think the world of him. Now, he’s a bum, and I’m a man-beater.”
And then, I’d stood up, grinning, knowing I was leaving with them with something to think about. Something to remember me by. That was always my goal.
“Smoke break,” I explained, excusing myself, and went on my way.
We’d boarded up the entire apartment to hide our activities from the RA’s prying eyes. To this day, I still don’t think he would’ve cared what we were doing, but the blinds were shut tight and turned up so that nobody had the slightest chance of being able to glimpse inside. Even the backdoor curtains were drawn and duck taped to the wall to prevent any slits in the fabric.
But, this meant the only place left to smoke without drawing too much attention to ourselves was the bathroom. M’s apartment had two—smashed right next to one another in the same hallway. It was not genius architecture, if I do say so myself.
Since M had moved in a few weeks ago, I had always used the right bathroom. I have no explanation for why. It just made more sense. But that night, I knew most of the people here had probably used it, too. Yuck! I went left.
When I reached for the light switch, I realized someone else, that friend of a friend, was already in there, leaning up against the bathroom wall in front of the mirror and doing exactly what I’d come in here to do.
Suddenly, every ounce of my attention had no choice but to be his for the moment. He stared at me unashamed through the mirror before turning around. I let him.
“You smoke, too?” He raised an eyebrow at me and I steeled myself, shooting him a weird look back.
“No, I just came in here to check on you.”
That sentence is still in my worst nightmares. My voice warbled awkwardly and the sentence came out shakily; the sarcasm hadn’t made it through. I remember making a sour face, puckering my lips and shutting my eyes to try and rearrange space and time to take the words back. It sounded sincere.
I should have stepped out until he was done. I should have listened to what I’d been told. I didn’t know this man.
“They tell you I’d be here or what?”
“I’m going to smoke now,” I declared, cutting the end of his question in half. There. End of conversation. There was nothing more he could say to me after that.
“Do it, then.”
I froze. One beats. Two beats.
Then, I put the blunt between my lips. I wish I could tell you I was stronger than that, maybe just a little bit better than that. But, I admit that was not the last time I would listen to him at the drop of a command.
I told you, I used to be really good at listening to others back then.
A few more hours and drinks after that and I was drunk. I was light on my feet, I swear to you, but M still insisted I shouldn’t walk back home.
“There’s cops everywhere, and accidents happen five miles from the home all the time—“
“I’ll take her,” he had said casually.
In response to this, M jumped up immediately to thank him for being a good guy, for bringing the drinks, for showing up. The whole nine yards, but I was still stuck on the first one. My head reeled.
“Wait, you live in my complex?”
He looked down at me, red eyes blinking languidly like a dragon waking in its cave to the first rays of a sunrise. How he knew which complex I lived in, I didn’t know. I don’t know who had told him, or if he’d found out all by himself. I still don’t.
A burning went through me, and I cursed myself for the feeling. I cursed myself again for liking it—betrayal to oneself at the highest degree.
But, we walked. The main road back home was quiet, well-lit. The streets were tame, absent from Friday night speed racers and other intoxicated individuals. It was just the two of us. There was nothing to do but cover the basics.
What’s your major? His was Financial Math. What’s your grade? We were both in our third years. How old are you and where are you from? He was 20, from Mexico.
Then, we were home. Our complex came into view.
“Alright, I can take it from here,” I said, “You should get home. It’s cold out.”
“Nah, I’ll take you closer.” I didn’t object. How embarrassing.
“What floor are you on?” I saw his smile curve deviously under the brim of his hat.
Oh, did I mention the hat? He was always wearing one. He didn’t need it, but he knew it looked a hundred times better with it on. It’s still a fan favorite of mine.
“Second.”
“Second?!” It was too perfect. Too specific. Too coincidental.
“S’what I said.”
We stopped at the bottom of the stairs. I looked at him, but I didn’t know what I was expecting. I nodded, said thank you, and went up the stairs.
To save face, I didn’t look back immediately to see which direction he’d gone. It wouldn’t have mattered. He’d disappeared quietly, like he hadn’t been there with me at all.
That night, before I slept, I didn’t even try to stop myself from finding his Instagram and thanking him for walking me home. I was drunk, and that’s not the only time I’ll use that excuse. He had me right where he wanted me.
The next afternoon, he was sitting next to me at a tattoo shop in Downtown Santa Barbara. I wanted to get a tattoo dedicated to my little sister on my thigh.
I realize that’s a huge leap from two drunk strangers walking home at close to three in the morning, but I’m getting to it. Have patience.
M had woken up the next morning, hungry and miserable, begging for someone to help clean the wreckage from last night. I’d been an alcoholic in my high school years, and it had given me an invincible hangover immunity. I walked the half mile back to their apartment in the cold, letting it numb me to the barely there pounding in my head.
By the time I was done de-stickifying the counters, mentally preparing myself for the throw-up duty that awaited in the right bathroom, and pretending to accurately recycle empty drink cans and bottles, M was craving pho.
I’m sure you know why. You, too, were probably once a college student battling a raging hangover with the only lifeline being pho to fill your semi-solid stomach.
Then it was time for roll call. Everyone that was at the party the night before was FaceTimed and informed. If you were alive and functional, you would meet us at the pho spot down the block in an hour. Be there or be square.
M called him last. I heard them speak from where I was scrubbing the last of the throw-up from the toilet bowl. I knew I was smart to not use the right one.
“The hell I wanna get food with you for?” His voice was deeper than it was yesterday. Hungover. Tired. Hot.
“Oh, you are so rude!” M was indignant, and I had to smile to myself a little. He was rude.
The words burst out of my mouth before I gave them permission to—bold and fast like I wanted to take him by surprise.
“I’ll be there,” I called out from the bathroom. There was silence for three beats, enough time for doubt to creep in. Did he even know my voice?
“OK. I’ll go.”
We picked him up in M’s car before sitting in silence for fifteen agonizing minutes at the table while we tried to solidify our stomachs. M sat slumped against the restaurant wall, trying not to throw up on the peeling paint before they brought us our noodles and we scarfed them down between waves of nausea.
“What’re we doing after this?”
The hangovers had finally curbed themselves and the rest of the Sunday had yet to be decided. M giggled and pushed their leftover noodles around with chopsticks before looking up at me with a cat grin.
“We could get a tattoo.”
There, now you know how he ended up next to me at a tattoo parlor downtown. M was already on the table, adding shrieks and gasps to the ambience of the shop. No matter how many times we did this, they never got used to the kiss of the needle.
“You nervous?”
I shook my head and swung my feet back and forth.
“It don’t hurt?”
“Nah. I fell asleep my first time.”
He sucked in through his teeth and it made a whistling noise. It was like he’d handed me a gold star.
If he was impressed, I wanted him to know there was more where that came from. I could chuck a steak knife at him too if he wanted me to.
“Let me see what you’re gonna get.”
I obliged and unlocked my phone to show him a picture of the sketch. It was a little girl on a boat that was shaped like a crescent moon, paddling her way towards a cluster of stars. They called my youngest sister Luna at school.
“Where are you putting it again?”
He was a good entertainer. As if he didn’t remember where I was going to put it! We’d stopped at Target right before this so I could buy a pair of cheap shorts specifically for the placement of the tattoo.
I humored him anyway, turning my right leg towards him and exposing the bare skin. I poked at a spot higher up on the side of my thigh. He didn’t blink.
“Right there.”
He whistled through his teeth again.
“Good choice.”
Somewhere between that party and the tattoo shop, it had been mentioned he was a Scorpio. Maybe I should have taken a few notes from the astrology girls.
You know, the ones that tell you to douse certain zodiac signs in lighter fluid and then throw a fireball? They always know what’s going on!
But, regardless of whether or not the astrology girls are right, he was a Scorpio, and his birthday happened to be on another Friday night where I happened to be, once again, drunk. Your liver is only young and functional once.
It was a few weeks after I’d gotten that tattoo, and I couldn’t deny that I needed to be on his mind the same way he’d been on mine. I needed to feel like prey again. I needed to feel like I was being split apart and examined under surgery lights. So, I messaged him.
Happy birthday, slut.
It was simple. Three words that revealed just a little bit more of what I needed from him. His reply was quick.
Thanks, slut.
I had no shame. My fingers flew across the keyboard to write back quickly, to put words in the space. Anything to keep words coming out of him. I celebrated my victory, drunk and giggly in front of a beach house on Del Playa where the attendees inside were shaking the floors to Mr. Brightside.
And that was the day he was no longer just a friend of a friend.
I wish I could tell you the rest of the story, detail for detail, but please understand. Somewhere along the line I’d gotten lost in him, too, and the plot outran me.
Tonight, I’m not drunk.
I actually haven’t touched alcohol in over a year and a half, since he showed me why he could only ever be a friend of a friend. The thought of it makes my spit turn sour and my stomach weakens.
I’m obviously not just talking about alcohol.
Regardless, I pick up my phone and unlock it to hover over an unsaved number with a different area code than all the others I have. I click on it. I’m still not sure if it’s pathetic—that I don’t have to be drunk to do something like this—but I type out a message. I’ve typed it before, only this time, it means more.
Remember this one? Happy birthday, slut.
I think I’ll have to wait forever, but it’s only moments.
Yeah, I do.
I am older than I was when we first met. I am less excited about finding out what I can’t see hiding from me around the corner. I am no longer willing to throw myself at life’s mercy. I can’t afford love anymore like my heart is infinite and expendable.
But, he says he remembers, and that’s all I needed to hear to self-destruct once again. He must remember the night I’d messaged him first and altered the trajectory of who we’d be to one another.
At this moment, I am barely nineteen again. I let myself love his memory like my heart is unbreakable, like it can sustain this damage for as long as I demand it to.
What else did he remember?
What about that one night where we sat in my car by the beach, breathing in nothing but smoke, heat, and one another? He watched me with watery, red eyes before his fingers snaked down my arm to tangle with my own, pulling me closer. It was never close enough.
Did he remember the night we ate sushi at that random restaurant off the side of the road when we’d gotten lost on the way to the original destination? I tried to teach him how to use chopsticks, but his impatience won and he began to shovel the roll into his mouth, glaring at me from across the table and daring me to criticize his choice. I hid my laughter behind my hands.
There was that dinner party before Thanksgiving break–we’d shown up together and he’d looked at me from across the room as I talked to our friends, eyes saying more than his mouth ever would. What about the way he’d left that party in a rush after I’d drunkenly tumbled into someone else and grabbed their arm to steady myself? Was it jealousy that made him stumble back home and text me on the verge of blacking out at three in the morning?
I’m home, chula.
And it didn’t stop there.
What about the time I texted him with shaky hands and teary eyes that I needed an escape from myself and I needed it now? We’d been icing one another out for weeks at that point, but he’d nearly broken down my apartment door and seized me when I opened it, desperately grabbing onto me and asking if I was alright, breathing me in heavily as if he’d almost lost something important.
And did he remember that stupid question he’d asked me that kept me up at night, that made me stay for so much longer than I was welcome?
What’re we going to do when we have to leave this behind?
I hadn’t answered him then. The thought terrified me, and I silenced the fears with my head on his chest, his hand locked tightly in mine. I prayed he could tell what I was thinking.
Most of all, I wonder if he remembers that he was only supposed to be a friend of a friend. Why? Because he was a whore, and girls got set back hundreds of years every single time they gave into him, and they were meaningless to him.
Wasn’t I supposed to be just an additional name on the list? Or did he get lost with me, too?
The thoughts are overwhelming, just like him, just like what we’d been. All those memories from one text message.
I do wish I could tell you the rest of the story detail for detail, but I’m sure you can put it together for yourself by now.
They should come up with a new word for people like my friend of a friend. I’ve agonized over this. My friend, who treated me the way he did because someone else before me had treated him worse, who loves cats and cars and stuffed animals that look funny, who loved me double in the night because he knew in the morning he wouldn’t at all.
Those who knew about him and I know not to bring up the subject. But occasionally, I’ll run into someone I know from those early parties who ask me about him, and I plaster on a smile, preparing to give the easiest answer I can think of.
“Oh, I don’t really know him that well. He’s just a friend of a friend.”
