How We Got Here

Disclaimer: Never happened. I don't own them. If I did there would be lots and lots and lots of kinky sex. Unfortunately, this is the only way I get my kicks.

Fast forward: 1996, Billie is 24, Mike is 23. Billie's married, Joey's 2.

Back to Billie's Point of View.

How We Got Here (or Time of Your Life)
Chapter Four: Field Sobriety Test

It's not a question
But a lesson learned in time

Bite me.

I'm twenty four years old and I'm a spoiled brat. I hate everyone. I hate everything. Actually, I don't. That would take too much energy and I'm fucking lazy.

It's the 14th of August and I've already yelled at Adrienne. I've used up two tanks of gas in my car and smoked three packs of cigarettes and it's only two in the afternoon. My cell phone keeps ringing and I really should answer it.

All I really want to do is throw it out the window. I answer it instead.

"Addie, so help me God--"

"Do I really sound like Addie?" It's Mike. "Are you two fighting?"

"It's the 14th." I say by way of explanation.

"I know. I cleared my schedule." he says as if he really had anything on it. "When are you coming over?"

He's not annoyed. Thank God. "I don't know. After I get drunk?"

"Driving around Berkely drunk probably isn't the best idea, Billie Joe." That's Mike, being all protective when he's really just as bad. "I've got booze, Billie. You can come over here and get shit faced."

"Seven." I say. We both hang up and I pull into some parking lot, swearing and lighting another cigarette. "Fuck!" Some father pulls his little girl closer and gives me a dirty look. I lfip him off.

I already told you I was a spoiled brat.

I scare myself. I've been seeing a therapist off and on for the last few months. I started having more panic attacks and drinking a little too much.

Well, to make a long story short, I promised my shrink I'd tell Mike about the 14th, not that the therapist has any idea what the 14th is. Mike didn't even ask me to tell him about it last year. (Probably because I ended up in the ER with a concussion.)

I wonder if he'll ask this year.

I need a beer. I'll settle for McDonald's.

---

I haven't touched my beer. Mike's is half full, half empty. I personally don't give a shit. Neither of us has said anything since 8:02. It's 8:24.

I decide to break the silence. "Mike?

He starts. "Yeah?"

"Remember how you used to ask me about the 14th? And all I ever told you was that something happened at Holly's party?" My voice is shaking. I know it is.

"Yeah." It's impossible to tell what he's thinking.

"C-Can I tell you what happened?"

He reaches out suddenly and grabs my hand. "You can tell me anything, Billie Joe."

And then it just comes out.

"I got raped. One of the high school guys took me into the upstairs bathroom and fucked me." And with my confessions comes a huge fucking wave of tears and as much as I don't want to, I'm bawling like a fucking baby. I bury my head in my hands as Mike moves toward me.

I feel his hands cross my back, running through my hair, across my arms. He pulls my head up, his blue eyes are grey. It's kind of scary to see them that way. "You haven't told anyone that in nine years." His voice is really hard, but not like he's mad at me.

I nod slowly, taking deep breaths. This could be my first year without a panic attack if I try hard enough. "Yeah."

And then he hugs me, kisses my cheeks and my forehead. "Don't ever do that again." he whispers. "Don't ever keep something like that inside. It burned the hell out of you, Billie Joe. Why didn't you say anything? Did you know him? What was it?"

"I-I kind of thought . . . that maybe I deserved it."

"What?" He pulls back and stares at me.

"I thought someone was punishing me . . . f-for being bi."

He shakes his head. Then he kisses me. It's on the lips and I know he doesn't mean anything by it, just like those kisses on my forehead, but he kisses me anyway.

But I kiss back.

And all I can remember is his basement in the summer of '87. And I know this is wrong because my wife and my son are at home and I'm kissing my best friend . . . the man I lost my virginity to nine years ago. Nine years, a month, one week, and three days.

---

I wake up the next morning with a headache from hell. I can't remember much of the night before.

Mike's pulling on his clothes and I sit up, finally realizing that I'm naked and not next to my wife.

"Forget it." he says, throwing my clothes at me. "We were drunk."

I remember something then.

I didn't have a single drink.

---

Heh . . . this isn't how I expected this story to go at all. It was supposed to be much less angsty and third person narrative . . . I'm sure it will end up like that . . . weird, eh?