Twelve Months 1

ADVISORY: This story deals with themes of trauma response, relationship struggles, and alcoholism. It's not a sex romp. But it is also a Valentine's story, and so there is friendship, love, and even hope for better times to come.

-- -- --

For a friend, with love

TWELVE MONTHS

by Emily Miller

February 14 2024

I sat on a tall stool, one of two next to a small, circular table. The other was empty. I was in the bar section of a restaurant that I loved, but I had no plans to eat. Indeed, I had no plans at all. I'd chosen a nice dress, one suitable for the venue. All the better to blend in, I guess. People would probably assume I was awaiting a tardy significant other.

And I was, At least supposedly. But my Ex was very late, and I strongly suspected that she wouldn't be coming. Why had she said that she would? Had her boyfriend been indiscreet? Was it some kind of payback? Just one more knife twisted in my already shredded flesh?

I poured myself another glass of Champagne and put the bottle back in its ice bucket. I thought, a little ruefully, that its contents were rather depleted. I'd been drinking too much, I knew. I needed to get a grip on that. Not least as I knew Mom and Dad were relying on me.

But I had shadows. I had clearly failed to leave the darkest umbra behind me when returning from San Francisco. The nightmarish shadow of... it. And I had shadows from this, my home town, too. Old shadows related to this evening's missing companion. And also brand new ones to do with another woman. I reflected that it was complicated enough having one unrequited love; two seemed like carelessness.

Just thinking about it, I felt my heart rate quicken, my breathing deepen, and a familiar pit open in my stomach. Raising my hand a little off the table, I could see it quivering. I wanted to run, to run away from it, to be safe. Instead, I drained my glass, and poured yet another one.

As I became increasingly buzzed, the noise of the room seemed to dim. The colors and shapes of my surroundings blurred and faded to gray. And my mind took me back to precisely twelve months ago.

-- -- --

February 14 2023

The club was loud. That was kinda the point: A Valentine's Night party for gay singletons.

Was I really that desperate? This was Hook-up City, and I guess that's just what I was looking for. Something to fill my over-active brain for just a while. The sound system was blaring out community standards. When

Party in the USA

came on, there was really no alternative to getting out there and dancing.

In the middle of putting my hands up and nodding my head, I reflected that the idea of

trying

to meet someone was a new thing for me. I knew I was pretty, I'd often been called beautiful. The flies normally swarmed to the honey. But...

But then San Fran... and then... it. And I wasn't the same woman. Therapy helped me cope. Much later, sharing my story with my Ex helped too. But what happened happened, and I couldn't pretend that it hadn't changed me.

These thoughts had gone through my head a thousand times. I was sick of them, sick of myself. I was just going to channel the song and not give a fuck about anything else.

When Miley let rip with the second chorus, it felt like the whole club was singing with her. A circle of enthusiastic guys, arms linked, lurched drunkenly toward me. I took a step back and - even above the din - I heard a scream. I also knew that my heel had come into contact with something.

Turning, I saw a woman, her mouth wide open and hopping on one foot. "I'm so sorry!" I yelled.

From the shape her lips made, and the way she then shook her head, I assumed she had responded, "What?"

Looking down, I saw she was wearing open-toed shoes. Even with the flashing lights, I could tell one foot was bleeding.

I was horrified. I tried again. "I'm sorry. Let me help you."

My attempt at communication was met with more head shaking, and she pointed to her ears.

I decided to take control. That's what the old me would have done, but now it felt novel. I took her arm and pulled her toward the restrooms. She didn't seem too bothered by my intervention, walking alongside me with a slight hobble.

There were two swingIng doors to negotiate. When the second closed, the party was at least muted; it was quiet enough to talk.

"I was saying how sorry I was. I was trying to avoid being crushed, and I didn't look behind me. I guess you were quite close."

I was surprised when my last sentence brought a red tinge to the woman's cheeks. Having no idea why this might be, I decided to focus on the practical. "Let's take a look at your foot."

I made her sit on the countertop, to one side of the sinks, where the surface was dry. The woman's dress was as short as mine, and - also like me - I noticed she wasn't wearing panties. She self-consciously crossed her legs, more blushing ensuing. Nice legs as well, I thought to myself. But my main concern was her injury.

I bent and examined her foot. "Well, it looks better than I thought. I was worried I'd broken your toe. But you have a nasty cut. Again, I'm so sorry."

I had a small purse on a fine chain slung around my neck and fished two rather inadequate looking Band-Aids out of it. "These aren't ideal, but better than nothing. Again, so sorry."

For the first time the woman spoke. "Please stop apologizing. It was an accident. I didn't mean to make such a fuss. I'm Madison, by the way."

I told her my name. She bit on her bottom lip, clearly unsure about something, before speaking. "And..." Her voice faltered, her cheeks becoming rosy again.

"And...?" I asked.

"And... well... I was kinda close to you because I... I was going to ask if you'd like to dance." The final few words came in a terrible rush, as if she was afraid that she might think better of saying them. Her face had moved into scarlet territory as she spoke.

I didn't know what to say, and so she filled the vacuum by explaining more. "I... I saw you earlier. I know... I know you're way out of my league, but, well... it's Valentine's, and you were by yourself.... I thought, nothing ventured..."

"Yes." I blurted out.

"Yes...?" I got a confused look, her face tilted at a quizzical angle.

I took a breath, and a chance. "Yes, Madison, I'd love to dance with you. Assuming you still can, that is."

She smiled delightfully at me, her face lighting up. "Cool! But maybe the Band-Aids first...?"

-- -- --

Wednesday morning, a beeping woke me. Not my alarm, I'd turned that off. But I'd neglected to silence my phone. I grabbed for it, hoping that Madison had not been disturbed. Only then did I realize that I was alone. We had fallen asleep in each other's arms, tired and very fulfilled. Maybe she was in the bathroom?

Annoyed, I opened the message.

No birthday wishes for me? And no card? 🙄

It was my Ex's birthday, of course. But - seeing as she hadn't returned any of my emails or messages in the last two weeks - I didn't really have dealing with her at the top of my list.

Instead, I got out of bed. No sign of Madison's dress. Just mine, in a crumpled heap where I had flung it. No phone on the other nightstand. And no one in the bathroom. Fuck! She'd ghosted me! So much for being 'out of her league.'

My phone beeped once more. I half hoped it was Madison, but it was just my Ex again. Carefully and deliberately, I typed back:

Busy. Later, OK?

I slumped down onto my bed. She was gone. Definitely gone. And all I had was her first name, if she had even given me the right one.

-- -- --

March 2023

I was standing on the

Karlův most,

watching the

Vltava

slip serenely under its medieval arches. Its dark surface was pockmarked by the tiny craters of a billion rain drops. But I didn't mind the weather so very much; it was always good to be back.

I had been born here, the Old Country. Mom and Dad had emigrated to the US pretty much contemporaneously with the 'Velvet Divorce,' and had held American citizenship for years. But they had made sure to return to Prague for a few months when my mother had been pregnant with, first my older brother, then later with me.

They still had extensive business interests, both here and in Slovakia. I, as joint heir apparent, was expected to take an interest in the family firm. That meant the occasional trip. I had made a number of contacts over the years; some commercial, some less so. One of the latter was holding my hand now. Her name was Eliška, and I always sought her company when back home.

Standing next to her, I felt calmer, more like me. I squeezed her hand. She was something to cling on to in a troubling world; if only for a brief while.

"Máme jít dovnitř, Mileno, hustě prší?" she asked.

"I like the rain," I replied.

And I did, I turned my face upward, closed my eyes, and let the droplets fall on it. Turning to look her in the eyes, I continued. "But I like you more. A mluv anglicky prosím moje čeština je špatná."

I could just about get by in the language, but Eli accepted my pleading. "OK, baby, for you I speak English, OK. But let's get out of the rain, yes?"

Her apartment was not far. It was small, but we didn't need much room. A shared shower warmed our bodies, and a bed shared with Eli was always close to perfection. If only...

Lying intertwined in a hazy, post-orgasmic glow, I asked the inevitable question. "And how is Dominik?"

Her reply was non-committal. "Oh, you know him. The same. Always chasing some new teen from the

Karlova

."

Dominik was Eli's errant husband, a

docent

at the

Univerzita

, and a source of much heartache to my friend.

"Leave him, angel. Come live with me instead." It had been something I had implored her to do many times, and I knew her answer by heart.

"Darling, you know I love you, but he is my husband. What would he do without me? You know he can't look after himself. And he always comes back, yes?"

I could understand the attraction. Dominick was charm personified. Not handsome yet not totally ugly, but his intellect was his secret weapon. He could make you feel like you were the most important and interesting person in the world, the only one to whom he could impart his wisdom. I could see why so many impressionable nineteen year olds ended up in his bed. Even as a close to exclusive lesbian, I wasn't exactly immune to his blandishments, and obviously neither was Eliška. For Eli, making excuses for her husband and believing that this time - unlike all the others - things would be different, had been raised to something of an art form.

She turned her final question into a statement. "He always comes back, always."

I thought Eli was maybe trying to convince herself. And I wondered where Dominik was this evening. But I also knew it was no good. Musing - as I often did when in Prague - on the rich tapestry of human relationships, I decided to weave a little fabric of my own instead. My approach to this was simple, and involved me getting comfortable between my friend's legs.

Maybe, I told myself as I tasted Eli again, maybe one day he won't come back.

-- -- --

I'd been good in Prague. But, on the return flight, and now robbed of Eliška's stabilizing presence, it was different; I was different. I tried - and failed miserably - to not drink too much of the complimentary wine. Eyes closed, and a little muzzy, I leaned back in my seat, and listened to my Taylor Swift playlist.

I suppressed the surging memories of that night in San Francisco. But that just meant that my thoughts wandered unhappily from Eliška, to Madison, to my Ex. 'Yeah, girl! I can't make them stay either.'

-- -- --

April 2023

I was at the same club; they held their LGBTQ+ evenings monthly. I'd worn the same dress, the same shoes. I wondered whether traces of her blood might still be on one heel. I wasn't superstitious, and I wasn't here for that bitch. I told myself that I was here for me.

But was I? I'd tried dancing, but I wasn't really into it. The music volume was at a more reasonable level than at Valentine's, so it was at least feasible - if still a little difficult - to talk, had there been anyone there I actually wanted to talk to. Was I getting old?

As I sat, trying not to drink my wine too quickly, I'd had inquiries. Pretty women, alluring women. Women the old me would have been more than happy to spend time with. Politely, I had declined them all. I wasn't sure what made my body quake more, being alone, or talking to people. 'Breathe, just breathe.'

I stared at the streams of bubbles flowing up my glass. How much did Champagne contribute to climate change, I wondered? Then a voice broke my reverie. A deep voice.

Looking up, I saw a man, a little over average size, and dressed in a dark suit. His only concession to the venue seemed to be the absence of a tie, and a shirt front that was unbuttoned rather further down than propriety might dictate. I hated to deal in stereotypes, but his beard was of a cut chosen by several other guys in the club. It was like a badge. Having initially tensed, I now relaxed.

He spoke first. "Hi, I'm Brett."

I tried some levity in reply. "Hi, Brett. That's kinda a butch name, right? You get stuck at work or something?" Yeah, that's what the old me would have said.

He laughed. "Yeah, or something. Mind if I join you? Neither of us seems to be on a lucky streak. Or, perhaps," he added with emphasis, "not in the mood?"

It was my turn to grin, and it was a little more genuine now. "As you say, or something."

I motioned for him to sit, I relaxed just a bit, and we chatted. He was easy to talk to, albeit a lot of what we exchanged had to be said a few inches away from the other's ear. His breath had tickled more than once, eliciting giggles from me and apologies from him. Brett's work was somewhat adjacent to mine, though I'd not crossed paths with his organization.

After a while, we lapsed into silence, the effort of maintaining a conversation outweighing its benefits. Then he reached into a suit pocket and pulled out a vape pen. With his eyes, he gestured to the exit.

"Sure," I mouthed, picking up my cashmere wrap from the back of my chair; the coatroom line had been way too long. I thought maybe some air might clear my fuzzy head.

We checked with the door guy that our armbands would let us back in. Outside the club, he made for a side alley. His choice of location gave me pause, but I told myself I was safe. Told myself to not jump at shadows.

Brett offered me his pen, and I demurred. "Never smoked, sorry, apart from weed sometimes."

"I'm trying to quit myself," he replied.

He took a deep breath and exhaled mint-tinged fumes. Thus fortified, Brett began to speak. "Listen. I wanted to say something. I guess I should be up front about it."

I felt a sudden constriction in my chest, but managed to respond, "OK."

"Look, I came here trying to hook up. And plan A was some over-muscled guy. A cliché, right?"

I looked at him with apparent impassivity, but inside was a different story. Inside it felt as if my organs were rearranging themselves.

Given that I offered no reply, he continued. "But, I'm the kinda guy who has a... backup plan. You understand?"

I understood all too well. My heart was now thumping, but not in excitement. Nausea gripped me, maybe the alcohol.

He leaned toward my face, and...

-- -- --

... and I was back in San Francisco. A Friday night in the empty office. We'd both worked late. A little unserious flirting had helped pass the time while we knocked the presentation into shape. That and a few shots from a bottle of tequila he had brought in, against all company rules.

The old me used to flirt with guys all the time. It was a game. Back then, I felt invincible, armor-plated.

Then the flirting had escalated on his side, unreciprocated by me. I felt I had to do something, to take control back.

"You know I'm gay, right? A lesbian."

He breathed his reply into my ear. "No such thing, baby. You just haven't met the right guy yet. Or... maybe you have."

He moved back, and then leaned in to kiss me. And... and I let him. His parents and mine were business partners. There was the major deal we were collaborating on to think about. For a moment, I was... confused... confused and drunk. More drunk than I should be after only three shots. What the fuck was happening?

The room had begun to spin, the lights to dim, and I desperately, hopelessly tried to say one word...

-- -- --

"No!" I screamed.

Brett stepped back, looking at me in horror.

I bent double and vomited. "No," I repeated through my tears, wishing with every fiber of my being that I had been able to say the same back then. Or to stop him, or to call for help.

Back in the present, Brett was clearly wary of coming too close. "Are you OK? I didn't mean... I thought... Oh, fuck, I'm so sorry. What can I do?"

Still bent over, I retched again, then looked up at him blearily. "No, I'm sorry. It's not you. Just... bad memories. Fucking awful memories. You've been fine, sweet. Just... can you...?"

I tried not to flinch as he stepped forward. "Anything, what do you need?"

I knew exactly what I needed. "Thank you, can you get me an Uber? I... I just need to go home."

Brett took his jacket off and - despite my protestations - wrapped it around my shoulders. Then he got his phone out. "Where to?"

I didn't want to be precise. "Just downtown, OK?"

He nodded and used his phone for a while, finally saying, "It will be five minutes."

When the car pulled up, I tried to give him his jacket.

"Don't worry. There are some business cards in the breast pocket. You can mail it to me, or not, it doesn't matter. I'm really sorry about the misunderstanding."

I took his hand briefly and squeezed it. "It's OK, don't let me put you off women. Some of us are less crazy, OK?"

"OK," he mumbled.

I got into the car and gave the driver the address. Then I closed my eyes and tried to forget. Something I found myself doing all too frequently.

-- -- --

I managed to arrange a video session with my therapist back in San Fran. As yet, I hadn't found anyone local. And I also couldn't face having to start at square one again. Having to explain - and relive - what had happened with a new person? No thank you!

She helped, as always. I ended up feeling bad for Brett. One of the worst things was how every man now felt like a threat, no matter how innocuous, no matter how nice they were; nice like poor Brett. That was what that bastard had done to me back then.

However, as my therapist always said: you can't control the past, but you can control how you react to it. That's what I planned to do. I even called my Ex, and told her what had happened. She owed me a favor in this area. She empathized. It made me feel better, made me feel like I could focus on living again. I didn't drink at all for some time.

-- -- --

May 2023

It was the Saturday before Memorial Day and the sun was shining brightly. Leaving my apartment block a little after noon, my phone said it was seventy-seven. Summer was just around the corner. I felt more positive about life, the nice weather helped.

Wanting to stretch my legs, I headed for the river. I'd brought a bag with some water, a blanket, and my Kindle. Reading on my phone was too fiddly. My plan was to find a tree and make myself comfortable. I did this frequently, and - if I'm honest - often spent as much time people-watching as reading. It was calming, it was my thing.