The Favoured, The Fair and Ms. Vérité Claire

9 Not Tonight, Josephine (Part 2)

As Orson paid for his dozen, Blanca called. Julia gave her an angry earful to which Blanca replied, "Paul and I both heard you say you were calling yourself a taxi, but we can argue about it tomorrow when you're not so insane. Do you want Paul to come and get you or not?"

"I'll hitchhike," Julia said and ended the call abruptly.

As he drove her home, Orson let her fume silently without pressing for details, but after one particularly strangled sigh, he drummed his steering wheel and said, "Something you want to get off your chest?"

Julia gave him a pained, fake smile for his attempt at humour. "Orson, I'm miserable," she said mirthlessly. "I promise I'll laugh tomorrow." She let a moment pass. "No, I'm not miserable. I'm so angry right now I could scream. How could they do this to me? On a dark wharf? On Halloween night? Looking like this?! I'm an afterthought to them. No, worse than that. If I was an afterthought they would have actually thought about it after and come back to get me. Why did I think my cousins wanted to spend time with me anyway? I didn't really. But even when I knew they were using me I thought, for once I'll just use them back. But it doesn't work for me. It's not who I am. I have been trying to put myself out there, you know, but the answer to not feeling that you're who you could be isn't doing things you definitely know aren't you. Right?"

Orson nodded his head affirmatively, looking for something thoughtful to add. Julia's chin trembled for the simple mercy of his agreeing with her.

"So this is what I get for it. Not you. I'm so grateful for you you have no idea, but I know how you feel about gratitude. I mean, who are we to each other? It's after midnight and you came to rescue me in your pajamas."

Orson, in his tank, sweats and hanging track sweater, with the back of his hair pushed and parted, had absolutely been woken by Julia's call but, he clarified, "These aren't my pajamas."

Under different circumstances, Julia might've confessed to picturing Orson sleeping in red long johns, but as it was she just said, "What do I know?

"This whole night has been an exercise in stupidity. I'm sorry for ranting. I'm tired.  Please, just let me hate myself a little longer, then I'll feel guilty about it then I'll feel better."

Orson exhaled heavily while Julia went back to staring out the window so he could not see the tears forming. She didn't want him to see the pain feeling so alone caused her, because it was self-indulgent wasn't it? Well based on all her blessings wasn't it? How could she feel so unloved when her Aunt adored her and Vérité was so good to her? But she cried in Orson's truck for feeling like she belonged nowhere and with no one. Not in his vehicle. Not in Vérité's borrowed world. Not in her own body.

This too would pass.

But Orson knew how hurt she was. He could feel it emanating from her as she began holding her breath trying not to sob. He racked his brain trying to think of some words to soothe her that wouldn't sound trite or like a tagline. Nothing seemed sincere enough. And she deserved something.

At last, he offered the only words which came to mind and hoped they might distract, if not comfort her.

"An Irishman walks into a pub and takes a stool next to the village drunk. The drunk says, 'Afternoon, young feller! Take off your coat and stay a while.'"

Julia let her head roll over her shoulder with a look for him which pleaded for mercy, pretty still, even in her disgust. Orson continued, his eyes on the road.

"'Can't,' the man says. 'I've given it up and I'm just here to pay me tab.'

"The drunk looks him over. 'Not religion, is it?'