Party Girl_ A Novel - Anna David [67]
“You do, too,” I say, and mean it. I’d never really noticed how pretty she was before.
We start walking in sync, and I notice that our legs are literally taking strides that are the exact same size. It reminds me of how women who spend a lot of time together get on the same menstrual cycle—supposedly, foul as it is, because their bodies subconsciously smell each other, and then adjust—and it seems surprising that after so much time apart and so many changes, Stephanie and I should be in the same groove in any way at all.
“Stephanie, I want to apologize to you for being an asshole,” I suddenly say.
“Please, Amelia. I’m the one who wrote you that foul note. Why don’t we just forget everything that happened and move on?”
I stop walking. “In a second. But first let me just say that I’m sorry for always making everything about me—what I want to do, where I want to go, who I want to talk to when we’re there. Kissing Gus that night was the ultimate selfish act, and I’m so sorry.”
Stephanie looks pleasantly surprised. “I miss you,” she says, starting to head up the path again, with me just a step behind. “It was hard not to call you. And then, when I heard about what happened at work, and you going to rehab and everything, I literally couldn’t stop myself from calling.”
“I miss you, too, Steph,” I say. We stop walking and I throw my arms around her. “I’m really sorry for the way I’ve acted,” I say, feeling tears sting my eyes.
She surrenders into my hug. “Me, too. Can we be friends again?” I nod, and I know she can feel my nod because my head is cradled against her neck. After a few seconds, we disentangle and I ask her about Jane and Molly.
“Molly’s good but Jane is thoroughly immersed in the whole coke scene,” Stephanie says, shaking her head. “We’ve completely lost touch.”
“That’s sad,” I say and mean it, genuinely hoping Jane finds a place like Pledges and knowing that if she’s like every other addict I’ve met, my calling and telling her about it would probably only piss her off.
Stephanie and I continue up Runyon and even though I did this walk once before, I was seriously hungover at the time and didn’t notice that you can see almost all of Los Angeles from the top.
“God, this is stunning,” I say.
Stephanie nods, but looks distracted. Then she blurts out, “By the way, I’ve cut back a lot on drinking myself.”
I nod—I’d kind of expected her to say something about her own drinking habits, assuming I’d be judging them now. “The way I look at it, I’m the one who lost the privilege to do that stuff—not anyone else,” I say. “So please don’t think I’m going to be some antidrinking Nazi.”
I’ve thought a lot about this because when I first got to rehab, I couldn’t stop declaring every person I thought about a complete and utter alcoholic. But I’ve come to learn that alcoholism and addiction is a self-diagnosed disease and that it doesn’t have much to do with how much someone drinks. An alcoholic personality is one where the person is massively self-involved and always wants to be the center of attention but still has low self-esteem—“the piece of shit in the center of the universe.” An alcoholic is someone whose life is unmanageable as a result of drinking and using. And for however much Stephanie and I used to party together, I’m the one with that personality, not her. I learned at Pledges that there’s a big difference between alcoholics and heavy drinkers.
We continue to walk and then Stephanie stops suddenly. “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you—I got promoted to managing editor.”
“Oh my God, that’s amazing.” I’m so accustomed to taking other people’s success as a personal affront, like they’ve received something I should have had—no matter whether I was qualified for it or even wanted it myself—that it feels foreign to be genuinely happy for her. “Congratulations.”
“It’s crazy—the less I care, the more they reward me. I’m the very definition of failing up.”
It occurs to me then that Stephanie maybe isn’t as unambitious as she pretends to be, and that perhaps she acts self-deprecating around