Scene 52 -- Melissa
She was actually telling the truth, but the outlandishness of the claim and the number of empty beer glasses made it seem like rambling. Melissa felt indescribably bad, so guilty that she had told Kenny’s secret. She had betrayed her best friend, simply out of pique and carelessness and too many beers. She could never hold her beers, always got giddy and stupid. She could have known this would happen.
She tried to remember more; she was home, in her room, bathroom even thrown over her clothes. Her shoes and socks were off and she knew she had not been dextrous enough to perform the tasks herself. She shook her head, then winced in pain. Kenny. He couldn’t be mad, he had gotten her home safely and secure. But that distant look he had was haunting her. Was that a clear memory? Was it a hazy dream? No, she realized, that harsh expression was real, and she knew that every drop of guilt she felt was deserved, very well deserved.
She dropped her head into her hands. More was becoming clear, the early morning fog burning off her mind, true memory distilling from drunken dreamscape. She had to think of words to say. Whatever could she possibly say to him to make it right, could it ever be right again? How could she make it right?
Melissa trusted Kenny, trusted the bond with him, trusted the years of – then she froze. Trust. She felt tears move past her eyes unbidden. She let them roll down her face unimpeded. Trust. It was all about trust. Of course she could trust Kenny, he had not betrayed her, not spoken out of school about her, not babbled drunkenly to a bartender about her super-power. But would Kenny trust her again? Could he? Their bond had been stronger than time, and she had snapped it. Of course he was mad, she’d be mad, too. But once he was calm, once he was over the hurt, they’d talk. And she’d make it right. They could always take, always make things right.
But what could she say? Melissa moved into the living room. She didn’t see him anywhere. She chuckled out loud at the thought. That doesn’t mean he’s not here! She grabbed a sheet of paper from the ink-jet and a pen from her side of the desk. She dropped heavily into the desk chair. Words came. She read them, crossed them out, and wrote more. None worked. None made any sense. She threw the pen down in disgust and fired up the laptop. She would email him. That was her strength, not this old-fashioned stuff. Type. Type. Backspace. Erase. Same thing. There were no words. She deleted the message and sulked in the big overstuffed chair. In disgust, she stood. Found her sneakers and threw the bathrobe on the floor. “I’m sorry, Kenny, I’m sorry, sorry, so sorry,” she shouted, then broke down bawling. “I’m so so sorry,” she mumbled, moving out of the apartment, closing the door meekly behind her.