Matt Cowper - The Clerk

He could also reiterate how his sister’s running off into the great unknown had been self-dramatizing and immature. She had wanted everyone to worry about her, had wanted them to ponder just what sort of metamorphosis she was going through. She could contest this, but her “I sent text messages” defense was as flimsy as a piece of wet cardboard.

Then again — Thomas had had a one-night stand just last night, and he’d treated Allison terribly. He’d taken what he wanted, and then basically told the poor woman to get the hell out of his apartment; Emily had had her fill of Dan, and she’d discarded him for a new beau. If you took marriage out of the equation, what was the difference?

But Thomas tiredly pushed these nagging thoughts aside. If Emily had been truly miserable, there were better ways to fix her life than going on a scorched-earth rampage, but Thomas wasn’t going to argue with her anymore. Let his sister’s one-woman Declaration of Independence stand. She believed she was as inspiring and majestic as Lady Liberty herself, and nothing he said would dent this myth.

“Is your speech over?” he asked curtly. “Or is there more? If there is, maybe I can get you a podium and a microphone to make it look more official.”

Emily shook her head angrily and opened the door.

“We’re done, Thomas. Don’t expect to hear from me again.”

“Where the hell are you going?” Thomas said, trying to freeze his sister in place with his stare.

“Wherever I want,” Emily said, her return stare just as icy. “What, are you going to stop me?”

Thomas ground his teeth.

“No,” he finally said, “I’m not.”

“Didn’t think so.”

The door slammed shut, rattling the entire apartment. Thomas winced, hoping his neighbors weren’t moved to furious denunciations by the noise — or more likely, moved to complain passive-aggressively to the management company.

He half-expected his sister to pop back in to emphasize that they were done by repeating herself using slightly different wording. He waited, but nothing happened, so he staggered over to the door and turned the deadbolt.

He debated whether he should contact his parents or Dan tonight. He would be somewhat of a hypocrite if he didn’t inform them immediately of his sister’s visit, since he’d condemned Emily for withholding her whereabouts and motives. On the other hand, contacting them would lead to an hours-long conversation, with everyone getting frustrated because he didn’t remember every word she’d said and because he’d let her escape. Thomas was spent; he wanted to go to bed, not deal with more family drama.

“Dammit, Emily,” he muttered. “You’ll pay for this, somehow.” He knew he sounded like a comic book villain, but he didn’t give a fuck.

He lay back down on the couch, dialed Dan’s number, and waited for his brother-in-law to pick up.

“I can’t believe they actually hooked up!” Cynthia exclaimed. “It just doesn’t make sense.”

“Well, alcohol was involved,” Thomas said. “Alcohol makes things happen.”

“I guess.”

They were discussing a very important piece of news: Noah, to the surprise of everyone, including Noah himself, had actually lured Carly into his sweaty, groping arms. It had happened just after the Christmas Party, but had remained a secret until yesterday. Noah had been commanded by Carly never to tell anyone what had happened, ever . Noah kept this secret as long as he could, but finally the dam burst: during his shift last night, he had told everyone he’d “tapped that ass, even though ya’ll told me it’d never happen.”

No one believed him, especially since his tale was full of contradictions and porn-level sexual prowess. Also, Carly wasn’t working, so she couldn’t be questioned. Eddie, however, had Carly’s number — the possession of which was a source of great pride — and sent her misspelled and sarcastic text messages asking if she really had done the deed with Noah. Carly’s panicky responses seemed to confirm Noah’s story, against all probability, but when she actually roared up to the store in her Camaro and dragged Noah outside for a talking-to, unwisely yelling that he’d “taken advantage of her,” everyone was ready to believe that Noah had indeed “tapped that ass.”

As in so many other hazy sexual encounters, alcohol was to blame. Noah had made a plan prior to the Party: he would pilfer liquor and beer during the festivities and shove them down Carly’s throat until she was pliable. He would drink some himself, but not enough to get hammered; he wanted to be reasonably clear-headed so he could guide an intoxicated Carly to the Promised Land. He’d finagled Carly into giving him a ride to the party, which was very important to the plan. When they were ready to leave, Noah would insist on driving her home, since Carly would be too wasted to be trusted behind the wheel; he could then call his parents and get them to pick him up, or so he would claim. However, instead of driving Carly home, he’d take a little detour over to Atlantic Beach, park at a certain parking lot, sure to be deserted this time of year, convince Carly to take “a short walk on the beach, just to look at the stars,” and then get him some.

All during the Party Noah had worried and sweated. His plan could be foiled an infinite number of ways. Someone might offer to take him home, and Carly, happy to be free from the responsibility, would heartbreakingly agree. Carly might get distracted, and let another guy woo her; there were certainly a number of men and boys who were chomping at the bit to bag her. Carly might not drink enough. She might drink too much and pass out. Noah weighed the morality of having sex with an unconscious woman, but he was pretty sure that would be rape, so he refused to do it, if the situation did present itself. In his mind, this put him firmly on the side of the angels.

But the plan, to Noah’s astonishment, went off without a hitch. Carly got sloppy drunk: she slurred her words, and kept talking about how she “loved everyone, because there’s not enough love in the world, and someone has to spread the love, and that someone is me.” This sentiment sounded great to Noah. She let him (ostensibly) drive her home, although she was “totally fine. Totally. I actually drive better when I’m drunk.” They made it to the empty parking lot, and though Carly was initially baffled, it didn’t take much to persuade her that a nighttime beach walk would be fabulous: “Adventure! There’s not enough adventure in the world either. We need adventure.”

After about thirty seconds of star-gazing, Noah sat Carly down on the cold sand at the base of a dune, put his arm around her, and went in for the kill. Carly, who in her state believed that somehow it was her boyfriend Gabe she was kissing (even though Gabe wasn’t usually so frenzied), was receptive at first; she even put her hand down Noah’s pants, which so stunned Noah that he pulled away, giving Carly a chance to collect her scattered, murky thoughts.

“What… what’re you doing?” she yelled. “What the fuck, Noah!”

She tried to shove Noah off and get to her feet, but moving so quickly made her head spin, and she slumped back down to the sand. Noah wrapped her up again and slobbered all over her face and clutched at her breasts. By grabbing his crotch, she’d even inspired him to venture down and tentatively poke her vagina. His passion was so cute. It no longer seemed threatening, just silly. She bet Noah was a virgin, and didn’t have a clue how to handle a woman of her caliber. Maybe she should show him…

Ten minutes later, her orgasm had ripped through her mind like a scorching comet, and she was able to snag at bits and pieces of clarity. As they lay there, still mostly clothed, with sand nonetheless in places it shouldn’t have been, and with the cold air making them shiver, Carly forbade Noah from ever mentioning this… this… whatever this was. Noah promised he would never tell a soul: “You can trust me, darlin’. I’ll be like a vault, won’t nothin’ get out.”