At the Laundromat

At the Laundromat

I took the van and took my laundry and took Mark’s laundry (because Kay was at home) and took Adnan’s laundry and left Ian’s. Perhaps that was petty of me, considering I had just cheated on him, but if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be feeling guilty, and I wouldn’t have been doing his laundry, and I didn’t want him to suspect that I had, even though he was generally a straightforward person and most likely wouldn’t have suspected any such thing—on the contrary, he probably would have just been grateful that I’d done his laundry and left it at that. But I was feeling guilty and that led to suspicion and my stomach hurt.

A Thought on Cheating:
My God, I cannot believe I did that. I simply can’t believe it. I’ve always hated cheaters. I’ve always hated cheating. It’s low. It’s sick. It’s base and cheap and it’s the worst thing you can do to someone because it’s a betrayal of trust and such a mindfuck. And Jesus Christ, I’d done it to Ian. And Jesus Christ, I’d done it to Kyle. But I’d liked it. That was mostly what I felt bad about. I felt less bad about actually doing it than I did about liking it. I liked it. I liked it. I liked it—we would probably do it again. I was a reprehensible excuse for a human being. I was disgusting. But that hadn’t stopped me from doing it, had it?

All those things ran through my head.

I was just miserably feeding my quarters into the first open washing machine when someone called my name. “Sloan?” I turned—Please let it not be Ian. Please let it not be Keeley. Please let it not be Pete. I couldn’t identify the voice over the rumble of the machines—Adnan. I could deal with Adnan, even though it was sometimes uncomfortable to be with him in public, what with all the cursing. Mothers with children in particular tended to give very dirty looks.

“Hey Adnan,” I greeted. There was something vaguely uncomfortable about talking to a guy as you were shoving his underwear into the washing machine, but with Adnan, it really wasn’t too bad. Besides, I was somewhat preoccupied with other matters.

He came over and slapped me on the shoulder like he hadn’t seen me in years, instead of hours. “What the fuck is up, honey? Shit, we’ve been looking for you. Ian was all screwed in the head over something.” His slap on the shoulder had probably left a bruise.

Adnan seemed to want some sort of answer. “Just doing laundry,” I mumbled. Ian was all screwed in the head? Ian was all screwed in the head? I should just put a screwdriver through my head. That would be easier. “I grabbed all of yours. Hope you don’t mind.”

Laughing loudly—and gaining the loathing looks of the soccer moms even without speaking—he slung his arm across my abused shoulder. “How could I ever frigging mind, honey? You’re doing me a favor. Damn it, Sloan, you’re like our mom. What would we freaking do without you, huh? Ian sure picked well when he picked you. I’m really glad you two are together.”

Horrifyingly, mortifyingly, terrifyingly—my eyes began to tear up. When I’d thought I could deal with Adnan, I had not accounted for his tendency to gush. When he got like this, all sentimental and adorable, and talked about how much he loved that I was in love, it was barely tolerable. It was barely tolerable when nothing was wrong. When things were wrong, it nearly killed me.

But instead of crying or punching Adnan in the face, I just shoved some more of the dark laundry into the machine and said, “Thanks.”

“Naw,” he said. “Thank you. For doing my laundry and for loving that son of a bitch, because he’d be a mess without you. Even Pete was happy when you said you’d marry him—even though it would be like fucking pulling teeth to get him to admit it—because none of us wanted to freaking mop up Ian’s damn moping ass for the next year or whatever.”

Surprising even myself, I turned around to wrap my arms around Adnan. I wasn’t sure if I did it to hide my face, or if I legitimately wanted comfort, or even if there was another reason that I couldn’t fathom or think of or perceive or anything. Hell, it may have even been for no reason at all. But I hugged him and, even though he seemed surprise, he hugged me back.

Better than just hugging me back, he shut up.

“You’re a really awesome friend, Adnan Ganim,” I told him. I whispered so my voice wouldn’t crack. He didn’t answer immediately and, for a moment, I thought that, between the rumble of the machines and the cries of the mother’s children, he’d missed it.

But no. He had an answer. “I’ll always be your friend, Sloan Kettering.” It hurt that he used my maiden name, but he had known me as that first. I knew he said it with good intent—that took away some of the sting. But more than that, I was touched that he’d said it, given me a full sentence, without a single curse in it.

And it was touching because he didn’t even know that anything was wrong. Anyone else I knew would have saved their pretty speeches for a time they knew I needed them, for a time when I was crying, or puking, or about to give up on the great American Dream.

But fucking Adnan Ganim, with the mild form of Tourettes and the tendency to make me feel like absolute shit about my usually-perfect relationship managed to say the right thing—somehow he found the right thing to say to me in the time when my usually-perfect relationship really was shit.