by Misti Murphy
I rest my head against the wood. Maybe she isn’t here, but I don’t know where else to look. Where would she go? We’ve spent the majority of our time in her apartment or mine. Sure, we went other places too, like dancing and the place where we decorated cookies, but I don’t expect to walk into Shake Shack and find her eating a burger and fries right now.
The park. We went there with Dutch a few times. It was close to her parent’s house and her brother.
That’s where I end up, walking around aimlessly. Stumbling along the paths we’d usually taken, the spots we’d sit, and where we played football, but she’s not anywhere. I don’t know how to fix this if I can’t even find her or get her to take my messages or calls.
I leave another voicemail while I trudge back to the car. “Bree, please call me when you get this. We need to talk. Tim seems to think there’s something going on between me and Anabelle... I don’t know if you think there is, but there isn’t. You’re it for me. All I want and need. I should have said that last night instead of what I said. I’m so sorry, baby. I fucked up, but I can’t put it right unless you’re willing to talk to me. Please, please call me and tell me where you are.”
It’s not enough. Especially since I doubt she’ll check her messages from me. It doesn’t make a dent in how shitty I feel about hurting her. It doesn’t ease the ache in my chest, knowing my stupidity hurt her. Or the pain, so heavy, every time I imagine that Tim’s right when he said that Bree and I are over. My career isn’t worth losing her.
I drive by her apartment again before I head home. On the way back, traffic slows to a crawl. Another accident in the same place as the last one. Another casualty of the billboard Bree hates so much. I don’t stop. First responders are already on the scene, and I’ll only make the situation worse.
All fourteen-foot of me hovers overhead as we inch forward, and I glare at the damn poster of myself, with the cocky grin. Like I’m God’s gift to women. All that guy’s managed to do is to break my girl’s heart. She’d warned me it was fragile, and I’d promised to look after it. How could I have been so fucking careless with it?
Everyone is still at my apartment when I arrive. Dutch is making coffee, and Jeanie is perched on the couch with her laptop balanced on her knees, earbuds in. Anabelle wanders around in one of my shirts, and nothing else.
“Can you put some clothes on?” I growl. I’m not in the mood for company. What I need is to be left alone so I can work out how the hell to find Bree. Losing her isn’t an option. Being without her is killing me.
“Your cute little redhead showed up a little while ago,” Anabelle says. “The one from the photos. Were you dating her or something?”
“I am dating her.” I hope. “But after last night...”
“I probably haven’t helped the situation.” She glances at her bare legs and pats at her hair. “She seemed quite upset when she saw me.”
“Did you answer the door dressed like that?”
“Um, yeah.” She tugs at the hem of her shirt. “But I didn’t know it was going to be such a big deal.”
“Fucking great.” She thinks I’m screwing Anabelle. That’s what Tim was insinuating, and not because of the media, but because Anabelle is wearing one of my shirts and not much else. That on top of my telling the whole world that she doesn’t mean anything to me... I’m sorry, baby. You must be hurting so much right now.
Brad was so wrong. I should have come out and told the truth. Seeing Anabelle like this would have shaken her, but not so badly she wouldn’t have given me a chance to explain. “You couldn’t have stolen Dutch’s shirt?”
She wrinkles her nose. “I’m not wearing his dirty clothes. I found this in your closet. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“I do mind.”
“I’ll go get changed then.” She turns up her nose as she walks away from me. “I should go home anyway.”
“Good. That’d be great.”
Jeanie pulls the earbuds out and snaps her laptop closed. “I caught the footage from last night.”
“It’s not good, is it?”
Climbing off the couch, she comes over to hug me. “Not good at all. If you were one of my books, this would actually be perfect, but real life...” She gives me a sad little shake of her head. “Have you spoken to Bree yet?”
“I can’t find her, Jeanie.” Hopelessness swamps me, and I lean into my sister. “She’s upset, and I can’t do anything. She won’t talk to me. I don’t know how to find her.”
“Maybe I can,” she says. “I’m friends with her on Facebook. I’ll do some stalking.”
“What if she won’t talk to me?”
“Maybe a grand gesture will help,” she says.
“A grand what?”
“You know, do something to win back the girl. Something big that shows you’re really sorry. And that she can trust in you not to screw it up again.”
“If that’s what it takes,” I tell her. “I’ll do anything to get her to forgive me.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Bree
“Welcome home.” Callan smooths his hand over the Powerpuff Girls sheets—the ones from when morning cartoons were my jam—over the twin bed before spreading my old quilt he found in the closet on top. The quilt is made up of pop-culture T-shirts from when I was a kid. Mom doesn’t like to throw anything away that might once have been our favorites. Callan has one too. It’s black and boasts rock band logos.
Hugging myself, I try to keep it together as I walk into the middle of the room. Our parents left on their trip almost two weeks ago, and Callan moved in at the same time. Never suspected I would do the same. But staying at my apartment is the last thing I want to do. Listening to Parker bang on my door was too hard. Seeing him will wreck me. Plus, Callan insisted.
The bed creaks as I sit down. Callan thrusts his hands into the pockets of his jeans and glances at the doorway where he left my suitcase and the cat crate. Sirius is meowing his disgust at having been imprisoned and jostled on the car trip over. Callan squats down and scoops kitty out of the enclosure before dropping him onto the bed beside me. With one last murderous glare Sirius turns his back on both of us and starts to lick his non-existent balls.
“Can I get you anything else?” Callan asks, returning his gaze to the doorway. He can’t wait to escape. Girl tears make him uncomfortable. He doesn’t tell me that he warned me about Parker, though I suspect he’s thinking it. “Do you wanna watch a movie or play Xbox? My console’s set up in the den. I have to go to work soon, but we could play until then.”
“I think I want to be alone.” Kicking my shoes off, I curl my knees up under my chin and stare at the faded spot on the carpet. When I was a teen, I spilled red soda on that spot while dancing to Destiny’s Child.
I want to curl up in the quilt. Sleep until the hurt goes away.
“Okay. I guess I’ll get ready for work then.” He shrugs. “Or I can call in sick. We can watch The Princess Bride or Nightmare on Elm Street. I’ll order pizza. Buy some ice cream.”
I rub my hands up and down my arms. Watching movies and eating pizza reminds me too much of all the time I’ve spent with Parker. “You should go to work. I’m really tired.”
“Right. Well, you know how to get hold of me. Call if you need anything,” he tells me. “Anything at all.”
“Promise.” I climb off the bed and push him out of the room. I know he means well, but I really do want to be alone.
“Bree.” He hesitates in the door. “Don’t let this get you too down. He isn’t worth it.”
“Go,” I say, my breath catching. Callan may be right, but it doesn’t feel like that at all. It feels so much worse. Everything hurts like I’ve been through a meat grinder.
“Okay,” he says, walking down the hallway. “I’ll check in later. See how you’re doing.”
I close the door and pull the quilt off the bed, wrapping it around me like a shell before flopping onto the mattress. I just need to sleep. For however long it takes f
or Parker to become a memory.
***
“Are you awake?” Callan asks quietly.
“Nggh.” I groan. The hair at the back of my neck is damp with sweat and my cheeks crusted with salt. My throat feels like I’ve eaten razor blades.
“You’ve been in here for two days, Bree. Think you might want to come out?” His voice grows louder and sterner. “I’ve reheated some of Mom’s soup.”
“Go away. Sleeping,” I reply. It’s pitch black inside the bubble I’ve built. One day I’ll have to come out and face reality, but I’m not ready. I’m not prepared to adult my way through this pain yet. I need a few more days.
“Yeah, well, you haven’t eaten anything since you came home.” His voice is closer. Gripping a handful of the quilt, he rolls me across the mattress.
Light bursts through the darkness, forcing me to hiss while my eyelids close to slits.
“Jesus,” he says. “You look awful.”
“Give me back my quilt.” I try to snatch the comforter out of his hands.
“Nope. Not until you get up and eat some of the soup I prepared.” He wrinkles his nose. “And move to a different room. I’m going to crack a window.”
“Fine.” I scoot off the mattress and wobble my way out of the room. I’m being unreasonable, but being awake means thinking about Parker and Anabelle. It means replaying those few seconds of video in my mind where he said we were strangers instead of lovers. What we had was nothing.
“Good,” Callan says, undoing the latch and pushing up the window as I make my way to the kitchen.
***
I’ve fallen down the reality TV rabbit hole. I tried to watch movies, but that reminded me of how Parker and I spent so many evenings snuggled up together. Movies are our thing. And watching them now, without him, hurts too much. Reality TV is better. It mostly doesn’t make me sad. Or at least it doesn’t make me sadder.
“What are you watching?” Callan asks as he enters the den.
“Buried in the Backyard,” I mumble.
“Thrilling,” Callan says dryly as he steps into sight. “Do you think you might want to get up any time soon?”
“Soon,” I agree.
Sitting on the coffee table, he blocks my view of the television. “Soon as in today, or soon as in this week?”
“Soon.” I shrug, bunching the quilt around my shoulders. I’m out of bed and on the couch in the den. I’m making headway.
Callan scrubs a hand through his thick hair, his shirt tightening around his bicep and shoulder. His other arm is wrapped around a huge circular box. “Parker found me at the bar.”
My gaze snaps to Callan and my heart skips a beat. It’s like it refuses to get the memo that Parker and I are over. I want to stop missing him already.
“He begged me to tell him where you are.”
You didn’t.
“I didn’t. I told him to leave you alone, but he begged me to ask you to see him.”
“Do you think I should?” I whisper.
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “I don’t know him like you do. So I told him I would tell you. Whether you do or not is up to you.”
“I don’t think I can.” I pull the quilt tighter around me. Hearing his voice will hurt too much. And what can he have to say anyway? He lied to me, and then he told the whole world I was nothing to him. That I was nobody. I refuse to be some dirty little secret. And I’m not interested in sharing him with Anabelle.
“Okay.” He puts the package down on the coffee table. “He also told me to give you this.”
“What is it?” I eye the box warily.
“Not sure. It’s from some bakery.” He gets up and goes to the door. “I’m going to go work in Mom’s garden for a bit. You should come outside. Fresh air and sunshine might do you a world of good.”
“I’ll see. Maybe soon.” It’s cookies. It has to be cookies. I’m never going to be able to look at cookies the same way. No longer will they be something delicious and a nice way of saying vagina. They’ll be that joke Parker and I shared. Pushing the box out of my line of vision, I concentrate on the detectives on TV, who are searching for clues that will lead them to the murderer of the mummified corpse they found in someone’s backyard.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Parker
Gravel crunches under my tires as I pull up on the shoulder. Lamps are dotted along the road, but they don’t cast much light. Climbing out of my car, I walk around to the trunk and retrieve the backpack I put there earlier this evening. It’s a few yards to the billboard, and I have to hop a safety rail, but this fucker is getting a makeover.
I can’t breathe without Bree. These last few days have been hell. Tim refuses to speak to me. Dutch keeps trying to drag me out to bars and clubs in an effort to cheer me up, and my agent couldn’t be fucking happier with the situation. I don’t know how many ways there are to say I told you so, but I swear he’s used each and every one to remind me that he told me relationships were bad news, and that I’m better off without Bree. But I’m not.
Jeanie found Bree’s brother through Bree’s friends list, figured out where he worked. I paid him a visit, even though I know he doesn’t like me, and I didn’t expect him to help me. It actually wasn’t as terrible as I thought it would be. He refused to tell me where she was, but he didn’t punch me in the face either so that has to count for something. Instead he told me he would pass on a message for me. If she wanted to talk she’d be in touch. He took the box of cookies I bought for her too. It wasn’t much, not enough, but it was something special between us, and I hoped reminding her of that might work in my favor.
It hasn’t. There hasn’t been so much as a peep.
I heft the pack onto my back and get a foothold on the metal ladder that leads up to the sign. The wind is blowing a gale up here. Hoisting myself onto the ledge, I put the backpack beside me and unzip it. I take out a can of spray paint and pull myself to my feet. A grand gesture.
Like at the end of the books Jeanie writes. That’s what she said I needed. Something huge to tell Bree that I know I screwed up and will do anything to fix it. Not sure this is what she had in mind though.
Shaking up the can, I start spraying.
Bloop, bloop. Red and blue lights flash beneath me as a car pulls up to the railing I’d had to climb over to get up here. Cops. Great. I spray down another huge loop. I’m nowhere near done. A spotlight lands on me, bounces off the sign and almost blinds me. Fuck, that’s bright.
“Put the paint down and return to the ground,” a man’s voice says, amplified.
“Can’t,” I yell back. “I have to finish this.”
“Return to the ground now.”
“Not going to happen. Not until I finish.” The ball rattles against aluminium as the spray runs out on the first can. Shit.
“Make this easier on yourself. If I have to come up and get you, it’s going to go worse on you, son.”
“Hold onto your ball sack, I’ll be down once I’m done,” I yell back as I grab another spray can.
The cop doesn’t reply. A door slams. He knows I’m coming down eventually, there’s no point in chasing me. He’s probably decided to sit in his car and wait me out.
Metal creaks. Huffing, the cop pulls himself up onto the platform. “Had to go and make it difficult, didn’t you?”
So much for waiting for me to finish. The ball rattles in the second can, and I’m still nowhere near done. “I have to finish this.”
“Vandalism is wrong, son.” Climbing to his feet, he takes cautious steps to reach me. He’s a solid man in his early fifties, his dark hair graying at the temples. Lifting his torch, he shines it in my eyes. It’s blinding and forces me to stop. A second later it skips away only to return immediately. “You’re him. This is you on the billboard?”
“Yes.”
“Now why would you want to go and deface your own poster?” he asks, genuine curiosity in his wizened eyes. “You got a serious case of self-loathing?”
&nb
sp; “Something like that.” I crouch down to tuck the empty can back in my bag.
“Want to tell me about it?” He leans against the sign, paying particular attention to where the wet paint is and isn’t.
“Not really.” I shrug.
“I can’t let you finish this even though I wish I could. There’ve been an awful lot of accidents on this stretch since your sign went up.” He shines the torch on my newly added artwork across the part of my poster where my bulge is. “Although that’s probably going to help.”
It isn’t finished, so it looks like a blob of paint that I’m holding to my crotch. Still, maybe Bree will be able to work out what it is. Probably not though. Perhaps if I can convince him to let me finish the job. After all, I’m making the billboard less of a traffic hazard.
He lowers the torchlight so that it bounces off the platform. “How do you want to do this? Climb down of your own accord, or should I slap the cuffs on you and wait for the fire brigade to extricate you?”
“You’re not going to let me finish, are you?” I ask.
“No, son.” He shakes his head, deep crags forming on his brow. “Not even if this is your attempt at proposing to your girlfriend. There are better, legal ways to go about it.”
“What about trying to get your girlfriend to talk to you after you fucked up?” I zip up the backpack and haul it onto my back since it appears I have no choice.
“Well, now.” He scratches his weathered jaw as he stares at the sign. “I dare say that would depend on what you did. But even if you had finished this up before I got here, I don’t think it’d have the effect you’re hoping for.” Moving toward the ladder, he crawls over the edge of the platform on his belly. “Now let’s get down from here. I’m not that great with heights.”
With a final glance at the billboard, I turn and follow him. He’s waiting for me at the bottom of the ladder with his cuffs in hand. “I’m going to ask you to drop your pack, then I’ll read you your rights while I snap on this jewelry. Let’s make this easy, huh?”