Sweet Fate

by Laurelin Paige

  Which reminded me, I’d wanted her to leave.

  I took a step to follow after her and stopped. I didn’t actually want her to leave. Not really. I liked that she’d come. I’d only told her I hadn’t wanted her to come because I was afraid of looking like a fool. And maybe I still would, but she’d been expecting karaoke, and she’d still bothered to show up. That seemed to indicate that she really didn’t care if we were terrible.

  So I let her stay.

  Then, as the chords started to our first number, and my hand found its position over the frets, I was inspired with the most fascinating notion to let go. Just let go and play. Get my mind out of the way and let my body make the music that I’d loved since I was a teenager.

  I got into it. I rocked that bassline. I rocked it on every song. I was brilliant. I was on fire.

  I won the nonexistent competition.

  It was because of Audrey, of course. She was in the audience, and I wanted to be brilliant for her, so that she wouldn’t regret coming. But also, I played good because I felt good. Because she made me feel good.

  She made me feel good the whole night long, the way she cheered and clapped, the way she called out for an encore when we’d reached our last number. The way she sang along to every song she knew. The way she never took her eyes off me.

  It was more fun than I’d had in ages.

  It wasn’t until we were performing our encore piece that it hit me—why all of this seemed so familiar. I was struck with a memory from when I was about her age, playing with a different band in a similar pub back in Southampton. I’d been dating Ellen for a few months, and that night she’d come to one of my shows like she often did. I’d played my heart out trying to impress her, and when the set was done, she’d come with me back to my flat where she’d showered me with compliments and told me she’d “never felt this way about a man before.”

  I’d been over the moon, and it was that night I’d first known that I loved her. I’d loved how she made me feel and who she made me be and what I looked like through her eyes.

  And that was what felt familiar with Audrey.

  I loved how Audrey made me feel. I loved how she made me want to let loose and step out of my comfort zone and be engaged. I loved how she didn’t seem to see me as an aging wanker, but as someone interesting. Someone worth spending time with. Someone with something to offer the world.

  I loved all of it.

  I loved her.

  I was in love with Audrey.

  What the bloody fuck was I supposed to do now?

  Nine

  I had to avoid her now, of course. What other option was there for me? It wasn’t easy, by any means. By Monday I was in a foul temper, and I’d only been without her for the span of one day.

  While everyone at the office was sure to notice my mood, Amy was the only one to mention it. “You’re a might prickly today. Want to tell me what bug’s crawled up your arse?”

  “I’ve fallen in love with a woman I can’t have,” I said. There wasn’t any reason to keep it secret. I’d always believed in sharing my misery with those closest to me when possible.

  “Well, then.” Needless to say, she was surprised. “It’s not me, is it? Please tell me it’s not.”

  Then we both broke into laughter because the idea was ludicrous. Leave it to Amy to coax out the last bit of cheer from my ornery soul.

  “How sure are you that you can’t have her?” she asked when we’d settled again.

  I sighed and leaned back in my chair. “Very sure.” I delivered a brief summary of my relationship with Audrey, skipping over the sexual details out of modesty. “So, you see, she’s out to find a life partner, not engage in a torrid affair with a man twice her age.”

  “Ah. But…” Amy tapped her lip with a single finger. “Is there a specific reason why you couldn’t be the life partner she’s looking for?”

  I chortled, but it ended short when I realized she hadn’t meant it as a joke. “That’s ridiculous. She’s almost twenty years younger than I am. I’m planning my retirement. She’s planning half a dozen babies. She’s romantic and wide-eyed, and we both know I’m basically Scrooge reincarnated. She wants the fairy tale, and I don’t even believe in the customs of matrimony or long-term monogamy. They’re outdated and impractical notions.”

  A deep furrow appeared in Amy’s brow. “If you really believe those are flawed traditions, why are you so supportive of her attempt to find a happily ever after? Why not step in, sweep her off her feet, and love her as long as it lasts?”

  This was the tough question, the one I’d been grappling with myself for the past thirty-six hours. I was only just now able to confess the answer. “Honestly? Because I’m not sure if they really are terrible customs or if they’re just terrible for me.”

  Amy, my hard-hearted friend, brought her hand to her chest as though she were wounded. “That’s very sad,” she said sincerely. “Whatever are you supposed to do with your love, then?”

  My response was equally sincere. “Suffer in silence. Naturally.”

  It had been a long time since I’d endured the torment of unrequited affection, however, and the days that followed led to deeper and unbearable despair. Somehow I managed to refuse every one of her calls, replying after with a text saying I was unavailable for the night. Every evening I prayed that she’d get the hint and give up, but she was persistent. Relentless.

  By the end of the week, my resolve was weakening. I yearned to hear her voice. I ached to know the details of her life. So when she sent me a frantic text Saturday morning, saying once again that she “needed” me, I couldn’t help but respond.

  DYLAN: What’s wrong? What can I do?

  AUDREY: I need your help! Can you come over here ASAP?

  I wasn’t exactly a soft man, but I’d reached my limit of missing her, and I was vulnerable. Against my better judgement, I replied,

  DYLAN: I’m on my way.

  I began to regret my decision as soon as she opened the front door. She wore only a gray sports bra and low-rise shorts, her hair was thrown up into a mess on top of her head, and all I could think about when I saw her was running my tongue along the rim of her exposed belly button. What did her skin taste like there? Would her voice quiver with excitement like it had when she’d played with herself on camera for me?

  It was too late to leave, though, and before I could get my bearings, she’d taken my hand and pulled me inside the flat.

  “I really thought I could do it myself, but I’m trying to be better about managing my expectations, and I think I definitely expected too much on this one. Therefore, you must be my hero and rescue me from defeat.”

  Oh, how I’d missed the sound of her babble. I had more than a little trepidation, however, about being anyone’s hero.

  She still had my hand in hers with the door shut behind us. “It’s this way,” she said, tugging me behind her.

  While I was distracted by how natural her fingers felt laced through mine, I still managed to assess her living space. It was small and unremarkable. The place had obviously come furnished. They were all dull neutral colors, nothing she would have picked for herself. Her front room doubled as both lounge and dining room. Abstract flower art decorated the walls, but beyond that, it was dreary and drab. Not very Audrey-like at all. The galley kitchen, I noted as we passed, had barely enough room to fit one person, but it did have decent appliances. A multicolored dish towel draped over the tap was the only injection of her personality. Another two steps and we were at the doorway of her bedroom.

  She dropped my hand here, which was fortunate since it already felt too intimate to be so close to where she slept, and then swept her arm, introducing me to the space as though she were the hostess on a game show. “Here it is! My project!”

  I stepped in cautiously. It was also tiny, barely big enough to fit a double bed, dresser, and nightstand, which was the extent of the furnishings. All three pieces had been gathered in the center of the room and covere
d with plastic tarps. Painters tape ran along the footboard, and half of one of the dull cream walls was freshly painted in robin’s egg blue. More plastic drop cloths were spread over the wood floor, and a paint can of the same robin’s egg blue shade sat next to the window with an assortment of brushes at its side.

  I had one word for Audrey. “No.”

  I turned around, ready to walk out of the situation I should never have stepped into. But she grabbed my arm to stop me. “Please!”

  “I did not rush over here to help you paint your flat. I thought you’d had an emergency. That you were ill or...or...that someone had hurt you.”

  “I’ll be hurt if you walk out on me.”

  I scowled in her direction, but she was undeterred. “I will be hurt, Dylan! Emotionally hurt, but also physically. I can’t reach to the top of the walls, and I don’t have a step stool. Anything I try to come up with as a substitution could kill me.”

  “Hire a painter.” I realized after I’d made the suggestion that she likely couldn’t afford one. I amended. “I’ll hire a painter for you.”

  “That’s silly. It’s too small of a space to hire someone. Two people could knock this out in no time.” She was so charming, batting her brown eyes, giving me that luscious pout.

  My resistance was waning, but for now, it still held. “There’s no other poor sap you can rope into laboring on your behalf?”

  She peered up at me like I had the power to give her the world. “I’m sure I could find someone else, but I don’t want to. You’ve been avoiding me. And I need a man. This just works out, doesn’t it?”

  I hated that she thought that, true as it was. “I’ve been busy with a work thing,” I lied, unable to give up the pretense.

  “Do you have to work on your work thing today? Could you maybe take the day off and spend it with me? I miss you.”

  I missed her too. Insanely. But while I was happy enough to suffer through my own yearning, I didn’t want to ever be the source of her suffering.

  I ran a hand through my hair and surveyed the extent of the project again. It really could be tackled in one day with the two of us. Painting wasn’t so hard. Deciding to do it was.

  “It’s just these three walls, really,” she said, reading my thoughts too well. “I’m leaving the wall above the fireplace the color it is, and I’m doing a design on it with the blue.”

  I was that fish again, and she was baiting me the way she had when she’d first met me. Falling for the same lure, I had to wonder if I didn’t enjoy being caught.

  “I’m not wearing clothes fit to paint.” I’d already decided to stay, but I wasn’t quite done complaining about it.

  She looked me up and down. “Do you like your outfit?”

  “Should I not?” I couldn’t see a thing wrong with what I was wearing.

  “It’s a fine outfit! I mean, it’s a henley and blue jeans. Can’t go wrong with the basics.”

  She was winding me up on purpose. I was sure of it.

  “I like this shirt,” I said, obstinate.

  “Then take it off!”

  Grumbling under my breath, I pulled the fleece-lined shirt over my head and tossed it into the hallway. I could feel her eyes on me—ogling, perhaps? I sucked in my stomach and threw my shoulders back, just in case.

  She smiled coyly. “If you like your pants, you can take them off too. I won’t mind.”

  I knew then what my gravestone would say—death by winding. There was already sexual tension between us before she started plucking at it, pulling it as taut as it could possibly be pulled. Added to that were my newly labeled feelings. I loved her, loved everything about her, and by God, if that didn’t make her harder to resist. I wanted her lips, not just because I wanted them, but because I wanted to love them. I wanted to love her breasts. I wanted to love her skin and her toes and her cunt, and being trapped with her in a small space while she pranced around in a sports bra wasn’t helping the situation.

  But I was strong. If I wasn’t going to leave like I should, I had to focus on the task.

  With a sigh, I headed over to the supplies and selected a large, flat brush, then started on the wall already half done. Audrey poured some of the blue paint into an aluminum tray and chose a brush that seemed more suited for artistry than the task at hand, and went to work over the fireplace.

  “Are you even allowed to paint your rental?” I asked after applying several long strokes.

  “The landlord said yes, as long as I paint it again when I move out.”

  The skin at the back of my neck began to tingle. “Does this mean you’ve been offered the permanent position? Are you going to stay in London?” Why else would she bother with so much effort if she were only planning to move out in another month or so?

  She made a noise that sounded like a vocal shrug. “Nothing’s decided yet. But I can’t live in this colorless apartment another day. There’s no life to it. I can’t be this boring.”

  I looked over at her—a look that was meant to be a glance, but turned into a full stare when I saw what she was doing to the wall she was working on. She’d painted winding strokes coming from the corner and extending across the bare wall. After a few minutes of watching, when she’d begun to outline the shape of a flower, I realized the strokes were stems, and that the abstract art I’d seen earlier had been her originals.

  “Those were your pieces in the lounge,” I said, wishing I’d studied them longer. “You’re quite good.”

  She laughed and shook her head. “I’m not, but thank you for saying so.”

  “What do you mean? I couldn’t even draw a stick figure and make it recognizable. This, on the other hand, is extraordinary.”

  She stood back to examine her work. “It’s all right, I suppose. I spend so much time examining the art of the greats, it’s hard to think of my own stuff as something that has value. But I like doing it. And that’s pretty valuable regardless of the production quality.”

  As always, she was wise beyond her years. I had yet to learn the value of a hobby. Everything I did was practical and with reason. I’d only started playing with Thrashheads as a favor to Ian when his bass player had dropped out, and I’d only stayed because I had nothing better to do with my Saturday nights. I’d only learned bass in the first place because my mother had thought that having an instrument on my transcript would look good when applying for uni. What did I ever do that I enjoyed? What did I find value in simply because I liked doing it?

  I liked doing this together, actually. Painting, and playing, with Audrey. I could take or leave the actual labor, but being with her, helping her, standing in the same room while she created something that made her smile—that, I liked. I liked it a lot.

  Enjoying the work made it pass quickly, as well as the small size of the room. By the time two hours had passed, I was applying the second coat of paint on the last wall. Audrey hummed as she painted. Her floral design had taken shape, curling up and around the fireplace like a living vine, and there we were now, at the corner where our walls met, standing entirely too close.

  I could feel the heat radiating off her body. I could smell the crisp apple scent of her even through the overbearing fumes of paint. I could sense the tension between us stretching more and more taut. I could barely talk to her, could barely look at her anymore without being in danger of losing my restraint and pulling her into my arms.

  Audrey, I surmised, felt none of it. She seemed as cool as a cucumber, even when her shoulder brushed against my arm.

  “You’ve gotten quiet,” she said, just when I thought the silence was so thick I’d choke on it. “Are you brooding over something?”

  “Only your taste in music. This folk shit is putting me to sleep.”

  I didn’t look at her, but I could feel her body turn in my direction. “This folk shit is quite popular, thank you very much. Excuse me for liking music that’s actually musical.”

  I did turn then. Because, tension or not, I was not about to let her speak il
l about the greats of my generation.

  “Are you saying that Deep Purple isn’t musical? That their guitar riffs aren’t among the most recognizable in the world? ‘Smoke on the Water’ is all I have to say to that.” I didn’t care if it dated me, I wasn’t wrong about rock.

  She cocked one hip, and smirked. “I don’t know what smoke on the water is. Is that some sort of British saying?”

  “You don’t—are you saying that you don’t know the song ‘Smoke on the Water’?” I was practically speechless. I had given her the benefit of the doubt, but this was asking too much. “It’s one of the most famous songs of the seventies!”

  She raised one shoulder and dropped it again. “I wasn’t alive in the seventies. So…”

  I drew my lips together in a tight line. “You know it. I promise you know it. We even played it the other night.”

  “They kind of all sounded the same. I mean, they were really good, but—”

  I cut her off with an attempt of the famous guitar line. “Dun, dun, dunnnn. Dundun da dunnn. Dun, dun, dunnn, dundun.” She had to know it.

  She narrowed her eyes and grinned.

  “You do know it. You’re having your fun with me again. Poking at me.” I tried, certain my instincts weren’t wrong.

  “Is that what I’m doing?” She stabbed the air in my direction with her paintbrush. “Poke. Poke.”

  The next stab was close to me, and I could see exactly where this was headed. “Don’t you dare,” I warned.

  “Don’t dare do what? This?” She waved the brush around threateningly. I leaned back reflexively, dodging her. She laughed and lowered her weapon. Apparently she hadn’t meant to paint me with it after all.

  Except, as soon as I relaxed, she reached out and swiped across my nose and cheek. I could feel the gooey texture of paint against my skin.

  I narrowed my eyes. “You’ll pay for that.”