by Penny Reid
“You let me know if you want me to have a word with this guy,” Buck says with a shake of his head.
“I’m good. Thanks, though.” I give him another hug, mostly because I’m desperate for affection, and send him down the hall. He stumbles past Melvin’s door—the odor is horrendous—and then rushes on to the elevator.
After a lengthy time-out in the bathroom, I go to bed. The ensuing ice cream coma is neither restful nor peaceful. I dream of Alex and his air hockey table, except in my dream it’s not me he’s banging, it’s some other hockey hooker.
Two days later, there’s a knock at my door. I assume it’s Melvin because it’s about the right time of the evening for him to come knocking. If that’s the case, I can’t even pretend I’m not home because he can hear my television through the wall much like I can hear his death metal serenades. I peek out the peephole and discover it’s not Melvin, but Alex.
All sorts of weird things happen inside my body. I feel like my stomach is going to come out of my throat. My heart is pounding like I’ve had a massive orgasm. My beaver is so excited she’s gnawing at my underwear—which, incidentally, are hideous—and tears spring to my eyes. After almost a month I should have a better handle on my emotions, but I don’t.
He looks exhausted but gorgeous, as usual, even with the full beard he’s currently rocking. Especially with that damn beard. He’s all rustic and lumbersexual looking.
I squeak when he raps on the door again and clamp a hand over my mouth.
“Violet?” His forehead comes to rest against the door so I’m only able to see his fuzzy jaw, and I hear him sigh. “I know you’re in there. I saw your 4Runner in the parking lot and I heard you make a noise.”
Hands pressed against the steel panel separating us, I say nothing. Even though I hate him, I love him, and it fucking hurts so bad. I just want it to stop. I wish he hadn’t done this to us; I want him to leave, but I want him to stay. I also want to know how the hell he managed to get up here.
I have to bury my face in the crook of my elbow and bite my hoodie to stifle my pathetic sob.
“I know I fucked up, Violet. I just want to talk to you. Please, baby? I miss you. I made a mistake. If you let me explain, maybe we can work things out. I wanna work things out.”
I take two or three deep breaths and clench my fists so I don’t reach for the doorknob. I want to talk to him. I want Alex to have a reason for what he did to us. But whatever it is, it can’t be good enough. There’s no justification for that kind of humiliation.
Knowing this doesn’t prevent the ache in my heart from flaring until it reaches yeast infection levels of discomfort.
“Baby, open the door. You don’t have to let me in. I’ll stay here in the hall. You can even leave the chain lock on. I only want to see you.” He pauses and waits a few endless seconds. His head thumps against the door. “Everything sucks without you. I was under a lot of pressure. I didn’t mean what I said—”
“Then why did you say it?” I scream and then cover my mouth with my palm, horrified I’m too weak to maintain my silence. I put my eye back to the peephole in time to see him lift his head and brace his hands on either side.
“Because I’m an idiot. Please, Violet. Don’t make me talk to you like this. Give me a chance to explain.”
“Why bother? Everything you say is bullshit anyway.”
He stares directly into the peephole as if he knows I’m on the other side, coveting his beautiful, annoyingly perfect face. “You know that’s not true. People make mistakes. This is a really huge mistake, and I wish I could take it back, but I can’t. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
I close my eyes, the pervasive ache inside rippling outward. I want so badly to believe him, but I’ve learned my lesson. “But you did, Alex, and you’re right, you can’t take it back. Nothing you say is going to change that.”
“Baby, please. Hear me out.” The desperation in his voice is echoed in his eyes.
“You need to leave.” My words are at complete odds with what my heart wants. More than anything, I want to open the door and do exactly as he’s asked: hear him out. If I do, there’s a good chance I’ll be tempted to give him the second or third chance he’s looking for, and my poor beaten-up heart can’t take that right now.
“All I want is five minutes. Can’t you give me that?”
I have to hand it to him; he’s persistent to the point of infuriation.
I’m about to threaten to call Buck and have him escort Alex out of the building by his balls, when the door across the hall opens. It’s Ms. Bullock. She’s a feisty little old lady with a mop of white, permed hair.
She eyes Alex with suspicion. “Excuse me, young man. Do you need help with something?”
“He was leaving!” I shout through the door.
“Violet, please.” Begging might have worked once, but it isn’t going to now.
I rest my forehead against the door and cringe at the crack in my voice. “Just go, Alex.”
Ms. Bullock takes a long drag from her cigarette and raises her drawn-on eyebrow at Alex. “You heard the young lady. It’s time for you to go.”
Alex rubs a palm over his face and winces. “I’m not giving up on us.”
Ms. Bullock goes back into her apartment, but leaves the door open. Alex returns to the peephole. “I get it if you need more time, but I care about you too much to walk away.”
“You sure have a shitty way of showing it.”
My hand is on the doorknob. Thankfully, Ms. Bullock comes back with a whisk broom. She doesn’t give Alex a chance to leave peacefully. Instead, she starts whacking him on the shoulders.
“When a lady asks you to leave, you leave, dammit!” Ms. Bullock shouts.
God bless her violent, ancient heart.
Alex covers his head with his arms. “Okay! Okay! I’m going.” He stumbles out of my line of sight. “I’m not giving up, Violet. I’ll find a way to fix this.”
“Good luck with that,” I mutter as Ms. Bullock follows him down the hall, still beating on him.
I wait about thirty seconds before I turn the lock and crack the door. Ms. Bullock is still in the hallway, wielding her broom like a sword. From down the hall, Melvin sticks his head out, death metal and rank body odor seeping into the hall with him.
“Is he gone?” I whisper.
She purses her lips and gives her head a quick, almost imperceptible shake. Her cigarette is perched precariously between her lips. Her bright orange lipstick has bled into the creases around her mouth, making it look like a messy starburst.
I hear the ding of the elevator from the other end of the hall. After a few protracted seconds, Ms. Bullock clamps her lips around her cigarette again and takes another haul. Blowing out the smoke in a long stream, she finally gives me the nod. My shoulders drop, and the tension leaves my body.
I unlatch the chain lock and open the door. “Thank you.”
“It seemed like you weren’t all that interested in talking to him. Too bad. That’s one nice looking boy.” Her cigarette bounces between her lips as she speaks. The ash is more than an inch long.
I can still smell a hint of his cologne, even with the pungent cigarette smoke and Melvin’s body odor. “Don’t be fooled by the pretty. He’s bad news.”
“Must be if you’re keeping him out in the hall instead of inviting him to jump in your bed.”
I choke back a laugh. Ms. Bullock is probably my favorite person in the building.
Melvin waves from his door. “Everything okay, Violet?”
I wave back. “Everything’s fine, Melvin. Thanks for asking.”
“You wanna play Guitar Hero?”
“Maybe another time.”
His face falls, but he nods. “If you change your mind you know where to find me.” The door to his apartment clicks softly, his stench lingering in the hall.
“Now that’s a nice boy.” The ash finally falls, landing on Ms. Bullock’s flower print slipper. “Too bad he onl
y showers on full moons.”
“Really?”
She shrugs. “It certainly smells that way. That’s saying something because my sense of smell is almost nonexistent thanks to these.” She points to her cigarette. “Well, dearie, Wheel of Fortune is starting, and I don’t want to miss out on Pat Sajak.”
“Thanks again, Ms. Bullock.”
“Anytime.”
I turn away, considering a junk food binge to combat the emotional exhaustion this whole debacle has caused.
“I hope you give him a chance to tell you how he feels about you.”
I swallow hard, fighting back tears. “I already know how he feels about me.”
She nods solemnly. “Ah. So it’s a case of unrequited love, then.”
“Is it so obvious?” How pathetic am I that my ancient neighbor lady can tell I’m in love and brokenhearted.
“Poor boy. He’s like a lovesick puppy.”
She disappears inside her apartment before I have a chance to correct her. Alex doesn’t love me. I was a game he played until he got bored. Then he broke all my pieces and threw me in the trash.
Chapter 25
ALEX IS ALL ABOUT WEARING ME DOWN
Violet
The next morning I find an enormous bouquet of chocolate-dipped fruit in the shape of flowers.
The message on the card reads:
I want you back.
~Alex
I’m tempted to throw the whole thing in the garbage, but it’s such a waste, and the fruit looks amazing. Plus, it’s covered in chocolate. I put it in the fridge instead. I’ll share it with Ms. Bullock later.
When I get to work, Charlene is already at my desk with a cinnamon roll and a coffee. I tell her about Alex stopping by and the fruit bouquet. I even manage not to cry, which is an improvement. Charlene decides we need a girl’s night out, and I agree. Partly because I’m scared Alex will show up at my apartment again and I won’t have the restraint necessary not to let him in this time.
The cab pulls up in front of my apartment building. Neither of us is driving since the plan is to get shitfaced. I climb into the back seat and she follows after me, giving the cabbie directions.
“I think you should talk to him.”
I respond with silence.
My mom has been hinting—not so subtly—that I should rethink my Alex Waters boycott. I don’t agree. I won’t survive if he breaks my heart again.
Okay, I’ll survive, but I’ll cry a lot, and I’ll end up gaining twenty pounds from excessive junk food consumption. Then I’ll rebound and have meaningless sex with some other dumb jerk. Like Randy Balls. Or maybe even Melvin. He’ll think it’s more than rebound-depression sex and want a relationship.
“Violet, come on. He’s been trying to see you for weeks. He came to your apartment. He was willing to talk to you through your door. He got an asskicking from an old lady. You can’t give him the silent treatment forever. Besides, Darren says all this has to do with his former agent.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Are you on his side now?”
“Of course not!” Charlene’s expression softens. “Honestly, Vi, I’ve never seen you so broken up about a guy. Maybe it’s worth it to talk to him. If nothing else, you can get some closure.”
This doesn’t make me feel better. He’s hurt me worse than Steve, the turdburger, ever did. Still, a huge part of me—which I hate, incidentally—doesn’t want closure. My stupid heart is still in love with him, even if my head knows I shouldn’t be.
“Can we not talk about Alex tonight? I want to get hammered and forget him for a while,” I say as we get out of the cab.
Char squeezes my shoulder. “Whatever you want, Vi.”
We snag a table and order a pitcher of margaritas. There’s a crappy cover band playing, which makes conversation difficult. At least I don’t have to talk about Alex, even if I can’t stop thinking about him.
“Violet?”
The overpowering scent of cheap cologne singes my nose hairs. Shitballs. It’s the flower delivery guy. “Hi, Fred.”
“You remember my name! I totally thought it was you. I haven’t seen you in a while.” He stands there with his hands shoved in his pockets, nodding. He’s an odd dude.
“Yeah. I moved recently.” I swish my drink around in my glass, hoping he won’t ask questions about why I moved.
The bobble-heading is contagious. I have the urge to look at Charlene to see if she’s bobble-heading, too.
“So, I, uh, read you and the hockey player aren’t a couple or anything . . .” He kicks the leg of my chair while he stares at the top of the table.
It’s all anyone asks me about these days. I’m sick of it and sick of missing Alex. “Nope. Looks like we were just friends even though I’ve had his dick in my mouth.”
It isn’t until Charlene chokes on her drink and Fred’s eyeballs look like they’re about to pop out and roll onto the floor that I realize how inappropriate my comment is.
“Right. Huh.” Fred nods some more and blinks like he’s creating his own personal strobe light. “So, uh, since you’re not dating him, maybe you want to go to a movie or something?”
I stare at him because what the hell else am I supposed to do? He delivered Alex’s gifts to my house for weeks. I’ve probably tipped him more than a hundred bucks. He likely thinks the tips mean I’m into him. A movie date is crossing the customer-delivery guy line. Besides, I’ll choke to death if I have to deal with his cologne for an entire evening.
I know my silence has stretched on too long when he clears his throat. “Uh . . . I . . . uh . . .”
“Look, Fred. It’s cool of you to, um . . . want to cheer me up. I’m not in any state to be going to the movies with anyone but Charlene, here.” I thumb across the table at my best friend. “She’s the only person who can reasonably deal with my emo ass. Thanks for the offer, though.”
“Oh, right. Okay.” He bobbles his head in understanding. “Well, see you around.”
I feel bad for rejecting him, but it’s for the best. Besides, he asked me out immediately after I mentioned Alex’s dick having been in my mouth. I’m sure he thinks if he takes me to a movie, I’ll blow him. If he talked to Alex, he’d know it takes much less to get that out of me. Or it did. I’m turning over a new leaf, one that no longer includes blow jobs without definite commitment.
“That guy wears a lot of cologne.” Charlene waves her hand in front of her face. “It’s too bad since he’s hot.”
“He does and he is.”
“Didn’t I tell you he had a thing for you?”
“You sure did. You could start a side business as a psychic. All you need is a crystal ball.”
One day I’ll have to start dating again, but Fred is not the guy and now is not the time. Charlene may have a point about talking to Alex if I’m going to get over him and move on. No matter how the conversation goes down, it’s bound to be painful.
On Saturday morning I realize I’ve run out of clean clothes. One of the major drawbacks to apartment living is the inconvenience of using communal laundry facilities. I cart everything into the elevator and navigate my way to the laundry room. All the machines are in use. The whole room smells like onions and detergent thanks to some burly guy in ripped sweatpants who’s eating a sub. I don’t feel like waiting or socializing, so I pack up my stuff and head to my mom’s. I’m also low on groceries, so I plan to scam a meal out of her.
I’m folding my third load of clothing, eating my second turkey and cheese sandwich, and watching hockey highlights when my mom drops down beside me. She’s holding a magazine in one hand and a martini in the other. She smacks the entertainment magazine on the table with a dramatic flourish. Alex’s scruffy, lumbersexual face is plastered on the cover. His face is everywhere these days.
“You’re coming to the game tomorrow night,” she says with finality. My mom never uses that tone, so she must mean business.
“What game?” I maintain a neutral expression. I thin
k.
My mom knows I know what she’s talking about. Chicago have made it to the Stanley Cup finals. I’ve watched every game up to this point, often while hugging the Waters beaver. Tomorrow they’re playing what could be the title game.
“This is the first time Buck has ever been in the finals.”
“But—”
“No buts, Violet. You’re coming with us. So is Charlene.” She gives me her angry mom stare. It’d be funny if the turkey sandwiches in my stomach weren’t thinking about staging a revolt.
“Fine.” I’ve dodged every home playoff game at this point. I can’t avoid Alex forever and I should be there to support Buck. This could be the silver lining on his hockey career. I gesture to the magazine. “What’s this?”
“There’s an article in there you should read. I think you’ll find it very entertaining and informative.”
I give her a look as she flounces out of the room. She thinks if she leaves it here after saying something like that, she’ll entice me into reading it. It’s difficult not to give in, but I manage not to look.
When I get back to my apartment, I find a gigantic box of maple sugar candies in front of my door. Alex has been by again. My stomach rumbles in anxious anticipation.
Ms. Bullock must have been waiting for me to get home because she pokes her head out the door, cigarette dangling from her lips like a semi-flaccid, burning penis. Holding it between two gnarly fingers, she hides it behind her back so it’s in her apartment rather than the hall. “Your friend stopped by again.”
“I see that. When was he here?”
“He left a few minutes ago. Stayed for a good three hours, he did. The only reason he left was because he got a phone call and it sounded important. He brought me a little present, too.”
Three hours is a damn long time to wait around. His perseverance makes more than my heart hurt. She disappears from the door and returns a minute later with her own little box of maple candies. Goddamn Alex for being a smooth bastard.