by Gemma Weir
Holding open the door for her, I tip my chin toward the car and she climbs in. The journey to the airport takes a little over thirty minutes and apart from a little inconsequential small talk it mostly passes in silence.
I pull into the drop-off lane and stop the car, climbing out to retrieve her luggage from the trunk. Every fiber of my being is telling me to stop her from leaving, but what the hell would I even say? ‘Don’t go’ doesn’t seem persuasive enough.
“I guess I should go. It doesn’t matter what time of the day you fly, security is always a killer.”
I nod but don’t speak.
Rosebud steps forward until her chest is almost touching mine, then she rises onto her tiptoes and places a soft kiss against my cheek. “I’m glad I met you, Park.”
I can’t resist. My arms wrap around her and I close the distance between us, pulling her in for a tight hug. “I’m glad I met you too,” I whisper against her neck.
We stand there like that for a few moments longer, then she sighs and pulls from my embrace.
“Goodbye, friend,” she whispers.
“Goodbye, friend,” I say as she turns and walks away.
My throat is thick with emotion and it takes all of my willpower to blink away the tears that are threatening to spill. I don’t understand why this is so hard; I’ve known this guy for less than a week. This isn’t a passionate affair, destined for failure. It’s not a lust-filled fling so scorching I want to rip his clothes off. But this—what Park and I have discovered—feels bigger, grander, than anything based on lust and passion.
I haven’t felt this instant ‘this person is my best friend’ feeling since I was a child and even then it never felt this magnanimous. But it’s over; neither of us mentioned staying in touch. In this age of technology and social media, it’s easy to stay distantly connected to someone. But maybe cutting ties now is for the best. Watching his life evolve through social media wouldn’t satisfy me. I want to be a part of his life, to be his friend, his Rosebud.
When I get to the check-in desk, I hand over my passport. I advise the lady at the counter that my friend has my booking details and I think she might have already gone through security. She smilingly informs me that I’m the only one of our party to have checked-in and prints me off my boarding pass.
I thank her, making my way through the security lines and into the main area. I’m still early, so I grab a seat at a cafe and order a coffee, scanning the crowd for Taylor. When they announce our flight is boarding, I still haven’t seen her, but with this many people in a busy airport, it’s not exactly surprising. Paying for my coffee, I grab my purse and make my way to the boarding gate. My seat is in first class and moments later we’re called forward to board and an air hostess guides me into a plush leather seat. Twenty minutes later, the seat beside me is still empty, so I pull out my cell and type a message to Taylor, forgoing our mutual silence rather than have her miss the flight.
Rosie: Where are you? Our flight is just about to leave.
I stare at the cell, urging it to beep, but it remains silent and I’m forced to turn it off when the hostess advises me we’re about to depart.
Four hours later, our taxiing plane finally stops beside the terminal and we’re allowed to disembark. A knot of worry is strangling my stomach and I turn on my cell, hoping to find a message from Taylor telling me where she is. My cell shows three unread messages and scanning the names I spot one from an unknown number.
Unknown number: Hi, Rosie, this is Diane. Taylor came home two days ago. She’s suffering with extreme exhaustion from all the stress of the wedding preparations, so she’s taking some time to recuperate at a spa in the Maldives. She’s decided to completely disconnect from technology to fully immerse herself. I’m sure she’ll contact you once she returns home.
I stare at my cell open mouthed. Exhaustion is LA speak for rehab. Taylor’s gone into a rehab facility of some kind and she didn’t even text me to tell me. Sadness and anger battle for supremacy. Over a decade of friendship and she did this alone, or did her parents or Derek do this? Has she gone to seek treatment of her own volition, or has she been forced there to avoid the scandal that could be revealed if her paternity came to light?
My throat feels thick with emotion, but I swallow harshly, pushing my feelings down. Following the flow of passengers, I leave the plane and battle through the busy crowds until I emerge into the bright Californian sunshine.
Joining the line for taxi’s, I silently seethe as I wait my turn. I’m not sure who I’m more angry with, Taylor or her family. All of this could have been avoided if Taylor and Park’s parents had sorted their crap out and not dragged their children into their drama. But then if Taylor had dealt with her issues then this wouldn’t all be crashing down on her now either.
When I reach the front of the line, a cab pulls forward and I climb in giving him my address, then slide back into the seat with a sigh. I can’t believe how much has happened in only a few days. My thoughts snap back and forth between Taylor and Park, my best friend and my new friend. How ironic that they’ve turned out to be siblings.
Allowing my eyes to fall closed, I listen to the low hum of the radio and slowly breathe in and out. What I need now is a long hot bath and a glass of wine. After that maybe I’ll be ready to confront everything that’s happened.
Turning the key in my apartment door, I push it open and the familiar scent of home invades my lungs. My comfy, warm apartment is like a balm to my scorched soul and I eagerly move further into the room, shutting the door behind me. Crossing the room, I walk into my bedroom and drop my bags at the end of my bed. My air conditioning is on so low that the room actually feels chilly and I sigh as I plop down onto my mattress.
I pull my purse from around my shoulder and drop it to the comforter, then strip off the rest of my clothes, placing them in the laundry hamper as I enter the bathroom. My apartment is in a converted office building. It’s ugly and utilitarian on the outside, but the way the rooms were divided means that my bathroom is almost as big as my bedroom. The previous tenants installed a claw foot tub in the middle of the room and as soon as I lay eyes on the huge tub I groan in anticipation. I open the faucets and within minutes steam fills the room. Adding some essential oils to the hot water, the air fills with the scents of violet and almond.
Like the cliché I am, I light a candle even though it’s still daylight and then slide into the hot water while the tub is still filling. A raw exhale escapes from my lips as the water soothes my muscles and I lay my head back and close my eyes. Some people hate to bathe, but I am most definitely not one of them. There is very little that is better than a hot soak in the tub when life is kicking your ass.
The shrill ringing of my cellphone shatters the peaceful bubble of my tub time. “Go away,” I call weakly.
The ringing stops and I smile, glad that my bubble has protected me from the outside world. Swishing my fingers in the water, I lift my foot into the air and turn off the faucet with my toes. This isn’t my first rodeo and I locate the faucet without opening my eyes. I bask in the silence, allowing my mind to blank and pushing out all of my turbulent thoughts. After a moment I finally feel calm and centered, then my cell bursts to life again shattering my bubble to smithereens.
“Who the hell is ringing me? Just leave me alone, all I want it half an hour’s peace. Why is that too much to ask?” I mutter under my breath, pushing myself upright and climbing out of the bath, water running from my skin. I don’t bother with a towel, and water pools beneath my feet as I dash into my bedroom and retrieve my ringing cell from my purse. I don’t look at the name on the screen before I swipe to answer and bring it up to my ear.
“Hello,” I bark out as I run into the bathroom and climb back into the warm water.
“Hello, friend.”
Sitting up straight I pull my cell from my ear and check the caller Id. Park’s name is there on my screen. “Hey, friend,” I say, my lips spreading into a wide smile and all of my
annoyance from only seconds ago instantly evaporates at the sound of his voice.
I can hear him breathing, but he doesn’t say anything for a long moment. “I take it you made it back okay? You didn’t reply to my text. I thought LA had made you forget me already.”
“You sent me a text?”
“I did.”
“What did it say?” I ask, settling back into the water.
“It told you not to leave.”
“It did not,” I shriek.
He laughs. “No, it didn’t, but that’s what it should have said. Come back.”
I pause, unsure if he’s teasing me. “I can’t, the guest house didn’t have a tub.”
We fall silent and I move my foot beneath the surface of the water, swishing the hot liquid from side to side.
“Rosebud, are you in the tub right now?”
“Yep, I was trying to relax but someone kept calling my cell.”
“Some people are so inconsiderate,” he says dryly.
“They really are.”
Park clears his throat. “So you’re home?”
“Yes, I am. Were you worried?” I ask, my voice a little softer than normal.
“A little. I didn’t know if Taylor would cause any problems for you.”
Sighing audibly, I sink further under the water so only my head and the hand holding my cell to my ear are not submerged.
“Rosebud, what did she do?” Park asks, his voice sharp and stern. A tone I haven’t heard from him before.
“Nothing. She didn’t do anything, because she left Texas two days ago. According to her mom she’s exhausted and has gone to a spa in the Maldives, but in LA language that means she’s checked herself, or someone checked her, into a rehab facility.”
“I told my dad what had happened with her. He said he was going to speak to her parents. Did I cause this?”
“No, you didn’t. Taylor, her mom, and your dad caused this. She found you, she tried to kiss you, she planned to have sex with you. None of this is your fault,” I say, the water sploshing around me as I sit up.
“I forgot what LA is like. If someone’s acting crazy in Archer’s Creek we sit them down and ask them what the fuck is going on. We don’t pack them off to rehab.”
A giggle escapes me, and I sink back into the water. “Well, Archer’s Creek is a whole different world,” I say, my voice sounding wistful even to my own ears.
“Yeah, I suppose it is,” Park says.
We lapse into silence, but I can still hear the sound of him breathing, slow and steady. The noise is reassuring and peaceful and with the cell still held to my ear, I lay my head against the back of the bath and close my eyes once again.
“Rosebud.”
“Yeah,” I whisper.
“I miss you.”
“Me too.”
“Bye, friend,” he says on a sigh.
“Bye, friend,” I reply. A moment later the sound of his breathing stops and I know he’s ended the call.
Life goes back to normal the next day. I go to work and the noticeable lack of anything on my desk makes my stomach twist uncomfortably. I’ve been gone for five days and there’s not a single piece of work waiting for me. Am I this insignificant here, or is it that this job is insignificant? I scan the mock-up pinned to the wall and the sense of pride that used to fill me whenever I saw the articles I wrote brought to life, is noticeably absent. My eyes scan the puff pieces that range from the new town boundary sign, to the magnificence of Mrs. Gutterson’s award winning deli meats.
I used to be content writing this kind of drivel. I’ve never craved the thrill of covering crime or war, but for some reason, right now I’m craving more than this slim existence I live in. My office feels drab and uninspiring and as I fidget uncomfortably my tattoo pangs, the skin still a little sore.
After I climbed out the bath yesterday, I’d stood naked in my full-length mirror and admired the beautiful flower inked into the very fabric of my being. The tattoo is an impulsive decision I’d never have made in the past, but spending the day with Park, watching him paint onto his clients with ink, I just couldn’t resist.
Sighing restlessly, I open my laptop and scan my emails. There are ten. Only ten emails; all of them from internal colleagues. Was my life this narrow a week ago or has my visit to Texas just expanded my horizons to a world outside of my LA existence? I’m not exactly well travelled, but I’m not a hermit either. I went to school in California, and sure, I live a handful of miles from where I grew up, but that was my choice because I was content with my life and because all of the important people to me are here.
My cell beeps and I dig around in my purse until I find it. After Park had ended the call, I’d plugged it in to charge and then just thrown it into my purse as I left this morning. Without Taylor’s thirty calls a day, it’s remained silent and forgotten. Swiping the screen to life, I see that there are three messages: two from yesterday and the one that just came through. The first is from my mom.
Mom: Hi, Honey. Your father and I would love you to come to dinner this week. Maureen’s son just moved back home and he’d love to meet you.
My mom is always looking to set me up with her friend’s children. I don’t know why she’s so desperate to see me settled down, but I swear I don’t remember the last time we had a conversation that wasn’t about her desire for grandchildren.
I quickly type a reply.
Rosie: Sorry, Mom, I can’t this week. I’m too busy catching up with all the work I’ve missed.
If this conversation were happening in person, she’d easily be able to see through my lie, but over text I think I can get away with it. The second message is from Park, sent a few hours after my flight took off.
Park: I’ll miss you, my Rosebud. Let me know you’re home safe, else I’ll have to fly up to check on you.
Hope blooms to life in my chest. Would he come here? As quick as it rises, I quash the thought. He hadn’t mentioned coming to LA when we’d spoken last night, so his text must have just been him teasing me.
The most recent message is from my brother.
Eric: Lunch?
I glance at my empty desk and shrug. I probably shouldn’t go out to lunch on my first day back, but obviously the place has carried on just fine without me, so why not?
Rosie: 1pm at The Boathouse?
He replies immediately.
Eric: See you there.
My heart lifts slightly at the idea of seeing Eric. He always cheers me up, and so with a little more motivation I reply to my ten emails, then send the story idea about the guest house in Archer’s Creek to my editor.
Writing about Archer’s Creek and the beautiful guest house is effortless and by the time 12:30pm rolls around, I’ve completed the first draft, gushing about the modern but quaint guest house and the beautiful Texan town it’s set in.
I hit save and close the lid on my laptop, before grabbing my purse and standing from behind my desk. My usual workwear consists of pantsuits and stilettos, but with my tattoo still a little tender, I picked a pretty red and white polka-dot tea dress and some heeled sandals. The hem line is a little shorter than I usually wear for work, but it’s cute and so much more comfortable than my suits.
A couple of my colleagues call out greetings as I pass them. We each have our own office, but like me, we all tend to keep our doors open so we can shout around the office if we need to. The Boathouse is only a few minutes’ walk from the paper’s building, so minutes later I push through the door and spot Eric sitting on a stool at the bar.
“Hey, sweetie. I love that dress on you,” Eric says, standing and pulling me into a hug as soon as I’m close enough.
I wince when he brushes against my ribs and he notices, releasing me and holding me at arm’s length. “What’s the matter?”
“Oh, it’s nothing. I got a tattoo and it’s a little sore still.”
Eric’s arms fall to his side and a dumbstruck expression covers his face. “What the what? You got a tatto
o?”
“I did,” I say excitedly.
“Who the hell are you and what have you done with my sister?” He says with a mock serious expression. “Did Taylor get one too? Please tell me you didn’t get matching BFF ones or something lame like that?”
I feel the smile fall from my face. “No, Taylor didn’t get one, just me. I actually haven’t seen Taylor for a few days.”
Eric’s brow furrows and I know he’s going to have so many questions, but I’m given a momentary reprieve when the hostess appears to take us to our table.
The moment we’ve given our drinks and regular food orders to the waitress, she leaves and Eric pounces. “Spill. What the hell happened?”
Sighing, I slump back in my chair. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“How about you start with where your pain in the ass bestie is and how you haven’t seen her for a few days when you only flew home yesterday.” He asks, his voice getting louder with each word.
“Shh,” I say, reaching over and grabbing his arm. “Taylor is apparently suffering with exhaustion and is at a spa in the Maldives.”
“Taylor’s in rehab,” he says on a hiss.
Snickering, I nod. “Yes, but honestly that’s only the tip of the iceberg.”
My brother’s eyes narrow. “You need to start talking, right now.”
So I do. I tell him everything. I tell him about Taylor lying about our destination, about us tracking down Park, about them being related. I tell him about mine and Taylor’s fights and how I moved out of the hotel. Then I tell him about Park, about our weird friendship and the connection I feel for him. About the way he calls me Rosebud and how he tattooed me. I tell him everything and by the time I’m finished our lunch plates are empty and my brother is staring at me, his mouth open, his eyes wide.
“So you fucked Taylor’s brother?”
“No,” I shout, reeling back. “Of course not.”
His eyes bug out even further and then they narrow and his brows furrow. “Bullshit.”