Park (Archer's Creek Book 4)

by Gemma Weir

  “What?”

  “I just listened to everything you’ve just told me about him; how you guys just clicked, how you spent so much time with him. How you let him tattoo you without you knowing what he was going to ink on you FOREVER. If you’re not fucking him, then you’re in love with him.”

  Shaking my head, I laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re friends. Loads of people make friends and just have an instant bond with them; they don’t have to be having sex with each other.”

  “How many friends have you met like that?” Eric says, a knowing gleam in his eyes.

  “Well none before Park, but it happens, and it did for us.” Sighing, I look down at my glass. “It doesn’t matter anyway because he lives in Texas and I live here. I doubt we’ll even speak to each other again now that I’m not in the same town as him.”

  “You really aren’t fucking him, are you?” He asks.

  “I’m really not,” I say and smile, but it feels a little forced and I can tell that Eric can see it too.

  My brother leans forward, his elbows on the table. He rests his chin on his steepled fingers. “Tell me about him.”

  “He’s Irish, or at least he was born there, and he still has an accent even though he’s lived here since he was a kid. Also, he’s tall and covered in tattoos. He says they tell the story of his life etched across his skin. He’s an artist. What he can do with a tattoo gun is truly exceptional and he loves it. His clients wait like six months just to get an appointment with him. But I think he’s still really messed up about all this stuff with Taylor.”

  Eric looks at me, his expression horrified. “That’s understandable. She’s his sister and she tried to seduce him. Wow, I mean, just wow. Poor kid.”

  “I just feel so sorry for both of them. He’s not in love with her anymore, but I think he’s never really moved on from that first love moment. He never had that crashing realization that your first love is just your first love and that ninety-nine percent of the time it’s a young, fleeting feeling. It’s just such a fucked-up situation. He told me he just up and left his home on the day he found out about Taylor and he hasn’t been back since. He’s found a new life, a new family, but I don’t think you can just cut yourself off from your roots without that impacting you.”

  Eric’s eyes soften and he watches me with a sad smile. “You really care about him, don’t you?”

  “I can’t explain it. I know it’s weird, trust me I do, but there’s just something about him that makes me feel like I’ve known him my whole life. Spending time with him is effortless. I doubted his motives at first, but the more I’m around him the more I realize that we just enjoy each other’s company. I’ve had longer relationships with leftover Chinese food, but I feel connected to him and I miss him already.”

  “There’s no reason why you can’t stay in touch. We have these amazing things called cellphones and Skype. You guys can text and video chat as much as you want.”

  My throat feels thick with unshed tears and I nod. “I know, it’s just that we never really talked about staying friends after I came home.”

  “I thought he called you yesterday?” Eric says, his lips pursed.

  “He did, but only because I didn’t respond to his text about getting home okay.”

  My brother rolls his eyes dramatically. “Stop being such a girl about this, Rosie. Get out your cell and text him. Anyone who knocks Psycho Barbie off the top spot for your friendship gets my vote and if he is feeling anywhere near the connection you’ve felt, then he’ll want to hear from you.”

  I dither, unsure what to do. I want to text him, but I’ll be crushed if he doesn’t respond. My fingers hover over my purse, frozen in midair as I try to decide what to do.

  “Oh for God’s sake, Rosie, just text the man.”

  Urged on, I grab my cell and type out a quick text, hitting send before I can second guess myself.

  Rosie: Hi, friend.

  I stare at my phone in my hand, willing it to beep, for him to reply, but it remains silent. A horrible wave of depression descends upon me and I lower my cell to the table and fold my hands into my lap. I paste on a smile and look up at my brother, flinching at the sympathy in his eyes.

  “I’m being silly. It’s not like I expect him to reply straightaway. I never check my messages.” My voice is a little too bright to be believable and Eric motions to a waitress for the cheque as I lift my glass to my lips, drinking the last mouthful of soda.

  I jump when my cellphone bursts to life and the screen flashes showing an incoming call from Park. Almost dropping the glass in my hand, I slam it down onto the table and fumble for my cell swiping the screen with excited fingers.

  “Hello,” I say.

  “Hi, friend.”

  At the sound of his voice my shoulders droop and calm consumes me. Why is it that just two words from him has made everything okay again? Standing from my seat, I grab my purse and blow a kiss at Eric, whose face is lit up in an obnoxiously large grin. He waves at me as I quickly exit the busy restaurant.

  “Hi, sorry. I was just at lunch with my brother and the restaurant was loud.”

  “How you doing, Rosebud? How’s your day been so far?”

  “Urgh, it’s been boring. I started writing up the article about The Creek Guest House but other than that there was no work waiting for me, My desk was empty.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it? It means that the people you work with did a solid for you and made sure you didn’t come back to a mountain of work.”

  I grunt. “Yeah, I suppose that’s one way to look at it.”

  His chuckle makes my chest hurt. “But not the way you saw it?”

  “I just feel a little insignificant. Obviously, I know the place isn’t going to crumble to the ground because I had a week off, but it’s a bit of a kick in the gut to know I’m not needed at all.”

  “I thought it was just a small, local newspaper you worked at?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “So is your workload normally crazy?” Park asks.

  “Well, no. But I’m always working on something for the next few editions.”

  “I think maybe you’re getting yourself all wound up over nothing, my little paranoid Rosebud. Just be thankful that you’re not going to be snowed under for the next week while you catch up.”

  I make a noncommittal grunt. “How’s your day so far?”

  “It’s been okay, not as good as it could have been. How’s your tat looking?”

  “My rose is stunning. It’s still a little tender, but it’s fine. I love it.”

  We both fall silent and all I can hear is the faint traffic noise and the sound of my steps as I walk along the sidewalk. Weirdly the silence isn’t awkward. Just knowing he’s there on the end of the line, makes my step a little lighter and my day a little less crappy.

  When I’m outside my office building, I exhale, wishing I could just stay like this, connected to him, if only through the phone for the rest of the day. But I can’t. “I should go.”

  “I know,” he says, his voice raspy.

  “Goodbye, friend.”

  “Goodbye, friend.”

  I pull the cell from my ear and end the call before I talk myself out of it. Only a few moments before, the sunlight had felt warm and cheerful, but now it’s hot and oppressive. What the hell is wrong with me? This dependency I’m starting to feel for Park is unhealthy. It would be different if we lived close enough to see each other, but we don’t, and honestly when did our friendship go from cute and unexpected to clingy and desperate?

  I don’t ever want to be the girl that won’t go away. Full of resolve, I silence my cell and march into my office. Meeting him was wonderful, but our friendship is doomed by circumstances and distance and it’s time I accepted that.

  It’s 4:30am and I’m naked and standing in front of yet another canvas, painting yet another picture of Rosebud. It’s getting out of hand; but my dreams are plagued by her and the images are refusing to st
ay locked in my head.

  Painting became a release for me years ago; a way to deal with all of my repressed emotions. Looking back, it doesn’t surprise me that all of my paintings have been of Taylor. She’s been what’s tortured me and kept me a prisoner to my past; never moving forward, at least not until now.

  The fear that Rosebud has become my new obsession sits in the back of my mind, prodding at my conscience. It’s been nearly ten days since I first set eyes on her and as I look around, my apartment is littered with canvases. She’s all I can think about, all I dream about. I miss her and I have no fucking idea why.

  I’ve spoken to her every day since she left. Most of the time we don’t even speak. We just stay connected, listening to the silence. It’s the happiest time of my day. Apparently not speaking to my friend makes me exceptionally happy, but the moment we end the call it’s like the world goes dull again.

  Lowering my paintbrush, I step back and admire my work. Rosebud’s smiling face is staring back at me, one side so clear and lifelike, the other wispy, like she’s slowly disappearing. They say life imitates art, but for me it’s the other way around. She doesn’t call me, but she answers every time I ring. She replies to my texts, but she doesn’t initiate the conversation. I can feel that she wants to talk to me just as much as I want to talk to her, so I don’t understand why she’s pulling away.

  My friends all know that Rosebud and I are still in contact. Nikki asked for her number, but I haven’t given it to her because I’m selfish and I don’t want to share her. She’s my friend, mine, and I want all of her attention.

  Sinking to the floor, I exhale, my hands outstretched behind me, propping me up. So much has changed since I met Rosebud. I’ve been forced to deal with stuff that I’ve buried for years, and reconnected with my parents. I even spoke to my dad again a couple of days ago. It’s still hard, but I don’t hate him the way I thought I did.

  He told me that he and mom had been to speak to Taylor’s parents and that even though it was hard, they’d managed to straighten some things out. Apparently, Taylor’s mom and dad had been appalled when my dad had told them what she’d done. They had no idea she planned to track me down or her motivation to do so. They’ve checked her into an inpatient facility overseas, where she can get the help she needs to deal with all of her issues.

  Weirdly, I feel a little disconnected to Taylor’s situation. On one hand I’m glad she’s getting some help, but on the other, it doesn’t feel like it’s any of my concern. I’m disinterested by thoughts of her and for the first time in a decade my heart feels lighter and my soul cleaner.

  My mom begged me to come to LA to visit or to allow them to come here, but I’m not ready to have them infiltrate my home. This life is all mine and I’m not ready to have the nightmares of my past merge with my present any more than it already has.

  Honestly, the idea of going to LA doesn’t appeal either. I don’t have enough happy memories there to make me feel sentimental about the place. But Rosebud is there and if visiting my parents means I could have a chance to see her too, then maybe it would be worth it.

  The sun rises as I stare at the painting. I miss her and instead of the feeling fading, it seems to be escalating with every day that passes. A sudden pang of longing barrels through me and before I know what I’m doing, I reach for my cell and pull up the airlines page. There’s a flight to LAX tomorrow afternoon. I could be with Rosebud by dinner time. I click buy before I really consider the consequences of my actions. What if she doesn’t want to see me? What if she tells me not to come? Jumping up, I pace from one side of my apartment to the other. If I just turn up at her apartment then I know she won’t send me away, except I don’t know where she lives. But I do know where she works! A plan clicks into place. I can fly there tomorrow, have dinner with my parents, then go see Rosebud at her work the following day.

  Excitement hums through me and the time can’t pass quickly enough. Smoke barrels into my apartment at 10:30am carrying breakfast sandwiches that smell amazing. His eyes roam over to the corner where I paint and when he sees a new painting drying on the easel, he flashes me a knowing smile. “Another painting, huh?”

  I shrug. What is there to say?

  “You spoke to her yet today?”

  I shake my head. “Nope, it’s still early. Is one of those for me?”

  He throws the wax paper wrapped sandwich at me and I catch it, eagerly unwrapping it and taking a huge bite.

  “When’s she coming back?” He asks, his eyes bright and assessing.

  The mouthful of food suddenly tastes like ash. I choke down the bite, every ounce of my happiness seeping away as his words hit home. “She’s not.”

  “I give it a couple of weeks,” Smoke says with a mischievous grin.

  “Her life is in LA. This isn’t her world.”

  Smoke narrows his eyes at me. “Bullshit. We might not be what she’s used to, but she never flinched. She just fit right in, like she’s been here her whole life.”

  I consider his words. He’s right, she did fit, but that doesn’t mean she’d uproot her life to come to a Podunk town like Archer’s Creek. “She’s never mentioned coming back. There’s nothing here to make her come back.”

  “Fuck me, Lucky Charms, you’re an idiot.”

  “Look we’re friends, but she has a life and job back home, plus she only flew home a few days ago.”

  “Friends,” Smoke says scoffing.

  “Yeah, friends. I’m flying out to see my folks tomorrow. Since I spoke to my dad, my mom has been on at me to visit. If I have chance while I’m in LA, I’m gonna go see her.”

  “Fifty bucks says she’s living here within a month.”

  “You might as well just give me the money now,” I say, hoping that the thumping of my heart is only loud to my own ears. Just the thought of her moving here sends a thrill through me, and even though I know it’s a pipe dream, I can’t help the hope that blooms to life in my chest.

  Smoke laughs, low and amused. “Brother, I had no idea you could be this blind. Surely you both can’t be this stupid.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about? Blind about what?”

  “You and Rosie. You’re head over fucking heels for each other.”

  Shaking my head, I wave him off. “Don’t be fucking ridiculous. We’re friends, one hundred percent platonic.”

  Smoke laughs again. “You might not have fucked her, but there’s nothing platonic about the way you pair are around each other. From the moment you first saw her you’ve been obsessed, and she’s the same. You spent all that time together in this little bubble where you idiots pretend you’re only friends. Friends don’t call each other just to hear the other breathe; they don’t meet and have this instant bond like you guys have. Friends don’t look at each other the way you look at her. They don’t touch each other the way you do.”

  My head is shaking, denying his words. Rosebud is my friend. We’re friends and maybe it’s not like a normal friendship, but then there’s nothing normal about the way I feel about her either. “It’s not like that,” I say. “Yeah, we have a bond, but it’s more like when you meet that bro that you just instantly click with. It’s easy to be around her; we just get each other. We’re friends.”

  Smoke rolls his eyes at me. “Friends. Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that, right up to the moment that you pair end up ripping each other’s clothes off.”

  “Whatever, man. You don’t understand.”

  “Yeah, yeah, we’ll see.” Smoke says, amused and smirking.

  Time drags and it feels like a month not a matter of hours until I’m following the rest of the passengers out of the plane and into LAX airport. It’s the first time I’ve been in LA in a decade, and as the familiar Californian sunshine hits my face, a tide of uncomfortable nausea settles in my stomach. I rent a car, even though my mom offered to collect me from the airport. I’m looking forward to seeing her, but I need some way of getting the hell away from them if this whole
reunion becomes too much for me to handle. I know she’s gonna be disappointed that I’m not stopping at the house, but I need to take baby steps to try to rebuild our relationship. As much as she might want me to, I can’t just forgive and forget. It’s going to take some time.

  The rental agent passes me the keys to a Ford SUV and directs me to the collection point. I want to call Rosebud, but fear that she won’t want to see me if I tell her I’m in LA, wars with the overwhelming desire to hear her voice. Yesterday, we’d spoken for a few minutes about her day and mine, then like always we’d sat silent, comforted by the others presence on the end of the line. After our call, my dreams had been plagued with thoughts of her. The illusion had felt so real. I woke up still feeling the way her soft body had pressed against mine, and how her hair had felt as it ran down my chest when she’d crawled along my body and settled between my legs.

  As I’m escorted to my car, my mind replays Smoke’s words from the day before, ‘You might not have fucked her, but there is nothing platonic about the way you pair are around each other. From the moment you first saw her, you’ve been obsessed and she’s the same’. The more I try to deny the truth, the more it forces its way to the forefront of my thoughts. Is he right? Am I obsessed with her? Is she more than just my friend?

  The beep of the locks being opened on the car interrupts my inner monologue of doubt. Handing the attendant a tip, I take the keys from him and climb into the car, throwing my bag into the back seat. I’m all set, ready to leave, but my arms refuse to lift, and my legs are bolted in place. I’m going to see my parents. This is a momentous moment and instead of being nervous about it, my mind is consumed with thoughts of Rosebud.

  I try to forget her. To forget the doubt that’s beginning to plague my thoughts and feelings. She’s my friend, a good friend, my best friend, nothing more. The dreams I have of her naked and wrapped around me in bed are just a typical subconscious reaction to a beautiful woman and Rosebud is incredibly beautiful. But it doesn’t mean anything, because we’re friends and that’s all.