by Anne Malcom
I nodded woodenly, watching Amy disappear into my room.
“Coffee,” Gwen declared with a soft smile.
She did as Amy did, strutting through the door in her designer duds, not blinking at the rundown apartment and the damaged vintage furniture.
“Diggin’ the boho vibe.” She winked at me. “I’ll totally have to get you to take me vintage shopping.”
I didn’t reply and her cheerful face changed, and she stepped forward, grasping my forearms lightly.
“I’m not going to ask how you are because that’s a stupid question,” she murmured. “I am going to tell you you’re not going to feel like this forever. It seems like it I know. But I promise it won’t last that long. It gets better.” Her eyes twinkled with unshed tears, and I knew she was thinking of the brother she lost a couple of years ago. Her voice was so convincing, I almost believed her—almost. Gwen had strength—family. Bex was all I had. I didn’t have family. And I knew what little strength I had was keeping me upright. It wasn’t going to chase away the big sad, or the demons. Wasn’t going to wrench the weight off my chest.
Gwen continued, “I know you don’t like to talk about yourself. You think that you need to handle all of your problems alone. You don’t,” she squeezed my arms, “you’ve got people around you. Whatever you need. If you want to talk or just go to a crappy romance movie, I’m here for you, girl,” she said quietly.
I blinked away the tears at the support she was offering, but managed a small nod.
“Thanks, Gwen,” I choked out, unable to say much more.
She gave me a small smile, not making me feel awkward at my inarticulate response.
“It’s what friends are for, Lily, remember that.” She released my arms. “Now, let’s get you caffeinated, and then we can set to repairing that hangover,” she said with a knowing grin before she moved toward the kitchen.
She skirted past a wayward wine bottle to reach the coffee pot. She was dressed all in white, her chocolate hair piled atop her head. Her body didn’t betray the fact she’d had two children, she seemed to be some kind of freak of nature. You’d expect someone like that to be frightfully awful and stuck up. Gwen was neither.
I tried to let her words penetrate. To give me a sense of hope that she might be right. Maybe one day I’d find a way to believe those words. But right now, the darkness of grief had a firm clutch on me, so firm that I worried I’d never see the light again.
I glanced down at the name flashing on my ringing phone.
Asher.
My stomach did a somersault. I downed the remainder of wine in my glass and stood. Bex gave me a small knowing grin, but didn’t say anything as I put the phone to my ear and walked toward my room.
“Hey,” I greeted quietly, closing the door.
It was early evening, Bex and I had recovered from our hangovers largely thanks to Amy and Gwen taking us out for food. Since we were recovered, Bex declared the only logical thing to do was to go out. I was happy to. Alcohol promised numbness. Distraction. Anything that quelled pain that had stitched itself to my soul was welcome. We’d just started our “pre-drinking” and were getting ready to go somewhere. I didn’t care where. Anywhere that hid me from the big sad that little bit longer.
“Flower,” Asher’s husky greeting sent tingles to my toes much more effectively than my wine had done.
“Hey,” I repeated.
I heard a throaty chuckle at the end of the phone. “Hey,” he murmured.
There was a pause, a long one. It would have been awkward with anyone else, silence was kind of the opposite goal of a phone conversation, but it somehow wasn’t. I waited for the inevitable “how are you going?” that everyone asked the grieving relative. The question everyone knew the answer to, but the safe, expected social interaction.
“What’s your favorite food?” Asher surprised me by asking.
I blinked. “What?”
“Your favorite food. See, I was sitting here thinking of you, and realizing I don’t know much about you. Only how I feel about you. I want to know more. I want to know everything, flower,” he explained roughly.
My stomach dropped again as I digested his words. He didn’t say anything else as I was silent a moment. A long moment. He wanted to know me? Everything about me? I wanted to ask him why, why he seemed so interested in me when I was the most uninteresting person on the planet. I didn’t.
“Steak,” I said finally. Nothing else, no beautiful articulate reasoning that mirrored his own. I didn’t do well with articulate in most situations.
There was a small pause. “Steak?” Asher repeated in disbelief. “The tiny waifish girl who looks like she eats salads for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, loves steak?”
I smiled slightly, relaxing onto my bed. “Yeah. I love it. It was the only rebellious thing I’ve ever done in my mom’s eyes. She was a vegetarian. My meat eating tendencies were her secret shame,” I joked. Then I realized I was talking about her in past tense. My gaze flickered to the painting on my wall. The pain returned. It was never gone, I guessed.
Asher didn’t let me focus on it. “Well, I’ll have to take you out for a giant steak for our first date,” he proclaimed.
“First date?” I repeated.
“Yeah,” Asher confirmed. “See, we haven’t had one of those, and I’m mighty keen to take you out. Show you off. When you’re ready,” he added.
I was silent for a long time. Again, he didn’t press. “What if I don’t know when I’ll be ready?” I asked quietly.
Asher didn’t pause. “Then I’ll wait,” he replied firmly, seeming unperturbed. “As long as you’ll consent to me talking to you, calling you. Need to hear that beautiful voice at the very least. I wouldn’t object to dirty pictures either,” he teased.
I surprised myself by letting out a small giggle. “I’ll consent,” I said finally. “So, what’s your favorite food?” I asked after another pause. I wanted to know him too, I realized.
Asher didn’t miss a beat. “Tofu,” he replied seriously.
I surprised myself even more by bursting out with laughter.
And just like that, with a simple phone call, Asher seemed to salve some of the burn on my soul.
It felt good. Amazing in fact. I could get used to it. That was the problem.
Bex was painting her nails on the sofa while I made us lunch. I didn’t think that putting frozen fries in the oven constituted “making” anything, but I was impressed I had the energy to do even that considering we hadn’t arrived until the sun rose this morning.
“You know what? I’m not even hungover, or tired,” I told Bex, straightening from the oven.
She didn’t glance up from her task. “It’s ‘cause you’re still a little bit drunk,” she explained. “It’ll hit you in a couple of hours, then you’ll feel like you’ve been hit by a truck,” she declared firmly.
I screwed my nose up. “I’m not keen on that, alcohol is supposed to make you feel good isn’t it?” That was the whole reason I was doing this, being this person. This person who chugged beers at parties and did Jell-O shots. This person I didn’t recognize. I didn’t feel good. But I didn’t feel anything. That was good.
Bex glanced up. “Yeah, it’s not the alcohol that makes you feel bad the next day, it’s the absence of it. Which is why we keep drinking,” she told me cheerfully.
It was safe to say Bex was wholeheartedly on board with this new lifestyle I’d decided to adopt. The strip club where she worked had given her a few days off also. Begrudgingly. Her boss treated her like crap, but she was their main earner so he didn’t have much choice but to give her the time off. She’d been a party girl since before I met her, but I knew even she didn’t drink as much as we had been since ... since it happened. I guessed she was running too.
My heart did a skip when the sound of my phone jolted me out of my thoughts. I scrambled to snatch it off our counter, hoping it was him. I felt butterflies in the pit of my stomach at the name flashing on the
screen.
“When the oven beeps you get up, take the fries out of the oven,” I instructed Bex quickly. “If you don’t, we both starve and die a fiery death when the oven catches fire,” I warned quickly. Bex was not a cook.
She waved her free hand above her head. “Yeah, yeah, go and have your chat with your biker.”
I didn’t need to be told twice.
“Asher,” I greeted softly as I closed the door to my room, sinking onto my bed.
“Flower,” his raspy voice mumbling the name only he called me, and it was the best sound in the world. “You busy?” he continued.
“No,” I answered quickly. I may not know why he wanted to call me, to talk to me, but I knew I didn’t want it to stop. I knew it was unhealthy. Becoming this attached to someone who wouldn’t be in my life for long, but I couldn’t help myself. Calls with Asher went hand in hand with the fried food and alcoholic drinks, only they were unhealthy for my emotional wellbeing.
“Are you?” I asked.
There was a chuckle at the end of the phone. “Not right now, Lily. That’s why I called you.”
I felt my face flame. “Oh, right,” I muttered. I was even awkward on the phone. Great.
“Even if I was busy, there’s nothing that will stop me from speaking to my flower,” he told me as if I wasn’t an awkward dork. As if I was special.
I swallowed. He was so candid. So free with his feelings. It was unnerving.
“Aren’t guys like you meant to be mysterious and hide their feelings underneath a thick wall of muscle and testosterone?” I blurted, staring at my ceiling.
There was another throaty chuckle at the other end of the phone. “Guys like me?” he questioned.
I fiddled with my comforter. “Hot guys. Bad ass biker types that leave feminine jaws dropping in their wake,” I explained.
This time there wasn’t a chuckle, there was a full out roar of laughter.
Usually, this would have me wanting to hang up the phone and hide underneath the comforter I was playing with. But he wasn’t laughing at me. Not in that way.
“Flower, I’m not sure how I’m meant to act, or how mysterious I’m meant to be since I’ve never been in this situation,” he replied.
“Situation?” I repeated.
“A situation where I’ve been unable to get a beautiful blonde out of my head for going on three years,” he explained, his voice serious. “One where I’ve never wanted anything more than I want that particular blonde. I don’t know what’s going on in that beautiful head, I know she’s going through shit, I know she’s shy and oblivious to the effect she has on me….” he paused, and my stomach did somersaults, “so I’m trying to make it explicitly clear just how serious I am about her without scaring her off. Without her letting doubt corrupt that head. How am I doing?” he asked quietly.
I stared at the wall for a long moment. “You’re doing pretty good,” I whispered finally.
“Good,” he said firmly.
He didn’t let the conversation continue down this dangerous road. He moved on to topics mundane and decidedly less serious.
It didn’t mean I didn’t let those words rotate in my mind, and that I didn’t think of it long after we’d said our goodbyes. I thought about it until I didn’t think of much at all. Until I welcomed the blissful oblivion.
“What made you want to patch into the Sons?” I asked shyly the next day, tired of him asking all the questions, desperate to know more about the man I’d loved for three years.
Asher paused. “I was a fucked up kid, shit at home wasn’t good and I sought escape as soon it was offered. For a start, that escape took me down a bad road….” he paused again as if he was measuring his words, figuring out what to tell me, “I got out of that shit, joined the Navy, found discipline, order. Family. I got my shit together. I was good at it. The problem was I started to question the shit they asked me to do. Told me to do. I met Brock, he was serving the same time as me. He didn’t like being told what to do either. So we got out. I followed him back to Amber, patched in as soon as I saw the club for what it was. A brotherhood. Family. The rest, as they say, is history,” he explained.
I caught on to one thing he’d said. “You didn’t have a family?” I asked quietly.
Asher paused. “I didn’t. Till I did. I’ve got a huge, motley and loud family. They might not be blood, but the club, that’s stronger than blood,” he told me.
That hit me. Hit me hard. I yearned for that. A place that offered that. But no one could replace what I had. I moved my mind from those thoughts and focused on something else he said.
“How long have you been in the club?” I continued my inquiry.
“Going on seven years,” he replied.
I paused. Seven years. “I assume you had to probate, or whatever it is for a time before that?”
Asher choked out a laugh. “Prospect, babe,” he corrected. “Yeah, for six months. Fuckin’ misery, though I’m glad I didn’t have to prospect when Gage was around, he puts those poor shits through Hell,” he informed me lightly.
I pondered this. Seven and a half years with the Sons, time in the Navy. I assumed you had to be in the Navy for a while to become a SEAL.
“How old are you?” I asked finally. I had him pegged not much older than me, but he’d have to be way older if I factored all that in.
He seemed caught unaware. “Twenty-nine, why? You got an age limit on men you date?” he teased.
“Twenty-nine?” I repeated in disbelief. “But that’s not enough time,” I exclaimed.
“Not enough time for what?” he sounded amused.
“To become not only a bad ass Navy SEAL and then a bad ass biker,” I blurted.
Asher choked out another laugh. “I joined the Navy at seventeen, flower. Trained for a year then served for four. Joined the Sons straight after,” he informed me.
“Seventeen,” I repeated. “That’s so young. You were just a kid,” I murmured. Too young to go down whatever dark road he went down. One I wanted to ask about but felt too shy to. I may have been coming out of my shell with him, but I’d never abandon it.
There was a pause. “Yeah, I was a troubled kid. Fucked up. I came out a man. Still fucked up in a way, differently ‘cause of the shit I saw. The club showed me different kinds of fucked up, but it fixed what could be fixed,” he replied.
I was taken aback. He shared so readily with me. Talked … like really talked. Didn’t grunt or speak in monosyllables. He was telling me about his life. Like he wanted me to know about it. Like he wanted me to be a part of it.
“What could be fixed?” I repeated. “What about what couldn’t?”
“I’m starting to think only one person could fix that, I just have to be patient enough to wait for her,” he murmured softly.
I let out a small gasp at the meaning behind his words at who her meant. I fiddled with the cushion on our sofa uneasily. He couldn’t mean me. He had to know I couldn’t fix him when I was beyond repair myself.
“You think that’s me,” I clarified.
“No,” he said immediately. “I know it’s you.”
My heart sank and soared at the same time. “How do you know? You don’t know everything about me, about what I’m not. Not that girl,” I whispered, staring around our apartment. I was like this very apartment. Desperately covered with things to distract from what was underneath. Instead of crumbling paint, it was a crumbling soul that was poorly hidden.
“I know enough,” he replied firmly.
I took a deep breath, feeling the effort it took to do so. If he was being so candid with me I had to tell him the truth.
“I’m not up for fixing anyone, I can’t even fix myself,” I declared finally.
“You can’t expect to fix yourself, losing your mom, it’s not something you get over quickly. It’s not something you get over full stop. You learn to live with it,” he told me softly. “You can’t expect to fix yourself, ‘cause you’re not broken, flower, just bruised.”<
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“It’s not just that, Asher,” I choked out. “I’ve been broken since before ... that, before she got sick,” I admitted.
There was a loaded silence. “I don’t follow, flower,” Asher’s voice was confused.
I stood and wandered around our apartment, unable to be stationary a moment longer.
“Since before I can remember I’ve been different. Weaker than everyone else. At first, I was just shy….” I paused, “then it turned into something else. A weight on my chest I couldn’t escape. A constant awareness that situations could turn that weight into a vice that made me feel like I couldn’t breathe.”
I didn’t tell him about the condition that actually stole the breath from me. I couldn’t dump all of my weaknesses on him in one go. He’d realize I couldn’t live in his life. He’d leave. I knew it had to happen, but I couldn’t say goodbye to his voice at the other end of the phone just yet.
“Some people think I’m quiet. Shy. Others think I’m rude. The vast majority of people don’t understand what it’s like being unable to control your mind’s reaction to situations. Crowds. Strangers. Anything unexpected really. It’s like an illness you can’t cure. One that you can only manage.” I took a strangled breath, even talking about it made me anxious. “I used to wish that it was a physical illness. Because then at least there’d be a cure. An end. Being trapped in your own head is not something I’d wish on anyone,” I whispered brokenly.
I blinked. I couldn’t believe I’d just said all that. I hadn’t told anyone just how much my anxiety affected me. How weak it made me.
“Flower,” Asher murmured with sympathy. The single word held so much. Even on the other side of the phone, miles away, I could hear it.
I had to nip that in the bud. “I don’t pity myself,” I said quickly. “There’re worse things than being ... shy. I just needed you to know. The real me. Not who you think I am,” I told him slowly, knowing this is when I’d get the goodbye I feared. I couldn’t believe I’d even verbalized this part of myself. I never talked this much about how I felt, not to anyone. But the distance that the phone offered, let me and Asher become closer despite being in different towns.