Over You

by Cole, Stevie J.

The squeak of a marker on the whiteboard caught my attention. Absolute power had been scribbled across the board. “He was willing to spend eternity in hell for a quarter of a century with absolute power, which is much more than many people today sign over their souls for. Money. Sex. Drugs.” My gaze shifted to the open book on my desk.

  “Faustus never repented. But why? He only had to ask for mercy, and yet. . .” Professor Humphrey gave a flourish of his hand. “My question to you, my eager students, is: Could a man lose so much of himself that even when facing death and hell, he couldn’t possibly see his faults?”

  Yes. It was. It absolutely was. . .

  Class adjourned. Students gathered their books and poured through the large wooden doors while Tom and I lagged behind. “You’re off tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Got any plans?”

  Trying to convince myself not to fall for my addict husband while forcing him to sign divorce papers. “Not really.”

  The sharp scent of freshly cut grass and churned earth wafted through the air, and I bit at my lip. I wondered if Spencer was still at my house, then chastised myself for the sinking feeling in my chest when I determined he’d probably left. This was not a road I needed to traverse.

  “Hey.” Tom stopped and turned to face me, brows pinched together. “Are you all right? You seem off today.”

  “I’m fine, just thinking about. . . Faustus.”

  “Dork.”

  We followed the pathway to student parking.

  “What’s that about?” Tom nodded toward the car park where a group of students formed a semi-circle behind—my car.

  I picked up my pace and gasped when I noticed my white Corolla sat on four flat tires. My head dropped on a groan. The back window had been shattered.

  A group of girls chattered about the crazy-haired blonde who had tossed a rock through my back windshield.

  “Tom. . .”

  “Shit.” Tom placed a hand to his brow. His text messages suddenly blew up. Reading over the texts, he shook his head. “She’s lost it.” His gaze met mine, his eyes brimming with remorse. “I’m sorry, Georgia. I’ll have my friend tow it.” His fingers tapped on his screen.

  “Why am I being punished right along with you?” Grumbling, I shouldered through the crowd to inspected the damage.

  It could have been worse. She didn’t key it and, at least, she left the other windows intact.

  “Seriously. What have I done?”

  “Nothing. She’s bonkers.” He pushed through the crowd and stood next to me, eyes fixed on my car. “I’ll pay to have the tires and glass replaced, too.”

  “She needs to pay to have it done.”

  “She won’t.”

  I glared over my shoulder at him. “She will if I file a police report.”

  “Come on, Georgia. Don’t file a report. It’ll only make it worse.”

  He couldn’t be serious. With wide eyes, I motioned toward my ransacked car. “Worse, Tom? And let’s not forget last night she chucked a beer bottle and her shoe at me.”

  “She’s emotional.”

  I deadpanned him. “Tom! Seriously?”

  “Let me fix it.” He already had his phone to his ear.

  I circled my vehicle, shaking my head while he arranged to have someone tow my car.

  “You’ll have it back in a day or two. I’ll be your chauffeur until then, all right?” He wrapped an arm around my shoulder. “Come on.”

  “Exactly what I need,” I mumbled. “Kirby will lose it if she sees you carting me around. I hope if I end up with my throat slit, you’ll at least turn her in then.”

  “She’s not going to try to kill you.”

  “Why do you not sound more certain?”

  15

  Spencer

  I walked around the little town for all of five minutes before I went back to the church and took a seat on a bench by the walkway. People came and went, mostly happy tourists. Families with kids skipping along behind parents.

  Occasionally, some teenager gave me a second or third glance. They would lean into a friend and nod in my direction. Aside from that, no one paid attention to me, which I found pleasantly shocking. Although, people prowled Hollywood intent on spotting a celebrity while people went to church to find God.

  And I wasn’t God.

  The minutes seemed to drag. When I checked my phone, I swore I must have been stuck in a warped time continuum where the world had come to a standstill.

  My leg shook with need, my palms slicked with anticipation, and I still had thirty-four minutes to go. So I snapped a picture of the cathedral and went to Instagram.

  I’m sorting through my sins. . . I posted it without any hashtags. I still had thirty-two minutes left to wait.

  My finger tapped the camera icon. I scrolled through snapshots from shows. Selfies of Nash and me. Photos of Leo meditating while Nash made vulgar gestures behind him. Memes of goats. Then I went to an album from four years prior. Before Midnite Kills had taken off. Before the loss, before the drugs. There weren’t any memes. No pictures of Nash or Leo or me strung out. That year was filled with selfies of Georgia and me in bed, her cheeks pink from an orgasm. Pictures of us on the beach. In Yosemite.

  A video thumbnail stopped in the middle of the screen. I pressed my finger on it. Georgia was in the kitchen of our apartment in Van Nuys with her back to me. The Red Hot Chili Peppers played in the background. The skillet popped and sizzled. The Van Halen T-shirt she wore hit right below her ass cheeks, the purple edge of her panties barely visible. She danced in beat with the music while I snuck up on her. When I got about three feet behind her, she spun around and pointed a plastic, grease-covered spatula at me. “You are not filming my ass?”

  “It’s just so nice.” I moved closer. The footage went to the cheap linoleum floor, and a loud clap resounded when I gave her ass cheek a playful slap. “God, you’re hot, babe.”

  “And you’re a perv.”

  “But I’m you’re perv.”

  The cabinets whizzed by before the frame landed on her face again. No makeup. Hair a mess. And utterly beautiful.

  “I don’t deserve you.” I swept a piece of dark hair from her neck. “You know it?”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “What? It’s true. You’re too perfect.”

  Her palm covered the lens when she grabbed the phone from my hand. “This man says I’m too perfect.” The camera turned to a younger version of me with short hair—the hair the label said wouldn’t sell. “Please. He’s gorgeous and romantic. He works his butt off.”

  I took a bow, laughing when I straightened up and then took a step toward her. “And I’m gonna be a big deal one day. Just for you.”

  “Babe, you’re already a big deal to me.”

  The video cut off. Back then we didn’t have a pot to piss in, but we had our whole lives ahead of us. Dreams to chase. I had wanted to give Georgia things no one else could, and well, I had.

  Some good. A lot bad.

  I’d promised her I’d clean up. She had promised she’d never leave.

  Drugs and love had made liars of us both.

  The lonely chorus of the church bells bounced off the surrounding buildings. Kids in uniforms formed a line on the sidewalk. Mothers sat with strollers in front of them. And I had a bag of coke in my pocket.

  I focused on the toes of my Vans as I walked down the sidewalk. Tremors worked from my shoulder to my fingertips, the regrets from earlier had been consumed by the thought of where I could go to snort a line.

  The coffee shop bathroom was too full; besides, there wasn’t a lock on the main door. The florist didn’t have a public restroom. I ducked into a clothing shop and bought a few shirts and some jeans but didn’t find anywhere I could take my medicine.

  Just as I reached for the door to a little book shop cattycorner to Georgia’s house, the bass of rap music thumped down the street. A sporty engine revved, and I turned just in time to catch a black BMW zip past
. Taillights flashed red when it came to a screeching halt in front of Georgia’s townhome.

  She emerged from the passenger side, wearing a sky-blue sundress that hit just above her knees. Some part of me died a little when the breeze caught her hair. For a second, I forgot about the cocaine in my pocket. She was like a magnet, drawing me closer to the crosswalk.

  The magnetic field went haywire, the connection lost when a dark-headed guy hopped out from the driver’s seat. The toe of my shoe hung over the edge of the curb.

  She grinned at him.

  There went another part of me. Dead.

  Douche canoe followed her up the steps. Pressure built in my chest. Had the pain not been familiar with heartache, I may have thought I was having a heart attack. During moments of self-loathing, I may have said she’d moved on, but I had never believed it. Now I was seeing it.

  Funny how a heart can break all over again, even when you think there’s nothing left to shatter.

  I ground my teeth together. Every day, I fought a battle, and while she was with me, she had fought one, too. Why wouldn’t she have moved on?

  Because I hadn’t. Not one girl, not one model or Hollywood actress could tempt me away from the hope that our broken marriage would eventually fall back together.

  The guy inched closer, and I fished for the pack of gum and pen in my back pocket. I placed the foil against the rough side of the building. Your lips taste of whiskey-laced salvation I don’t want anyone else to drink.

  Taking a breath, I closed my eyes and thought about what a lucky son of a bitch that cocksucker was. That woman was special. Special enough that the words I love you fell from my lips like a sinner’s first prayer, full of conviction and hope for forgiveness. Georgia was the only person I had—or ever would—uttered those words to. By the time I was six, I’d been let down by more people than I could count, and I had decided the best way to avoid the pain of rejection was not to let anyone in. I had managed that for eighteen years. Until I kissed Georgia Anne for the first time.

  I had let her in. She had let me in. We were just two fucked up kids madly in love with each other, and now it looked as though it was someone else’s turn. Because I had screwed up. I had lied.

  But she had left me.

  My brain was on fire, confused over what emotion to grasp: anger, regret, jealousy, acceptance. My hand sunk into my pocket, squeezing the bag in my palm. While I wanted to wail out riffs like Jimmy Rage and possess that guttural vibrato to my voice like Jag, I had never wanted to be like them. Yet, here I was, my addiction in the driver’s seat while I was bound and gagged in the trunk, trying to kick out a taillight to signal for help.

  I wanted to be sober.

  I wanted to be the guy I used to be, but to be honest, I didn’t like the new me enough to not want to be high.

  My eyes opened just as the jerkoff tucked a piece of hair behind Georgia’s ear, and my pulse quickened. I could run into the shop behind me, get a quick fix, and shove the pain back in its box. Maybe if I got high enough, I wouldn’t remember any of this happened.

  She was moving on. So should I.

  He inched in closer; she took a step back. I yanked the coke from my pocket, then tossed all five hundred dollars’ worth into the trash can before I stepped off the curb.

  I may not like myself, but I loved that girl.

  16

  Georgia Anne

  Tom spent most of the drive back to town on the phone, shouting at Kirby, while I had rehearsed word for word what I would say to Spencer if he hadn’t left. We turned onto Saint James Street, and he floored it, the engine growling like an angry jungle cat.

  “Really?” I glanced at him with a raised brow.

  We came to an abrupt stop in front of my house. “Wait a second, mate.” He rounded the front of the car, then reach for my door.

  “Seriously? You feel that bad?”

  “I do. Plus, my mum raised me with good manners.”

  Laughing, I started up my steps, surprised when Tom followed. If Spencer was inside, I did not want Tom setting foot into my house. First, I didn’t need to go through the entire how-do-you-know-him thing again, and second, Spencer would freak, and Tom may end up with a bloodied nose. “Do you need to go to the bathroom or something?”

  “No.” He leaned toward me.

  “Well, thanks for the ride.” My back pressed to the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Tom leaned in too close for comfort. “Why won’t you give me a chance, Georgia?” He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. His finger trailed down the side of my neck to my shoulder. “I like you.”

  My pulse ratcheted up. I thought I’d made my stance clear on any non-plutonic relationship with him. It seemed my life was going to shit in a handbasket as of late.

  Spencer. Kirby. Now Tom.

  Placing a palm on the door behind me, I went to move away from his touch. “And I like you. As a friend. . .”

  “Hey, dick!” Spencer’s voice boomed from the buildings, and my chin dropped on a silent shit. He hopped over the curb, shopping bag in hand, and chest puffed out like a silver-back gorilla with his fingers flexing and bunching into fists. “Get away from my wife.”

  “Huh?” Confusion wrinkled Tom’s brow. “What the hell is he on about. . .” He squinted. “Wait. Is that—Hailstorm?”

  Spencer stopped on the bottom step with the kind of glare that would make Michael Myers mess his pants. “Did you fucking hear what I said?”

  “Wait a second.” Shaking his head, Tom pointed at Spencer. “You’re Spencer Hailstorm.”

  “No fucking shit, genius.” His chin jutted out. “And you’re about two feet too close to my wife.”

  “Hold on a bloody minute.” Tom’s attention ping-ponged between Spencer and me. “You’re married to Spencer Hailstorm? I mean, firstly, you’re married? Secondly, to him?”

  I placed my palm against my forehead with a sigh. “It’s a long story. But yes.”

  Tom’s hands went beside his head. His fingers mimicked a small explosion.

  “You’re still too close.” Spencer’s tone was tinged with a slight growl. He cracked his knuckles at his sides.

  “Really?” I sighed. “Why don’t you just hike your leg? It would probably be more effective.”

  Judging by the way Spencer’s left eye twitched a little, he didn’t find that comment amusing.

  “Mate,” Tom said. “I didn’t know she was married. And, we’re just friends.” His gaze swung back to me. With his palms up, he took a slow step away. “You know, I think I’m just going to go. It seems you two have a lot to talk about.” Tom stumbled down the steps in a daze.

  Spencer climbed the stairs, jaw ticcing. The second he reached the landing, his arm snaked around me.

  I rolled my eyes with a groan before waving at Tom, pretending none of this had happened. Bass thumped when his car engine cranked.

  “Rap.” Spencer scoffed.

  I turned away, unlocked my door, and walked inside. Spencer slammed it shut behind him.

  “You know, you can’t go around acting like a Neanderthal. Tom’s my friend.”

  “No guy is friends with a girl, Georgia Anne.”

  “Yes, they are.”

  A smartass smirk shaped his lips. “You don’t think he wants to fuck you?”

  I knew he did. “I’m not discussing this with you. Do you have papers for me?”

  He dropped his shopping bag to the floor. “I’m not discussing that with you.”

  “God, you’re so mature.”

  He slumped to the couch. “Are you seeing him?” His legs bounced.

  “Again, none of our business.” It was hard acting cold, but indifference was my only form of protection.

  “Like hell it’s not.” Huffing, he leaned over his knees.

  My gaze went to the familiar, checkered Vans, up the tight leg of his jeans, and to the tattoo of Rapunzel’s tower that adorned his forearm. He reclined, dropped his head on the cushion, and then plas
tered both hands to his face. That’s when I caught the black wedding band still on his finger. Regret surfaced like a buoy popping up after a tsunami.

  Silence filled the space between us like an unwelcomed void. His arms dropped to his lap. “Why did you leave?” Vulnerability laced his voice.

  I’d made it clear why I had left, and yet, he still seemed so shell-shocked. “Spencer, that was a year ago and—”

  “I don’t care, Georgia. I want to know why.”

  My pulse banged like a war drum in my chest. Hard. Heavy. Preparing for battle while knowing there was a good chance I wouldn’t survive.

  “You left me.” His jaw ticced. “Georgia, you just. . . left.” For the first time in years, that arrogant, walled-off façade he had worn vanished.

  “I didn’t just leave. I. . .” I stayed through an overdose. A short-lived stint in rehab. Relapse. I had managed the rumors of him with other girls, knowing in my heart they weren’t true but always wondering if maybe they were. I couldn’t save him, and I couldn’t let him destroy me. Because I loved him, and he loved himself.

  Emotions clawed at my throat.

  “I didn’t handle losing the baby well. I know that, but I—” That pulled my heart from my chest, and for a moment, I couldn’t catch a breath. “I can’t talk about that.”

  “Georgia?” His face crumpled. “Please.”

  I shook my head. I was not ready to go down that path.

  “Give me something.”

  “By the time I left,” I swallowed. “There was no you to leave, Spencer.”

  Denial clouded his eyes. His hands wrung in his lap. “There was plenty of me left.”

  “There was only a skeleton of the boy I fell in love with.”

  “Oh fuck off, Georgia!” His fingers drew into fists. “Every single thing I did was for us.”

  “No. You did fame for you, Spence.”

  “Unbelievable.” He swiped a hand over his face on an incredulous laugh. “There was never a me without you, and you know it!”

  Spencer wielded words like a sword. Some of them so beautiful they could make even Shakespeare weep, others left me crippled. The man standing in front of me was proof there was a him without me, and a me without him.