Over You

by Cole, Stevie J.

  “They’re awful.” Ricky grabbed a piece of paper from the desk. “Karma Dharma, Truck stop Baby, and Pussy Patrol?”

  I glanced at Nash. “You came up with those last two, didn’t you?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “You’re an idiot.”

  Ricky slapped the paper down. “We need another name.”

  “Over You,” I said. Because I was. I was over the label. Over showbiz. Over it all.

  “For an album name?” Nash’s lip curled with a hint of disgust. “No way.”

  “I like it,” Leo said.

  I whacked the side of Nash’s head. “It’s better than Pussy Patrol.”

  “Ow, dude.” He rubbed at his skull. “It sounds like some chick-lit shit.”

  “It’s fine.” Ricky jotted on his notepad. “The label’s wanting to release at the first of the year. Ten tracks or more. Four with the heavy, original sound. Four with a more contemporary edge—think White Zombie meets Bruno Mars.”

  I scowled at that.

  “It’s called compromise, Spencer,” Ricky glowered. “And then do whatever the hell you want with the other ones.” He thumbed through a document, made a few Xs, then slid the paper in front of us and extended a pen. “Sign there to get this show on the road.”

  I grabbed the ball-point, scrawled my signature on the page, then shoved out of the chair. Nash and Leo penned their names, then met me at the elevator.

  “You guys coming over to the house to practice?” I pressed the down arrow.

  “Georgia’s not gonna frisk me again, is she?” Nash frowned. “That felt like my sister trying to feel me up.”

  Leo whacked him this time. “Don’t be stupid, and she won’t frisk you.”

  “I was only joking about having weed. I mean. . .” Nash trailed off when a curvy blonde sauntered past, batting her lashes. He puffed out his chest and threw his shoulder back. “How you doin’?”

  Leo shook his head. “Around six?”

  “Yeah. I want to spend as little time in Cali as I have to.”

  That got Nash’s attention for point five seconds. “Paul Revere would feel betrayed. Going back to the motherland like a traitor. One if by land two if by. . .” He was a lost cause when another girl walked by.

  The elevator opened just as my phone buzzed. Leo and Nash filed on while I stared at a string of numbers I didn’t recognize. I waved to the guys. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

  The doors slid shut, and I headed to the exit at the end of the hall. “Yeah?”

  “I didn’t call you for money.” It was Vicki. “And I never expected forgiveness. I don’t know how much you know about The Twelve Steps, but I’m on step nine. Make amends.”

  “Oh, I know all about the twelve steps.” The emergency door banged behind me, echoing into the concrete stairwell. “Evidently the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  “I don’t want you to think I didn’t love you. I did. I may have only been fourteen, but you were still my baby.” She sucked back a sob. “I was too young, but I always wanted you, and I’m sorry that I hurt you.”

  I could have asked a million questions. I could have hung up, but she was trying. And everyone deserves forgiveness at least once. I didn’t have to have a relationship with her. “I appreciate that.” I grabbed the railing as I rounded another flight of stairs. “And I forgave you a long time ago.”

  “I’m really proud of you. Even if I don’t really have a right to be.”

  Maybe it shouldn’t have, but that meant something. Validation maybe? I swallowed. “Thanks.”

  We hung up, and I slid my Aviators into place before stepping onto the busy LA sidewalk. Head down, hands in my pockets, I made my way to the crosswalk without incidence.

  The stick figure went from green to red. I stopped amidst a flock of sock and sandal wearing tourists and businessmen on calls.

  “Holy shit! No way.” That high pitched, nasally voice sent goosebumps over my skin. “Spence! Broman. . .” Danté whacked me on the back, and I stumbled forward a step.

  “Hey, man.” I stared straight ahead, willing the light to change.

  “You went AWAL for a while, didn’t you?” He snickered like a weasel.

  “Something like that.”

  People began walking. I passed Starbucks and Danté was right at my heels. “Word on the street is that you and the old lady are back together.”

  “Yep.”

  “That’s good.”

  I pulled my keys from my pocket. The headlights to my car flashed. The alarm chirped. “Alright, man.” I jerked my chin up. “Take care.” Then I headed to the driver’s side.

  Danté stopped at the curb. “Could I bum a ride over to Rage’s? It’s on the way to your crib, right?”

  Jiminy Crickets voice chimed in: Hell no.

  “My car’s over at the body shop. I’m getting some sick Italian leather installed.” Grinning, he opened the passenger door without waiting for my reply.

  I didn’t want him in my car, but he was already buckling up, and Dante was the type of guy that would cause a scene if I told him to get out. What was fifteen minutes of my life anyway?

  I climbed behind the wheel. The engine rumbled to life. The radio blasted Highly Suspect.

  Danté ran his hand over the shiny console, and I smacked it away.

  “Man, don’t touch stuff. Just. . . Hands to yourself. Alright?”

  He held up both palms in surrender. “Never expected you to be OCD.”

  Danté went on and on about some Victoria’s Secret model he was supposedly banging. He told me Jag overdosed and was in rehab. Again. He didn’t take a breath the entire ride to The Hills, and when I parked in front of Gage’s gate, I was ready to shove the fucker out.

  “Thanks for the ride, bro-man. I’ll get you back.”

  “It’s fine.” I hoped I never ran into Danté again.

  He climbed out like a drunk crab emerging from a hole, then leaned in through the window. “Consider it a tip.” He winked before tossing an eight-ball of cocaine into the passenger seat. It tumbled to the crease of the chair.

  I opened my mouth to call him back, but all that came out was air. By the time I looked away from the white powder sitting so innocently in my seat, the gate to Gage’s property had already swung closed.

  Chuck it over Gage’s fence. Throw it down a sewer drain. Something. . .

  My pulse ticked like the timer on a bomb, and if I didn’t cut the right wire, everything was going to blow. The plastic crinkled against my skin when I picked up the drug, and that demon who had been so quiet screeched. One hit wouldn’t hurt. It probably wouldn’t even be enough to make my pupils dilate.

  Swallowing, I opened the bag and brushed my finger across the gritty chunk of coke.

  One taste.

  My mouth watered. White residue coated my skin like fingerprint powder. Blood pulsed through my body with such force my vision throbbed. Each breath sounded like wind howling through an empty corridor.

  This was what destroyed me, and here I was with my foot on a rung of the high dive. . .

  One hit.

  I rubbed the powder between my fingers, closed my eyes, and squeezed the bag in my hand. Sweat dotted my lip with the knowledge that within ten-minutes time I could have that tingly feeling bleeding into my fingertips and toes.

  My entire arm trembled, and I brought a clenched fist to my mouth, sinking my teeth into my knuckles on a garbled “fuck.”

  One chance.

  I climbed out of my car, engine still running, then chucked the bag of coke into Gage’s yard before peeling off in a panic. My hand trembled. I wiped it down the leg of my jeans, knowing I had almost lost it. I had almost fucking lost it.

  I was still shaking when I pulled into the garage and cut the engine. My stomach sat in knots when I walked into the house.

  Georgia was at the dining room table, working on a paper for one of her online summer classes. “Hey, babe.” She smiled like the loving,
trusting wife she was, and guilt ate at me like acid. “How’d it go?”

  “Fine.” My body language said anything but that. “The guys agreed we could go indie after the contract was up in the fall.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and she slowly pushed away from the table. “You look pale.”

  “I’m uh. . .” A lump lodged in my throat, and I tried unsuccessfully to clear it. “I just. . .”

  Georgia followed me into the kitchen, leaned against the far wall, and crossed her arms over her chest. She watched me grab a bottle of water from the fridge.

  “What?”

  “Don’t lie to me.” I could see doubt swirling in her eyes. “Please. Spence, just don’t lie to me.”

  I took a few gulps of water, then braced my hands against the granite. “I ran into Dante’. He needed a ride to Gage’s.” I caught Georgia’s jaw set. Her nostrils flared.

  “I didn’t.” I closed the space between us. “Look at my pupils. I didn’t.” I caught her swallow, and I couldn’t take it. “But I almost did.”

  Her gaze fell to the floor. I felt like the biggest failure in the world. I didn’t want her to think I sought it out or asked for it. “He tossed an eight-ball into the seat when he got out. I stared at it. I thought about it.” The craving hit again, and I told it to go to hell. “And the thing that scared me. Georgia, I wanted to do it. Even though I knew I shouldn’t.”

  Humans are hardwired to avoid things that cause pain, but we’re also made to chase things that feel good. So what happens when something elicits both? It causes a war.

  She cupped my jaw, bringing my gaze to hers. “I know you want to be sober.” She placed a soft kiss to my lips. “And I also know there is no quick fix for this.”

  And there wasn’t. There was no quick fix. Some days I wouldn’t think about a high. Some days, it was all I thought about.

  “Spence. I promise I won’t leave you.”

  I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “And I promise I’ll still be sober tomorrow.”

  22

  Georgia Anne

  Three Years Later

  Waves crashed in the distance, hidden by the night. Millions of stars dotted the sky. The crescent moon that hung above the water cast a silvery sheen across the tide as it rolled to shore. Flynn wriggled in my arms, his tiny hand grasping a tendril of hair as I crossed the flat spot on the roof. I smiled and brushed a gentle finger across his soft cheek.

  “Do you like to listen to the ocean, little one?”

  His big, blue eyes stared up at me on a soft coo.

  So much had changed in the past few years, but one thing that hadn’t—Spencer’s sobriety. It hadn’t been easy, and anyone that says staying clean is as simple as wanting to be sober is lying through their teeth. Over the years, Spencer’d had moments and struggles, but with time, it had gotten better. Not easier. But better. I wasn’t foolish enough to think he was in the clear, and if he ever relapsed, we’d just start back at day one.

  Because people inevitably screw up. My mom. Spencer’s mom. Me. After all, “To err is human, forgive divine.”

  “I knew you’d be up on your tower, Rapunzel.” Spencer crossed the gable, the moonlight catching on his tattoos. “Your publisher called. Said the proofs would be ready next week.” He gave me a kiss as he sank beside me. “I’m proud of you.”

  I smiled and kissed him again.

  Last spring, when I was two months along with Flynn, I graduated with my creative writing degree. My first project was Spencer’s biography. From foster care to stardom to addiction—and somewhere among those pages, I had managed to cram in our story.

  Spencer reached for the baby, but I didn’t hand Flynn over.

  “You’re a baby hog,” he said, taking him and cradling him in his arms. “Isn’t she, buddy? She’d better be glad she’s pretty.”

  Flynn grabbed Spencer’s chin and giggled.

  Out of all the dreams I’d had in life, this topped every last one. I didn’t have just one world; I now had two.

  Resting my head against Spencer’s shoulder, I stared across the dark beach at the ocean while I played with the bottom of Flynn’s tiny foot.

  Spencer kissed my forehead. “What do you want me to sing tonight?”

  “Flynn likes ‘Baby Shark.’”

  “The hell am I singing that.” He scowled. “That song is about as entertaining as nails on a chalkboard.”

  “Somebody’s not a fan of ‘Baby Shark.’” I laughed.

  “It’s torture. Not music.” He shook his head before tickling Flynn’s cheek. “How about I sing the song that made your mother fall in love with me? Would you like that?”

  Spencer sang the first few words of “Free Fallin’” before I pinched him. “You think I fell in love with you the first night I saw you?”

  “Why not? That’s when I fell in love with you.”

  “You did not.”

  “You’re really going to argue with me over this?” He glanced at Flynn. “She’s going to argue with me over this.”

  “I’m just saying, love is a strong word.”

  “Let me put it this way.” Spencer inched closer until the smell of cardamom and mint swirled around me. “There was something that happened when I first laid eyes on you that made it impossible for me to get you out of my head.” His lips caressed mine. “And I was already terrified to lose you. Tell me that’s not love.”

  I grabbed his shirt and tugged him closer. “Promise me you’ll say things like that for the rest of my life.”

  “Every day, for the rest of this life and the next, babe.”

  At seventeen, I moved in with Spencer. By eighteen, we were married. By twenty-two, I was lost. Without purpose. And at twenty-six, I understood that fairy tales may not exist but love stories do.

  There would be victories and struggles throughout life, and each would become a chapter in our book. The real beauty of it was, we’re the ones writing it, and we got to decide what kind of story we wanted to tell.

  Spencer’s and mine could have been a tragedy of how we fell apart, but instead, we made it the story of how we stayed together.

  Love is an addiction we all fall victim to, and it’s the only addiction with the power to heal.

  The End

  Excerpt of The Sun

  The day Elias Black came to my house was the first day it hadn’t rained in over a month. Sometimes I thought that must have been an omen.

  The springs in the old Victorian couch groaned when I hopped onto my knees to lean over its curved back. The window fogged from my breath when I pressed my face and palms to the glass when Daddy’s white pickup pulled into the drive.

  Momma’s high heels tap, tap, tapped through the kitchen then the dining room, finally coming to a halt behind me.

  Freezing, I waited for her to fuss at me for getting hand prints all over her clean windows, but she didn’t scold me that day. I guess her nerves had gotten the better of her.

  Momma said she wanted a house full of children, but there was an only me. After six years of trying to give me a little brother or sister, she and Daddy finally agreed they would serve those less fortunate by fostering children in need, and that was why Elias Black was in the passenger side of Daddy’s truck. He was a child in need.

  “He’s here, Sunny.” Momma sounded hopeful and a little scared.

  My heart pounded when Daddy rounded his car and opened the passenger door. The night before I’d been so excited, I’d barely slept. The anticipation had mounted, my imagination running wild with all the things Elias and I would do: build pillow forts and tell each other ghost stories even though they’d scare me half to death.

  I’d even conceded to let his GI Joe marry my Prom Queen Barbie. Since my friend Daisy Fulmer’s brother Bobby always wanted her Barbie to marry his GI Joe, it stood to reason Elias would want one of the ones Momma stocked his room with to marry mine.

  Ever since I found out Elias was coming to live with us, I’d imagined a boy hopping out
of Daddy’s car, smiling and running straight to the front door. So it all seemed rather anticlimactic when a frowning, gangly little boy climbed out.

  His dirty jeans were too short for his long legs. The He-man shirt he was wearing must have been a size too small, and his tangled brown hair looked like rats had made a nest in it. He adjusted a tattered red backpack on his shoulder, then walked alongside my father, his gaze straying to me in the window.

  Taking a breath, I smiled and waved. My heart crumpled right along with all my hopes and dreams of having someone to play with when he rolled his eyes. Then I sank to the couch with a sigh.

  Momma ruffled my hair. “What’s wrong, honey?”

  “He looks mean.”

  “Oh…” she knelt beside the couch, her pretty, blue dress pooling around her knees. Tilting her head to the side, she draped my braid over my shoulder. “Honey, he’s been through a lot and he’s coming to a strange house with people he’s never met. He’s just scared I’m sure.”

  “He looks like he smells.”

  Her eyes set on mine with a sympathetic plea. “You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.”

  At the tender age of seven, I was already finding that life lesson hard to adhere to.

  That was her favorite saying. One I’d heard at least a thousand times in my short life. With a sigh, she pushed to her feet, then smoothed her hands over the skirt of her dress.

  “I don’t want to play with him,” I lied.

  Living in a rural, beach town in Alabama without another kid for two miles made me desperate for a playmate, but still, it was easier to pretend I didn’t need him to like me. Even as children, I believe humans are programmed to save themselves from embarrassment and feelings of inadequacy, and it was obvious to me Elias would not want to play with me.

  “Enough!” Momma headed toward the door. “Be sweet to that poor boy, Sunny Ray.”

  I scowled. I hated when she used both my names.

  One, it sounded dumb. Two, it told me she meant or else.