I meander past the high-rises, weave around the vintage streetcars, and stop when I come across a large hotel that faces the water and the Ferry Building. I don’t even bother going back for my car at my old hotel; I’ll return there to pick it up from the valet tomorrow so I can start my road trip.
Here, the hotel is corporate and modern. Inside I’m met with a large circular sculpture that appears to be rotating, though it’s not. Or maybe it’s rotating in my head because of the drugs; sometimes it’s hard to tell reality from fantasy. In the massive atrium, a large crowd gathers—people dining, families chatting, and couples and singles meeting at the bar for drinks. With all the noise that they create, I feel myself disintegrating into the chaos.
Twenty minutes later I’m in a new room facing the water and though the view is picture-perfect, I’m more interested in sleep and revisiting my actions in the last several hours than in soaking in the sunset.
I drop into bed and hug several of the feathery-soft pillows. In my mind, I replay the events of the afternoon. I remember the way Hew made wild gestures with his hands, barely able to contain his excitement about his sculpture idea in the park. There was so much passion that I easily fell into the moment along with him, and saw every detail he envisioned through my own eyes. It was a cool idea, yes, but it was so much more than that. I felt connected to him, felt the way he loved something that was not even there yet, how he loved the idea of something—the hope of something.
Throughout the day he was charming, funny, and intelligent. It’s been so long since someone talked to me about something other that my problems that I’ve forgotten what a real conversation feels like, one where you don’t know the outline of the speech already because the details don’t consume your life.
Then seeing the wedding ruined our perfect day, taking me back to why I ran away in the first place. My stomach cramps with a sharp pain, and the dark hopelessness creeps over my skin, soaking into every pore.
I do what I need to in times like these: I take another pill, a blue one this time. I need to sleep and wipe the gray slate in my mind completely clean so I can swirl for hours on a fluffy cloud, and release my soul to the evil in the bottle.
Chapter 17
He
Shea has taken all her things from my room. When I returned, I prayed they would still be here, to give me a little hope that I might see her again. I came back as quickly as I could, but my taxi got tied up in traffic from road construction. The driver should have known better; it’s her job to know which streets to use, but instead, she used the opportunity to raise her rate and show me her spiral book of autographs that she’s collected from transporting celebrities around town.
I kick the pillow across the floor, the same one that Shea launched at my face when I first brought her here and pretended that I had been robbed. I spin in a circle, taking in everything; looking for what, I don’t know. Maybe I’m looking for myself. I’ve been so calm and collected since I got out of jail and deep into rehab, easily telling myself that I’m miraculously a new person, that I don’t do the reckless things I used to, like letting that dickhead beat me to shit three times.
But since meeting Shea, I feel again. Feel everything that I’ve been trying to repress since I forged into unfamiliar territory.
Screw this.
I punch the puke-green wall and the spidering pain over my knuckles feels good. My fist leaves a gaping crack in the drywall and it dawns on me that Shea has left a crack in my carefully constructed facade, one that can’t easily be fixed or removed. I don’t want to remove it. I want to rip it open and see where it leads.
Because I can, I do it. I push into the crack and the drywall pieces fall inside the hollow between the walls. I’m not sure what I expected to find. It’s empty and dark inside, the same way I feel, and the only thing I want to do is find a place to drink it away.
It’s been over twenty-four months since I’ve had one single drop or hit. And keeping myself in check is easily the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. It’s not like I just magically decided to stop drinking, and after a few weeks or even months the urge went away. No, addiction is a constant battle. When I see someone buzzed out of their mind, I don’t feel bad for them, I feel envious. It’s a sickness, and I crave it even though I know it will hurt me or even kill me.
Like I’ve taught myself to do in reaction to the weak times like these, I speak to myself from my good half. Some people would call it the voice of reason; I call it my don’t-fuck-up voice.
The voice says, “But this girl is better than any liquor that’s ever touched your lips, and you want more.” For once the voice is right, and I’m eager to listen.
Because of the ruckus I’ve made, the person staying in the room next door bangs on the wall. Or maybe it’s coming from below? I don’t know or care and direct my energy into bed, while fighting my urge to seek out the nearest whiskey, rubbing alcohol, or NyQuil bottle. It’s sad what I’ll settle for.
If I can force myself to sleep, I know I can find salvation in the arms of a dream featuring Shea. Somehow, despite the fact that I’m fighting this with every quaking nerve in my body, the thought of her saves me. She is my sanity.
Chapter 18
She
Dim light bleeds into my room through the sheers covering the windows. I roll within my blanket to check the time. I’ve slept late because of the sleeping pill. If I don’t leave soon, the hotel may charge for another night. Almost faster than humanly possible, I shower and dress. In front of the mirror, I pull my wet hair into a loose low braid. My hair has grown so long that it hangs down my back, wetting the fabric of my long-sleeved shirt. One thing I’ve been dying to do is cut it shorter again and change the color, like the old happier and normal me. I can’t help but think that it will help. Maybe I’ll finally do it on this trip.
I pay my bill, check out, and step outside. Today is finally cloudy, the weather you would expect from San Francisco. The gloominess and gray streetscapes match my mood and the dark circles under my eyes. I came here to start over mentally, but have only managed to make my only friend in the world right now hate me.
Several blocks of walking up a hill, I finally reach the valet at the Briton Hotel. It only takes two minutes before I hear my name. “Shea!” I recognize the voice before I see the person.
Hew charges down the street, arms pumping like a crazed octopus as the camera strapped over his shoulder swings wildly. Normally I would smile at the sight but instead, I ignore him, embarrassed about how I acted yesterday. These last two days I’ve tried to pass myself off as someone who doesn’t have a care in the world, but that’s so far from the truth, and he knows it now.
I hand my valet ticket to the boy, and he takes off running down the street to retrieve my car from a nearby garage.
“What are you doing?” Hew asks as he finally reaches me.
“Leaving. What I should have done yesterday.” I press my lips together as I grip the straps of my backpack.
“You broke your promise to me, you know.”
“I don’t make promises—ever.” Not anymore, not ever again.
“You said you’d show me your favorite spot in the city and you never did. I stayed up all night thinking about it.” He continues as if he’d never asked me about what happened in Maryland, as if I didn’t run off on him like a crazed idiot—twice. “Can you imagine losing sleep over something like that? It’s the worst.”
“You’re really reaching,” I say with a sigh. “You sound ridiculous.” I cross my arms over my chest and frown at him.
“It’s important to me,” he says, sounding sincere.
My rented Fiat appears and the valet jumps out of the driver’s seat as he hands me my bill. I hand over all the cash I have left, except for some loose change that I drop into my jeans pocket. San Francisco is expensive, and I already need more money.
“Thanks, miss.” The boy looks thrilled with my tip.
“What are we doing here?” I turn t
o Hew after I drop my backpack in the trunk of the car.
“I’m just asking for one more day. That’s it. Besides, you owe me.”
I stall, saying slowly, “I don’t know. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
I’m half facing Hew and half facing the glass-plated hotel entrance when I see him—Bren’s older brother, Luke. He’s found me. Or at least, he’s traced me to this hotel. He stands tall and arrogant at the front desk, talking to the red-haired concierge wearing a pink top, the same girl I had to tell about the missing bike.
He slips her some cash. My only guess is that he’s trying to bribe her for more information. More information about me. My heart rate amps up and I do all I can to focus on him. I can’t see if she accepts but she’s not talking, only he is. That’s not a good sign, especially with his gift of charming girls, usually out of their panties.
Every atom in my body wants to explode. Luke found me. He came looking for me so he can take me back home. He doesn’t care that I don’t want to be with him, and that the love of my life was Bren and always will be. Luke only wants what his brother had, wants to steal me away to make me his trophy, among ten million other complications. I break out in a cold, nervous sweat.
Panicking, I look at my car, at the clogged street traffic, and then at Hew. I make a quick decision. “You sold me, let’s go,” I say, and Hew’s eyes light up with happiness. God, if he only knew.
I quickly grab his arm and usher him away. If Luke finds me with Hew, Luke will kill him. Luke will freak out the way he always does, hit Hew, then hit me. These scars didn’t appear from thin air. I curse my soul for ever allowing myself to get wrapped up with that man.
The valet chases after us. “Miss, what about your car?”
“I changed my mind,” I say quickly. “Can you store it until later?”
“Sure.” He rips off a pink ticket and I swipe it from his hand, then shove it deep into my pocket.
By the time Luke struts out of the hotel doors, I’m hustling Hew into the corner café. Just inside, we’re literally ten feet away, only separated from him by the large glass window, but it’s close enough that I can practically see the heated waves of anger swirling off Luke’s skin. If he were weather, he’d be a hurricane—a category-five asshole, destroying everything in his path.
The truth is that I can’t blame Luke for everything because I made the decision to walk into the storm and stand there like an idiot, allowing him to beat me and pulverize my soul until I was nothing. Yes, I was desperate and messed up at the time, but it’s still no excuse for everything that happened between us. I should have known better. I should have found my way out sooner.
“What are you doing?” Hew asks in a confused huff.
“I need food.” I pretend to mull over the bakery counter options, trying to control my reaction to the person I hate, standing far too close. I hope I can distract Hew because I can’t, under any circumstances, allow my two current worlds to collide. My legs begin to shake. I strain to lock them tight, fighting the reaction.
“I’m hungry, too,” Hew says, “but I was thinking that if I happened to catch up with you, I could treat you to lunch. You know, to apologize for . . .” His words drift off and he digs his hands into his pockets.
“Um,” I say noncommittally as I squat eye-level with the lower rack of the counter, not to view the pastries but to relieve my unsure limbs. My head swims with my wobbly movements, and I’m unable to focus on Hew’s apology.
With blurry eyes, I watch Luke. He brushes his sandy hair out of his eyes and drops his hands on his narrow hips, scanning the faces of pedestrians that walk past him. When he does, he looks almost identical to Bren, so similar physically yet with such different personalities. My heart aches, pounding at my rib cage at the sight.
“Shea, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m just thinking.” Stalling. I grab the glass counter to steady myself, then close my eyes and swallow, feeling every pore heat to a boil.
Finally Luke marches down the street into the valley of high-rises. I stand, still on edge when he finally disappears from sight, but unfortunately, not from my mind. I let out a shaky breath, but I’m too late to control the panic building within me. Luke’s here. Luke’s here! I bite the inside of my cheek and turn away from Hew.
“I’ll be right back.” I rush away from him before he can respond, quickly bounding into the restroom. Locked inside the narrow space, I lean over the sink, my arms and legs shaking. I let out a gasp of a sob and flex my fingers open and closed repeatedly, trying to pump reality back into my body. I’m okay. I’m okay.
Reaching for the faucet, I release a stream of freezing water, bend over and splash my face several times, then roll a wad of toilet paper around my hand to dry my skin and hands, but it’s useless. I know I need a pill. I don’t want to need it, but I do. Before I fall into the black pit of hyperanxiety, I quickly swallow another pink one. God knows, I desperately want to flush them all down the toilet, but I know that won’t do me any good. Right now, it would only make things far worse, and I hate myself for being so powerless.
Ten minutes later, and still looking like a wreck from my ordeal, I return to Hew. I need to make things right with him. He’s a good guy and I owe him at least one more day. With everything I’ve gone through, I owe myself one more good day, too.
Chapter 19
He
Shea is acting strange. Well, stranger than usual. When she’s in the restroom, I survey the patrons of the French café, trying to assess what has set her off again, but there are no brides or wedding parties in sight. I can honestly say that no girl has ever made me work so hard to see her. But I also know that if I can win her over, she’ll be worth the wait. I’m mesmerized by her glow, even the small spark that she’s shared, and I can only imagine the fire that lies beneath.
She appears at my side, looking a little off and staring out the window. I place my hand on her shoulder for comfort, careful not to ask anything that might send her darting in the other direction. At my touch, the tension in her muscles subsides and her body relaxes, as if something has set her free.
“Shea?”
“I was going to head off on my road trip, but I like your idea. Let’s do it,” she says, returning to a glimmer of her “normal” self.
I beam at her, happy to have one more day. “Where should we go?” I gesture toward the exit and we head out the door.
“I think we should start where we left off yesterday, before I made a complete ass-hat of myself,” she says as she turns and begins to walk down the hill. “I was having fun with you, and I’m sorry I freaked out.”
“We’ll never talk about it again.” I’ve learned my lesson, and even better, my words win me something more important—one of her beautiful smiles.
“But let’s restart San Francisco style.” Her eyes light up, and she adjusts her purse on her shoulder.
“What’s that mean?”
“You’ll see.”
First, Shea makes another stop at a bank, but this time she skips the ATM and goes inside to the teller, presumably to withdraw more money. I wonder how in the hell she spent the roll of cash she withdrew yesterday. Judging from the wad she shoved in her purse, there was at least two hundred dollars. But I dismiss all the questions when she returns and guides me through Union Square. There she buys a floppy hat with a large brim, and a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses from a street vendor.
“You realize it’s cloudy today, right?”
“I know,” she says, completely unconcerned as she settles the hat on her head and slides the glasses in place. She proceeds to roll her braid into a knot and shoves it under her hat. By the time she’s done, she looks like an incognito movie star, dressed in a bohemian way that makes it look as if she doesn’t care about the way she looks, but her attire still screams stylish, regardless.
We walk a few blocks down Powell Street and soon, Shea has us in line for the master of all tourist traps, the San Francis
co Cable Car System, or the trolley. The line, though long, moves quickly and when we reach the front, we luck out and snag some of the best seats on the car.
I sit on the wooden bench, facing outward, while Shea insists on perching on the running board and clutching one of the outer brass poles. The conductor takes our tickets and the gripman dramatically opens and closes the large clutch. When it catches the cable running beneath us at street level, a jolting series of jerks lurches the trolley forward.
Our ride is a graceful glide punctuated by rumbling bumps, similar to that of a wooden roller coaster, which elicits giggles from the tourists who are riding. The car makes its way up the hill, stopping several times along the way at crossroads that level out.
I lift my camera and take a few snapshots of the antique car, its mechanical workings, the gripman and conductor, and then of Shea. My photo trails always lead to her beautiful face. She’s carefully watching scenery as we pass, and when we teeter over the crest of the highest hill, she whoops with excitement as the trolley races down the other side and makes a sharp turn that nearly sideswipes three cars, and threatens to run over several pedestrians.
“How many photos have you taken on this trip?” she asks as she grips the pole tighter and leans in.
I shrug and consider. “Maybe three hundred or so.”
“Three hundred!”
“About. Why?”
“Do you ever think about all the random people you capture in the background of your photos?”
“Not really.”
“Well, think about it. We’re touring around this huge city. How many people do you think have caught us in their photos? Over a few days, it’s probably hundreds, and after traveling a lifetime, it could be millions.”
“It’s impossible to know.”
“I bet some brilliant scientist, some geek extraordinaire, has discovered some complex equation to figure it out.”
He + She Page 6