On the Mountain (Follow your Bliss #5)

by Riordan Hall, Deirdre

  “That’s not who I think it, is it?” Baskia asked when Brighton answered.

  “That depends, who do you think it is?” Baskia was used to her cousin’s smug and smart-alecky attitude.

  “An infamous musician, though last I heard he was being a very bad boy.”

  “Are you drunk?” Brighton asked.

  “You aren’t?”

  “Come over, I’m having a party.”

  Pierce appeared, still naked, and lowered himself onto the bed. He kissed her, resulting in a moan.

  “Sounds like it’s a party for two,” Brighton said.

  “You used to be up for anything: clubbing, causing trouble…come on, there’s plenty to drink.”

  “I’m not thirsty.”

  “You’re no fun.”

  “Have you ever asked yourself if you’re having too much fun or what fun even means?” Brighton retorted.

  “Well, the smile on your face in that picture looks like you’ve got it figured out. What’s your secret?”

  “Sleep. Baskia, it’s late. Why don’t you go to sleep?” With that, she hung up.

  They returned to the living room. As the night wore on, the partygoers burned out, and Baskia’s mood soured. The bubbles and viscous liquid in her stomach popped and gurgled, threatening nausea. Everyone’s voice was too loud, too eager, too much. It was all just too close.

  She extricated herself from the spot on the couch next to Pierce, who’d passed out. She turned off the music and stood in the beautiful ruins of what had been the luxurious apartment. Someone had written love notes in rouge lipstick on the beige wall, the stuffing of the couch frosted the nearby furniture like snow, thanks to London’s childish dancing and bouncing while wearing heels. Evidence of alcohol and drugs littered the room.

  London appeared in the doorway. Her eyes darted from corner to corner and face to face.

  “Why’d you turn the music off?” she asked, with an edge to her voice. “I was enjoying it.”

  “No you weren’t, you were enjoying me, now get back here,” Nels called from inside London’s room.

  “I was into both, actually, but Baskia, you’re such a downer. You don’t know how to have a good time. I was wrong about you,” London said, sneering and stumbling over an empty case of beer as she stepped nearer. “I thought you and I were going to make a great team, but even though you try to slum it with people like me, you’re just as rich and stuck up as ever. You want everything to be your way, as if having money and all this stuff buys you that right.”

  “What are you talking about?” Baskia asked, taken aback.

  “She doesn’t know what she’s saying, come back in here,” Nels called to London with a laugh that sounded like crumbling paper.

  “Sure I do,” she said, rounding on both of them. “Baskia has everything she wants handed to her, but she doesn’t like to share. I do. Nels knows how to have a good time and he’s generous.” She leaned over the coffee table. When she lifted her head, her eyes bulged wide as if she saw everything and nothing at all.

  “You’re taking this too far. My parents might have money, but that doesn’t make it okay for you to judge me,” Baskia said, stepping closer. She and met London’s eyes, fearlessly.

  “What? And you don’t judge me all the time like I’m your charity case, like you let me stay here, eat your food, and drink your champagne because you feel bad for me? Listen, I made it in this modeling world without your help, and I will continue to do just fine on my own. I don’t need you.”

  “I never said you did,” Baskia countered, starting to turn back to her room.

  “You know what I think? I think you need to learn to appreciate the people and things in your life instead of acting like you’re better than everyone else and like all your problems are bigger and more important.”

  “You’re all over the place. We’re not on planet London, with everything orbiting around you. When you realize we’re all here on earth, come find me. I’m going to bed.”

  “Yeah. That’s right. Walk away; just go when things get too hard to deal with. Whatever. I don’t care.”

  “You know what Kate, I do care,” Baskia said, sweeping back into the center of the room. “I think you’re getting me mixed up with your life before we met. You need to get some help and figure out who you are and where your priorities lie.”

  “Spoken like someone who knows.”

  “I appreciate what's been given to me and I share, not because I feel bad for you, but because we were friends. You just ended it. I’m tired of your attitude, you taking advantage of me, and not listening to me about things that matter. You just hear what’s convenient for you.”

  London’s eyes grew cartoon-sized, rimmed dark from lack of sleep and smudged eye makeup, like they were going to burst. “No, I don’t listen to your whining. You and Mellie going on about all your ‘problems.’ It’s a bunch of bullshit. You’re a bitch who does nothing but bitch, just like your mother.”

  Baskia bit her tongue to keep herself from shouting, At least I have one, and mine didn’t shoot everything that was important into her veins and overdose. Instead, she said, “You should start packing. And you really need to get yourself together. Whatever you’ve got going on here—” she gestured to London, “It’s not flattering.”

  “Oh yeah? Gladly. I don’t need any more of this crap. You can’t control me. You don’t own me. You’re not my mother,” London shouted, her eyes still bulging.

  Baskia turned to Nels. “Go.”

  “Whoa, I’ve been trying to help her,” he said, lifting his arms in surrender, but his eyes showed the same lack of depth evidenced in London’s.

  “You can start by not giving her drugs. Oh and I want my shoes back,” Baskia said, pointing to the Louboutins.

  “Screw you,” London roared.

  Before Baskia or anyone else could stop her, she upended the coffee table, sending everything flying: half-empty bottles of beer, glasses, and a glazed vase from Japan. She kicked over a potted plant, and tore a print from the wall before sending it sailing into a lamp. She threw each of the white high heels in opposite directions, one nearly colliding with a glass display. Then she slammed the door behind her, Nels in her wake.

  On the couch, Pierce roused, apparently having passed out. He shook his head. “What the hell was that?”

  “That is how you have a temper tantrum,” Baskia answered. She was horrified by what London had done, but severing the ties to her parents’ ideal, forgetting the veil of perfection, that's what she wanted so badly it burned her throat. The anger and frustration that brewed within her begged for release, but she didn’t have the balls, influenced by drugs and alcohol or not, to fully let go of her propriety. Instead, she let it churn inside as she tried, fruitlessly, to make sense of how she felt and why.

  Pierce reached his hand out to Baskia and pulled her onto the couch. “It’s probably time for me to go, but I’m guessing this all has something to do with you starting college.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Just remember, you always have a choice.” He stood and pecked her on either cheek. “Good luck.” Everyone who hadn’t fled when the argument turned ugly departed with Pierce.

  “I’ll need it,” Baskia muttered, standing alone in the wreckage.

  ^^^

  Baskia spent much of the day sleeping, not caring if her mother showed up to find the disaster, empty bottles, and ruined furniture. She hoped that when she woke up she and London could smooth things over. The truth was, Baskia could be a snob at times, but London also had unresolved issues with her family, namely her mother, sometimes emerging when she drank too much. It was like she got wasted to ease the pain, only it got louder and more unruly as she moved away from sobriety. Then again, she understood all too well how it felt to be utterly confused.

  Later, when Baskia wandered out to the living room, she found the disaster room as she’d left it, but London’s door hung open, her room all but empty. The bed was
unmade, but the furnishings were all there, if not a little worse for wear. Baskia scanned the empty space for the crystal decanter, but moved back into the living room empty handed. That was the least of her concerns.

  Baskia sighed and began to clean up, hoping movement would do for her head what the water, and aspirin, hadn’t. She dumped the dregs in the bottoms of glass bottles down the drain, the smell of alcohol turning her stomach. She retrieved the white studded heels and put them in her room, not ever wanting to wear them again because of the tarnished night imprinted on their soles.

  As she set the coffee table upright, she found the documents from Columbia; the distinguished font spread across the top like an empty promise. She recalled the tension between her and Anne, compounding the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She flipped through the glossy prospectus. The envelope for the bill from Vermont slipped out from the bottom of the pile. She picked it up.

  She still had a couple days before the start of classes, never mind the stupid dinner her mother had arranged. If her brother was going to the Cape then she could certainly afford the time to leave town and straighten out her head. More than ever, she just needed to get away. But if she went to the Cape, Will would badger her about patching things up between her and their parents. She waved the bill in front of her face like a fan, wishing to blow away on the wind like a dandelion seed. The little green label for Green Mountain Plumbers caught her eye. Vermont seemed just as good a place as any to escape—and she knew the plumbing worked.

  Not making timely progress cleaning the apartment, Baskia called the number on the card left by the cleaning service. She resolved to pay for it and replace anything that was broken. That was the best she could do for an apology.

  She went to her room and started packing, stuffing clothes in suitcases and slipping her shoes in bags. She wasn’t ready, or willing, to move into a dorm, but she took everything with her anyway, knowing the choice wasn’t really hers, despite what Pierce believed.

  There would be no gap year for Baskia. She wasn’t interested in travelling so much as just staying still for once. If she could just press pause and figure out what she wanted and where she wanted to be, she trusted that everything would turn out okay. But as it was, she couldn’t do that, well except for a couple days. Something told her that wouldn’t be enough.

  It was evening when she found the keys to the BMW her parents kept tucked in the garage beneath the building, mainly relying on drivers and sleek black limos to take them around.

  Baskia started the engine not giving much thought to how irritated her mother would be when she discovered Baskia had left. But Anne was going to Boston with Mellie, her surrogate daughter, to get her settled in. Must be nice for her.

  She stepped on the gas.

  Even though she’d taken driver’s education, she’d only driven a few times in the US and once, illegally, along the sleeping streets of Monte Carlo. But that had been a dare, fueled by a gaggle of models, hangers-on, hot French guys, and lots of bubbly. This time, she was doing something on her own, for herself. She was willing to travel as far as necessary to figure out where she wanted to be and whom. Unfortunately, she only had two days.

  As the late summer sun set over the glittering buildings of Manhattan, she set the GPS to match the address on the plumbing bill she had in her purse, maneuvered into traffic, and began the long drive north, to the mountains.

  Chapter Five

  Shortly out of the City, tall buildings and signs of industry gave way to a tree-lined highway. Given the late hour, there weren’t many cars on the road. Before she realized it, she had passed through Connecticut and crossed the state line into Massachusetts. Eager to get to the house, she sped on, the rush of the wind muting the song on the radio.

  Suddenly, flashing blue lights in her review mirror urged her to the shoulder of the road. She cursed herself and the ticket her parents were sure to receive.

  “Good evening, young lady,” the State Trooper greeted her.

  A memory of a road trip to Long Island, when the police pulled over a car full of models, cruised into her mind. London had instructed the driver, Gigi, to show cleavage and be sugary sweet. Baskia wasn’t in the mood. She’d shown enough of her chest in the last twenty-four hours, including to most of the room when Pierce pulled off her blouse.

  “Mind telling me the hurry?” the officer asked.

  “Sorry. I’m tired. I wasn’t paying attention.” That was the truth, as pathetic as it sounded. She’d been alternatingly replaying the previous night in her head and asking herself what she hoped to get out of retreating to the sticks. A case of poison Ivy? Being chased by a bear? No cell service? She landed on the answer: quiet and stillness.

  The whirling lights, in the rearview mirror, scolded her while she waited for the officer to check her license and registration.

  The next leg of the trip passed painstakingly slow. When she crossed the state border into Vermont, she dropped the pedal again. After another hour, the GPS guided her off the highway. The cool night air sobered Baskia.

  Few lights were on in the smattering of houses and businesses she passed along the lonely road. Everything looked dark and closed, almost eerie, compared to the vibrant lights of the City that now laid hundreds of miles behind her.

  Baskia pulled onto a side road that she tried to convince herself she remembered. The trees nearly brushed the car as she drove through the dark. The headlights hardly guided the way. After driving up, up, up, and winding around tight turns, she finally pulled into the driveway of twelve Lakeside Drive. The gravel crunched under the car’s tires. She killed the engine and hesitantly opened the door to the BMW, unsure what lurked in the dark shadows outside the beam of the headlights.

  She knew there was a key hidden somewhere, so she began to scour the front porch of the cabin, peeling up the welcome mat and checking under flowerpots. Leaves scratched along the wooden floor of the porch, startling her. An owl hooted. Baskia took a deep breath. She imagined hairy spider legs as she ran her fingers along the upper doorframe, in the dark. She wondered when her parents were there last. Through a haze of cocktails tossed back while in Buenos Aires, she recalled her mother mentioning they were going to Vermont. But the memory was dull from drink and time. Anyway, that would have been well over a month ago.

  “Ah ha.” She found the key and let herself in, flicking on the lights in the spacious cabin, which wasn’t a very accurate description. Compared to most of the residences in the rural town, it was lux. The cabin boasted at least five times more square footage than most of the apartments in most of Manhattan.

  She hurried back out to the car and gathered necessities for the night. The trees shivered in the wind. Spooked by the nighttime noises, that ushered a peculiar kind of stillness, she gazed up at the sequined sky before scurrying back toward the cabin.

  Exhausted, she fell into the king sized bed in the master bedroom on the main floor.

  When the morning sunlight streamed in through the arched windows abutting the vaulted ceiling, Baskia rubbed her eyes. She stretched and yawned. With a jolt, she remembered where she was and why. It was nine a.m., early for her, but the birds chirped cheerfully outside, the sky shone deep blue, and something unfamiliar, like enthusiasm, pulled her out of bed and to her feet.

  She stretched her arms wide, looking around at the cabin in the light of day. Her mother must have had a lot of updating done since she was last there as a child. The space tastefully combined natural textures such as maple hardwood flooring and river stones surrounding the chimney hearth. Faint memories of rainy days spent reading or lazing in the hammock out on the deck, under the sun, charmed Baskia until the pull of a coffee craving brought her to the custom designed kitchen.

  She scrounged up a can of coffee, but was discouraged when she realized she had to drink it black. She didn’t remember passing a café on her way in and wondered where the nearest Starbucks was. Instead, she choked the bitter coffee down, eager to get the day sta
rted. The pantry and cupboards were bare except for a box of saltines stored in a plastic tub and an unopened jar of homemade jam, no doubt a gift from a neighbor.

  Baskia took her coffee and breakfast to the front porch and deeply inhaled the fresh mountain air. When she looked around, she realized there were no neighbors, just a view of a lake in one direction and a scenic mountain vista in the other. The crackers were stale and the coffee, never having made it herself, tasted like dirt.

  After unloading the car, she took a long shower, letting the city grime wash down the drain of the tiled walk-in. Not that she was actually dirty, but the crystalline water cascading from the oversized shower head and the streams coming out in all directions made her feel cleaner and fresher than she had in ages.

  Dressed in a pair of designer jeans, simple black stilettos, and a white V-neck t-shirt, she lowered her dark sunglasses and navigated down the mountain to the closest town, nearly twenty minutes away.

  “Where am I?” she muttered as she pulled onto the dusty main street. On one side of the road was a diner with a broken sign that just said, “Din,” and on the other, a small market.

  Baskia took a booth by the window of the diner, the thick grease in the air quickly filming her skin. The vinyl seats and gold-flecked tabletop echoed the past, but so, unfortunately, did the milk for the coffee. She pushed the small metal pitcher away.

  Baskia picked over the menu, sticky from countless jelly-coated fingers. That morning her stomach was on edge, hash, sausage, and an assortment of fried foods did the opposite of appeal to her. She opted to stick with just the coffee.

  “Anything else for you?” the server asked, a matronly woman wearing a filthy apron.

  Baskia nearly spit out her coffee. It was worse than the pot she’d brewed earlier.

  “No, just the check,” she answered, deciding to take her chances at the market across the street. She wondered who could possibly live in a place like that; it was the twenty-first century after all. Apparently, decent coffee, food that resembled something edible and facial creams that corrected the horrendous wrinkles lining the customer’s faces hadn’t made it that far north. A couple townies sat at the counter, griping about taxes as Baskia hurriedly paid and exited to the fresh air.