Pretty Remedy

by S. E. Hall

  Grabbing the keys, I jump out, slam the door, and jog back inside. She’s in the vicinity I left her, on a quarter machine at the end of the row, sitting pretty.

  “Twenty minutes, Sherwood Forest, sixth floor,” I snarl in her ear, guessing Thatch has the Forest unoccupied in case one of us needs it. If not, I’ll take the one he does; theme the least of my concerns.

  Her head falls back on my shoulder, eyes closed. “Finally.” She moans, sliding her thighs back and forth as I rush to find Thatcher and grab the key card from him.

  Fifty-two minutes later, I feel worse than I did before.

  “Why not?” she sulks, hair askew, lips swollen, and the scent of her want still pungent in the room.

  “Why not what?” I ask as I hurriedly get dressed.

  “Why can’t we do it again? He won’t be looking for me yet.” She folds her arms, eyes squinted with venomous courage as she tries to wheedle an encore from me.

  Every. Single. Time. Really, I should probably quit fucking them.

  “I never go in twice, I told you that. You said you understood completely. Remember that part?” I recite mechanically. “Can you be cool about this?” I glance over my shoulder one last time. “I had a great time, and I’ll think about it often. Thank you.”

  I barely get the door closed before something smashes against it; my guess is the lamp. I thought those things were bolted down?

  As the plane taxis at LAX, I turn my phone back on. I have a couple of text messages from Landry; she misses me already—probably because we spent next to no time together—and a request to let her know when I land safely.

  One voicemail from my father, droning on about how I’m being irresponsible and asking if I’m done with my selfish escapades yet—delete. I could call him right now and tell him I’m back in L.A., thus lowering his blood pressure, but I don’t.

  And lastly, dousing any hope for at least a decent return home, I have four texts from Warrick.

  Warrick (2:17pm): I miss you so much. You come home today, correct? What time?

  Warrick (2:51pm): The least you could do is reply, tell me you’re alive. After all we’ve been through, you owe me that much.

  Warrick (3:23pm): I can play immature games too. Her name is Jillian and she answers the minute I call, gives me anything I want.

  Then by all means, I’m begging you, call her! Again! Now, now works for me.

  Warrick (3:27pm): Found your flight. I’ll be waiting and YOU WILL TALK TO ME. I’M MORE THAN HAPPY TO END US BUT YOU WILL NOT SCREW ME OUT OF WHAT’S MINE!!

  Welcome home, Reece. I never should’ve come back. I could’ve gone anywhere, started over, hid out. But things have changed, and I’ll endure whatever they throw my way long enough to right certain wrongs.

  And us? Who are these “us” people of which he speaks? Warrick’s insane, always has been, but this is a new level of all-out hallucinatory.

  Even though I’m seated in row three, I’m the very last person to de-board, dreading what awaits me inside the terminal. I trudge down the tunnel on tense legs and uncooperative feet that feel weighted with trepidation, much like battling my way against the current.

  Sure enough, when I round the final corner, waiting on the other side of the glass door as threatened, arms crossed and volatility his only expression, stands Warrick Tyler. I summon up a timid smile and adjust my carry-on to offer him a friendly hug, which he shuns. Instead he takes the bag with one hand and my elbow, forcefully, in his other.

  “Nice trip, darling?” he snarls, dripping of toxic, misguided possessiveness.

  “Lovely, thanks for asking. How’ve you been?” I ask as I would of anyone, refusing to engage his pompous attempt at demeaning control.

  “We’ll talk about it in the car. Your father’s waiting.”

  “In the car?” I can’t taper my surprise. My father can hardly ever be bothered with my existence, so that he’s here spikes my suspicion.

  “Yes.” His sneer’s conniving. He loves the gang mentality he’s orchestrated for reasons yet unknown.

  They’re up to something even worse than usual—I can feel it in every intuitive nerve ending—and “usual” is disturbing enough.

  As Warrick opens the car door for me, he hands my bag to Ozzie, our driver. He’s much more than a driver to me though, and I don’t miss the worry in his eyes. He feels the trouble brewing as well.

  “Reece,” my father greets me.

  I slide in, my apprehension almost paralyzing, and accept my father’s dry, insincere kiss on both cheeks.

  “We’re so glad to have you back home where you belong,” he says. “I trust your trip went well?”

  Warrick joins us and gently rubs my leg. I shift away from him, unaware of when exactly we progressed to him touching me at his will.

  “Where’s Mother?” I ask, a rhetorical and awkward gap-filler at best.

  “Off raising money for something.” My father waves dismissively. “How was your friend’s wedding?”

  Your friend. He’s known Landry as long as I have. Why he thinks it’s classy or “so very upper echelon” to slide in exasperating little digs like that, I’ll never understand. You can say it in a British accent while sipping tea with the queen, but if you pretend not to know something you do, especially someone’s name, as if they’re of no consequence—it’s ignorant and pretentious; plain and simple. And it makes my skin crawl.

  “Wonderful, it was a beautiful ceremony. Landry made a gorgeous bride,” I lie with a straight face. I refuse to give either of them the satisfaction of the truth. Landry, with her countless interpretations of “friendship” aside, is my best friend. And I’ll be damned if I give them an opening to lambaste her. I can say or think whatever I want about her—they can’t.

  “Speaking of gorgeous brides…” My father and Warrick share a conspiratorial grin, and my stomach rolls. “Warrick has asked permission to marry you.”

  A shrill laugh pops out of me. I didn’t know my father had the ability to joke… or drank this early in the day? But he’s not holding a drink, and his scowl is anything but reciprocal of my laughter. The vile disgust of realization spreads from the pit of my stomach throughout my body, contracting every last muscle.

  “Wh-what?” I choke out.

  “Yes, I was more than pleasantly surprised too, dear, but thrilled of course. I readily gave him my blessing. This sensible union is long overdue. Why, your mother can hardly wait to start making plans. Congratulations.” He leans in to once more to chafe my cheeks with his sandpaper pecks.

  I was only gone for three days! Surely that wasn’t long enough for Warrick to completely lose his grip on reality and my father to travel back in time to betroth me. To Warrick?

  “A fall or winter wedding, either is fine with me, my love.” Warrick folds my hand in his and smiles. “Your choice.”

  Fall is... now. Winter, right after that. Wait, who cares? The season’s not the problem—their hallucinations are!

  The car, and my lungs, fill quickly with suffocating panic, but I school my expression and breathing. I need to play this just right. They think they’re so clever, trying to marry me to Warrick to ensure their control of my control. Obviously they’re not crafty enough to count though—they’re too late. My twenty-first birthday has come and gone. Maybe they’re in denial or don’t know my birthday—which wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest, my father didn’t comment on the day after all—but either way, they’ve fallen short on the timing of their insane plan.

  It doesn’t matter to them that Warrick and I struggle for amicable proximity at best. In their cold, calculating minds, this is a logical business decision. Marry her and put her on a shelf in the corner with all the other possessions while you reign over that which isn’t yours.

  In three days’ time, my father became a high-dollar pimp. I don’t even know what to say.

  And in the midst of these thoughts, a rich, tranquilizing voice echoes in my head. “Your spice, which you only break
out when it’ll pack the hardest punch. Your kindness and strength.”

  Suddenly, I’m no longer concerned with playing this mindful of their reactions. A fight I wasn’t sure I had in me surges up and out of my mouth, empowered by the memory of a certain anomalous acquaintance. “How do you get married without being proposed to? Which I wasn’t! And had I been, I would’ve declined, right after I stopped laughing. I’m no more interested in a life with Warrick than I am with being domineered, tricked, or coerced into things I don’t want for myself.” I keep my chin raised, jaw set in firm adamancy. “Warrick and I aren’t anything! How exactly did we get from not even dating to marriage?”

  “You’re exhausted from your trip, not thinking clearly. Let’s get you home for some rest,” Warrick placates me with a condescending grin.

  My father hums his agreement as they decide on the only possible explanation and solution as though I’d never spoken.

  “Don’t patronize me! Did you two honestly think I’d fall for this… this… bullshit?”

  “Reece, calm down, dear.” My father clicks his tongue and shakes his head disapprovingly. “This behavior, and that language, is beneath you. I apologize, Warrick, and she’ll be sure to do the same when she’s recovered from her trip.”

  “Of course,” Warrick says.

  I save my breath and stare out the window for the remainder of the ride, truly exasperated. I bolt from the car when we reach my penthouse, leaving my luggage and purposely eliminating any opportunity for Warrick to invite himself up. Cause who knows, maybe he does that now too; it seems anything’s possible.

  Emotionally and mentally exhausted and, quite honestly, a bit afraid that I’m actually the one who’s lost her mind, I run a hot bath and grab my phone while I wait. I have a call to make that can’t be postponed another second. Of course Oz answers on the first ring, not because he’s paid to do so, but rather—we’ve always had this kindred, unspoken bond—an invisible, comforting barrier from those around us.

  “Can you talk?” I ask quickly. The privacy partition was up when I got out of the car, and I’m praying that’s still the case.

  “Yes,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to warn you, sweetpea. I only caught the tail-end of their conversation right before we arrived to pick you up.”

  “Ozzie, they’re full-on delusional! They actually suggested that Warrick and I are gonna get married! What exactly did I miss?”

  “I understand, I’ll call you back with that information as soon as I have it. Thank you, sir,” He responds in his professional monotone then hangs up.

  The partition came down.

  I soak in the tub ‘til I’m pruny and relaxed. I’m too weary to wait any longer for Ozzie to call me back, so I dry off and crawl under my covers. I’m just about to drift off when my phone finally rings.

  “Alone at last?” I answer.

  “Just dropped that sniveling idiot off at the apartment of one Ms. Zais, a business associate. Boy thinks I’m stupid,” he growls.

  “Ozzie, I don’t care at all. You know I’m not even slightly interested in Warrick.”

  “But he’s interested in you. And your father’s going along with it! You’re his little girl. I’ve got a good mind to—”

  “Not important. There’s no way I’m cooperating, so it doesn’t matter. Now tell me something that does. Did you check on that thing I asked you about?”

  “You know I did.” He chuckles. “And you already know what I’m gonna say. Had your answer before you called me.”

  Of course I did. I knew the truth the minute the words “on the road” left his mouth. And with each subsequent affirmation, I felt a bit guiltier. “I needed to be absolutely positive. Kind of a big deal.”

  I sigh, feeling more unresolved than ever and terrified of how to proceed. But as always, the longer Ozzie and I talk, the stronger and more capable I feel. Our plans are intricate, based mostly on faith, and it’ll be amazing if we actually accomplish them.

  I go to sleep feeling… spicy.

  I spend the week rushing around in an endless, covert flurry. I field a few especially scrutinous phone calls from my father and Warrick, but I think I pull everything off undetected—as usual. Thankfully, those two don’t give me near enough credit, never have… makes it a lot easier for me to keep my finger on the pulse.

  On Thursday night, I’m drained, riding the paper-thin edge between deviously proud and paranoid, when in classic Landry fashion, her “Fancy” ringtone blares through my otherwise quiet bedroom. I hate that song, but she loves it.

  “’Lo?” I garble.

  “Reece, I need you to come back to Vegas. Pleaseeeee,” she whines.

  “I’m great, thank you for asking.”

  She huffs in my ear. “Sorry, how are you? Can you come back?”

  “What could’ve possibly happened in the last four days that would warrant me flying back?” I say a little too snippily.

  Landry wears me out. I truly believe, if she really tried, she could drive the pope to killing puppies. She didn’t spend any time with me when I was there, and now, disaster strikes again. It could literally be anything that’s wrong, and I do mean anything.

  Once, I walked out of a board meeting, crying hysterically from the terrifying briefing I got from her because she thought letting the tiny piece of paper with “a cute lil’ snowman on it” dissolve on her tongue was a good idea. Babysitting your best friend while she comes down from an LSD trip? Horrific and definitely worth a flight… except she’d have been far safer in the ER than waiting the three and a half hours it took me to fly to her.

  Or the eerily similar phone call I once got because she thought some guy had “given her something?”

  It was an ingrown hair.

  “Landry, what is it?” I ask with as much genuine concern as I’m still able to contrive after years of friendship with her.

  “I don’t want to talk about it over the phone.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  I’m never one to be unsympathetic, I’d like to think, and I breathe a sigh of relief at her calming response. But I swear to God, if she just scared ten years off my life because she queefed really loudly or something as asinine, I’ll strangle her with my bare hands. Yes, that happened. You can’t make that kind of thing up. “Call me in the morning. If this is still a catastrophe then, I’ll be there.”

  “It will be, Reece. You’re going to have to come, please. I love you, best friend ever.”

  Now she’s got me worried again, and I’m suddenly hoping it’s the queef thing—add that to my recent, and rapidly growing, list of things I never thought would happen. Maybe I can talk her down in the morning when we’re both thinking more clearly.

  But I won’t. If she calls in the morning, I’m Vegas-bound again… because only Landry can convince Landry something’s not really a big deal. So I hang up and roll back over, planning what to pack, as sleep creeps upon me once more. Landry’s annoying sometimes, but far worse are my father and Warrick.

  And Vegas… isn’t annoying at all.

  As predicted, I wake to over ten missed calls and texts from Landry, still needing me to come back ASAP. I call her to confirm it wasn’t a bad acid trip, an embarrassing bodily noise incident, or anything just as insignificant, and agree to be there as soon as I can. She promises to give me an explanation the minute I step off the plane.

  Next I call my main man Oz, and together, we do what we do best—devise plans, and the excuse for him to offer my father and Warrick when they realize I’m once again not at their disposal—I’m off preparing myself mentally to be a wife. Makes me queasy just thinking it. As far as my location? Well, we’ve made an arbitrary list of places that start with “B” for him to rattle off. He’s assured me ten times that he will in fact be able to say all that with a straight face and/or a mocked bout of oncoming Alzheimer’s, whichever the situation calls for. There’s no telling what deception th
ose two vultures might be keen to.

  So while I throw non-matching, perhaps clean, perhaps not, items in an easily carried-on bag, I book a commercial flight under the alias no one other than myself knows and head out the door.

  Ozzie’s waiting with a supportive, paternal grin, holding open the door for me. “Landry sounded all right today?”

  “Yep, I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  “Then why are you going?” He grins, razzing me since I may have let a few personal, motivational details slip while we carried out our “plans” this past week. Who else am I gonna run it by—Landry? No.

  “I can’t believe you’re teasing me, mean old man.” I faux pout in jest. “I thought you were on my side?”

  “Always. You have nothing to worry about, so stop.”

  “But you don’t even know h—”

  “I know you. I’ve watched you grow into a fine young woman whose taste and judgment I trust impeccably. If you like him, I like him.”

  My eyes moisten. I wish my actual father could be half as faithful and understanding as Ozzie, and I thank him around a sniffle.

  “Oh, don’t go hugging me just yet, little one. I’m still gonna put the boy through the wringer. If he messes up in any way, he’ll need the forgiveness of more than just your sweet self.”

  I laugh, a bit tense. “Either way, it’s Landry I really am going back for.”

  “Uh huh.” He nods and helps me in the car.

  Yeah, I didn’t quite buy it either.

  This talk’s most likely all for naught, but it sure feels good to know my Ozzie loves me unconditionally. I spend the ride to the airport wondering what Landry’s gonna tell me. If it’s another wedding—a do-over with her ex-douchebag, some fly-by-night sham with a new douchebag, or Jarrett (oh God, surely not already)—I’ll kill her.

  Pregnant? Not the end of the world. I’ll help her.

  New job? Nah, she’d have spilled that over the phone… unless it’s as a stripper or a porn star. Anddddd, I’m again rooting for queef.