by Kim Karr
Yeah, that felt fucking amazing.
Once my breathing returns to normal, I lather up with the lavender soap once again, rinse it off, and get out of the shower. I don’t bother to shave.
Wrapping a towel around my waist, I wipe the steam from the mirror. I slick my hair back and stare into my own gray eyes, thinking that for just a moment, I saw myself there. The guy I used to be. My gaze lowers, and the ink on my chest is a constant reminder of the ways things have changed.
Forever.
That so familiar fury rips through me and I have to cast my eyes away.
When I reach inside my duffle for my clothes, I find the present Amelia told me about.
I’d forgotten about that little ditty.
With a heavy sigh, I pull it out. Vanessa has written my full name across the card. Camden Pearson Waters. Typical that she wouldn’t think about how much seeing my father’s name, my own middle name, on the card would burn.
The decision to open the gift comes out of sheer fuck you curiosity. Honestly, I’m wondering what kind of sex toy she thought would lure me back this time. It’s as if she thinks sex is the key to my heart. How shallow does she think I am? Besides, we experimented with toys in the bedroom only a few times through the years, and overall I’d have to say our sex life was mostly vanilla.
Now suddenly after our breakup she decides to become this saucy vixen. It’s almost laughable. The texts, messages, and gifts do need to stop. Let’s see, aside from the X-rated text messages, the gifts are always extreme. She’s sent me nipple clamps with the note “Can’t wait for you to use these on me.” She’s mailed me handcuffs, with the memo “I’m yours for the taking” wrapped around them. And she’s had delivered countless other items. The ones that didn’t end up in the trash, I spitefully gave to the next girl I fucked to use for my pleasure.
Yeah, I admit I have anger issues.
Not sure what could possibly be left for her to give me except the key to her ass, I find myself shaking when I see the framed photo of my brother, her, and myself at my brother’s graduation from Columbia two years ago in the box. Under the photo, etched in the silver, is scripted, The Three Musketeers.
Unable to stop myself, I slam it into the trash can and watch the glass shatter into hundreds of tiny pieces.
It takes everything within me not to call her and rip her in two. Fuck it. I won’t give her the satisfaction of dialing her number.
Given the amount of time it takes me to calm down, I hope like fuck I can get to California tonight.
Throwing on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, I attempt to shake off the reaction and spend what little time I have left with Amelia.
Coffee is brewing in the pot when I enter the kitchen, and my sister is sitting at the kitchen table with her laptop in front of her. I grab a mug and look over at her. “Find anything?”
Amelia closes her laptop and smiles. “I did. JKF had none, but there’s a flight out of Newark tonight. That gives us a whopping eight hours together before you have to leave. So what do you want to do?”
“Let’s get my ticket booked first, and then we’ll decide.” Searching for my wallet, I see it is on the kitchen table along with my phone and keys. Amelia must have taken them out of my pockets last night. “Always taking care of me.” I point.
“Someone has to.” She grins, tucking a piece of turquoise-colored hair behind her ear. Just one small strand of individuality that I know she hides from our father when she sees him, but it’s enough for her to make herself feel like she’s calling the shots.
I let her believe that.
“Okay then, put my credit card info in and let’s get something to eat.” I rub my stomach. “I’m starving.”
“About that,” she says, rising from the table. “The only seats left were first class.”
Over the rim of my mug, I study her. “You know I can’t afford that.”
Leaning against the counter, she crosses her arms over her chest. “Yeah, I kind of figured that, so I used my own card.”
Glaring at her, I slam my coffee down. “He is not paying for my flight.”
She steps a little closer. “Cam, you wanted to get back tonight and it was all that was available. Besides, he’ll never know. He doesn’t check my statements. And even if he does figure it out, he won’t care. He’d want to help you.”
With a deep breath, I remember that she doesn’t really understand, doesn’t know, so I make light of it. “I’m going to send you the money as soon as I get it, and I want you to put it on your credit card.”
She rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”
“You know I want to do things on my own, without his help.”
Amelia sighs as if annoyed by my quest for independence, and I wonder if not telling her was the right choice. “Okay then, since that is settled,” she says with a smile, “let’s go to Balthazar and then to Central Park so I can snap some pictures. Everything is in bloom and with finals, I haven’t made it up there yet.”
I eye her curiously. “I’m cool with the park, but Balthazar? Really?” I use my fingers to draw quote marks as I add, “‘I can’t handle all the snooty people in there.’ Isn’t that what you always say?”
Her middle finger looks me right in the face.
I grab it and push it down.
Feigning pain, she shakes her hand. “They have good food.”
“Still, you don’t like the atmosphere.”
My sister is petite, but once in a while she comes across as fierce. “But you love the food, so I will persevere. Are you going to make a stink about that, too, or can I do something nice for you just because I want to?”
Whether or not she’s affectionate, and whether or not I am, I pull her in for a hug and kiss the top of her head. “You know I love you.”
In very untypical Amelia behavior, she hugs me back. “And even though you’re an obstinate ass sometimes, you know I love you too.”
The power of the words. Hard to say. Harder not to say back.
I chuckle throatily.
Then I do what I told myself I wouldn’t and bring up a subject I know I shouldn’t. “Do you mind if I invite Mom?”
When she pulls away with a scowl, I know she isn’t happy. “Yes, I do.”
I should have kept my trap shut. Still, I had to try. Hating the rift between them, I look into her eyes and say her name with a sigh. “Amelia.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Don’t ‘Amelia’ me. She’s the one who decided not to be a part of our family. Left us when we needed her. Got herself a boyfriend almost half her age, and moved to some artsy loft in Brooklyn.”
Not wanting to go there, not willing to go there, to tell her all the ways we always shielded her from the truth, I do what I always do when my sister and I come to this juncture and back the fuck down. The reasons behind our parents’ divorce aren’t for me to tell. This I know. So instead of saying any more, I raise my hands in surrender. “Okay, forget I said anything.”
“Already forgotten.”
Sorry I brought it up, I take hold of her gemstone necklace and change the subject. “You like this, huh?”
She looks down. “I love it. Where’d you get it, anyway?”
I tug on her colored strand of hair. “A friend of mine. She has a whole bunch that her friend makes. I’ll see if she has a turquoise one and send it to you.”
“Oh, I’d love that. Thanks. Now let’s go before our time together runs out.”
I look at my watch. “We should have plenty of time.”
“Not really. After the park, I was hoping to go the top of the Empire State Building. I have a new flash and I want to take some photos of the city for my portfolio.”
“It’s not like I’m going to say no, but fuck, with all the things you want to do, there’s a good chance I might miss my plane.”
She raises a brow. “Maybe that’s my plan.”
Fiend.
I shoot her a grin. “Sorry, sis, not going to happen.”
&nbs
p; “What’s the rush?”
“I have a job.”
Amelia rolls her eyes. “You’re a lifeguard.”
Used to the jabs she likes to make, I ignore it, and poke her in the stomach. “It’s still a job. More than I can say for you. Besides, I have all that sunshine and all those pretty girls waiting for me.”
Turning on her heels, she tosses over her shoulder, “Whatever.”
“No, seriously, I have to work tomorrow.”
“I get it. I get it.”
New York City might have once been my home, but now I’m homeless. And California just feels like the place I can figure my life out.
At least there, I don’t have any worries, there are no distractions, and I don’t have any shit to deal with.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
And sometimes I almost believe it.
Almost.
MAKAYLA
PROFICIENT NEW YORKER THAT I am, I can navigate the subway like no one else, or hail a cab with a whistle in no time flat.
Seriously, I’m that good.
Standing in front of my apartment building with my four suitcases, today I’m practically on fire. Within mere seconds of my arm flying up and my hand waving in the air, a cab pulls to the curb. Then he looks at all of my bags and drives away.
“Hey, wait. I need a ride!” I yell.
Like he cares. He’s long gone.
After three more failed attempts, I finally bribe one of the drivers with a hefty tip.
So much for proficiency.
Jockeying the luggage around, the reluctant driver manages to squeeze the two oversized suitcases in the trunk, one of the smaller bags in the front seat, and the last one in the seat next to me.
When I get in, I shove it over a little to buckle my seat belt. That’s when the hem of my skirt catches on the cracked vinyl seat and tugs the fabric up a little too high on my bare legs.
Not quite panty-showing short, but close.
Fortunately, the driver doesn’t seem to notice the flash I just gave him. “Where to?” he asks.
“Newark Airport,” I tell him, and lean against the seat feeling a little sadder than I thought I would.
As soon as the driver hits the Lincoln Tunnel, I start second-guessing my decision to leave the city I grew up in. From financially secure for the first nine years and practically the complete opposite for the last fifteen, it still has always been a constant for me.
Watching the skyline fade away once we’re out, I can’t help but recall how difficult that transition was.
Money sure changes how people act around you.
My father had lost everything in the dot-com bubble. He was a self-made man who built an empire, lived life large, and then skipped out on my mother and me when it all crumbled. To this day, I have no idea where he is, nor do I care.
Luckily for my mother and me, the California retailer Simon Warren had decided to launch their women’s division on the East Coast around that same time and moved their head of operations, Katherine May, to New York City. Katherine was in desperate need of help, and she hired my mother as her personal assistant.
That’s how I met Maggie—Katherine is her mother.
Such an amazing woman.
Then, when I was sixteen, my mother died unexpectedly of an aortic dissection—an aneurysm. I was left alone. And it was Maggie’s mother who stepped up and took me in. I have no idea where I would have gone had she not. More than likely, I would have had to move in with some mean, distant relative I’d never met. Thank God that didn’t happen.
I stayed with the Mays until high school graduation. As soon as Maggie and I moved into the college dorms, Katherine headed back to Los Angeles. I think she held out in the city for longer than she wanted to. For Maggie and me. I owe her so much.
Just as the cabdriver approaches the airport, my cell rings and jolts me from my memories. As I grab it from my purse, Maggie’s name flashes across the screen. “Hey,” I answer.
“Hey,” she says back. “Where are you?”
Horns beep as the cab speeds down the road. “On my way to the airport.” I answer with a smile, and a secret from last night that I decided to wait to tell her about in person. She’s going to freak when I tell her I was in the same room with a couple that was, well, doing what they were doing.
“Good, then you have some time,” she says.
Wary, I check the time on my phone. “Not that much,” I tell her with a little hiccup. I should not have taken that swig of soda that I drank for extra caffeine just before I left. Carbonation really does funky things to my body.
For some odd reason, the sound makes me think of Cam. Was he really an asshole or had Megan with a B done something to hurt him? There’s something about him I can’t forget. For a moment last night, I thought I shared a kinship with Megan with a B, but maybe it was really with Cam. It was the sound of his voice, angry and broken at the same time, that I can’t let go of. Reminds me of me, I guess.
Maggie laughs and I push the thoughts of the man I’ll never meet out of my mind. “Okay, I think it’s safe to say you have five minutes.”
Eyeing the miles of taillights ahead, I answer with, “I’m sure I do. Why?”
“Did you make that playlist I told you to?”
I bite my tongue so I won’t make a snarky comment. “Yes, Maggie, I made the playlist.”
There’s a chortle-like noise coming through the line. “Let me hear one of the songs.”
She doubts me.
But I know better.
Maggie is a girl you never say no to because if you do, she’ll beat you down until you say yes.
Tapping my screen, I pull up the futile task she assigned me to complete to help lift me out of my funk, and then I hit play. Sounds of Madonna fill the cab. A little horrified, I quickly hit stop.
“Oh, that’s good,” she says. Then adds, “I hope that dreadful song isn’t included?”
She means “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” I skip telling her it was my first karaoke choice last night. “No, it’s not, but I have to admit, I had a hard time with this playlist.”
“What?”
“I know it’s almost impossible to believe that I’d ever put both the words hard and list in the same sentence.” At least I’m admitting it.
Almost suspiciously, she asks, “How many songs are on it?”
“Twelve,” I say under my breath. “And you can hear them all when I get there.”
This time she claps. “Yay, I can’t wait. Now it’s time to move on.”
“Move on?”
Oh no.
“Yes. I’m going to be emailing you something shortly, and I want you to get started on it right away.”
Reluctance moves through me. “What is it?”
Maggie and I were not only childhood friends, but also college roommates at the Fashion Institute of Technology. Opposites in so many ways, but alike in others. I think that’s why we get along so well even after being separated by thousands of miles for the past twelve months. The thing is, she hasn’t changed, but I have, and not for the better.
Maggie tried hard to make it work after college in New York City, but she was a California girl at heart, and after losing her tenth retail job, she hung it up and moved to the unoccupied bungalow her grandmother had left her on Laguna Beach. Now, she’s a lifeguard and lives life for the fun of it.
Not exactly all grown up, but it works for her, for now, anyway. And I love her no matter what. She’s not only my best friend; she’s my greatest champion. But that also means she knows everything about me, and sometimes she has this need to push me beyond my threshold.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” she offers up as bait.
Knowing better, I don’t take it. “That’s kind of vague. I’ve said a lot.”
“You know what I’m referring to, Makayla Alexander. About you being worried that everyone is going to think you’re an uptight city girl.”
I heave a heavy
sigh. “Oh, that.”
She giggles. “Yes, that. And I have a solution to ease your worries.”
This time I laugh. “You have a solution? What? Do you think you’re going to fix me?”
“Makayla, you’re not broken. All this shit is in your head because of Sebastian, that fucker.”
Tipping my head, I squeeze my eyes shut and try not to cry at the mention of my ex-fiancé. “Maggie, we’ve talked about this. It’s not in my head. It’s a fact, and no matter what I do, everyone is going to figure it out.”
She doesn’t argue, but her voice grows softer. “That right there, missy, is why you’re going to prove to yourself you’re not that uptight bitch you think you are.”
The cabdriver slams on his brakes and I’m jerked forward. Abandonment of the city has its advantages because right now, his crazy driving skills don’t bother me in the least. “And how exactly am I going to do that?” I ask with another hiccup. Damn soda.
“Glad you asked. You’re going to do that by completing every item on the list.”
“The list?” My ears perk up.
“Yes, the list.” I can hear the smile in her voice.
She had me at the word list, and she knows it.
“I’m emailing it to you now. Look it over and be ready to talk about it when you arrive. See you soon. ’Bye.”
“Maggie, wait.” It’s too late. She’s gone.
Moments later I receive a notification that I have mail.
Just then the cabdriver exits the turnpike; I go flying across the backseat and smash against my suitcase. My phone drops to the floor. Not again. Please not again. When I finally manage to find it on the grimy floor and pick it up, I open the email. All the body says is, “You can do this. One month. You so got it.”
Clicking on the attachment, a nicely numbered list populates my screen.