by Nina Levine
I hold up the pills. “Yeah, that’s what these are for.”
“Wise guy,” she mutters.
I swallow the pills and place the ice on the desk as I stand. “I’m gonna go see the plumber.”
“That ice needs to stay on for longer.”
“Because we have all the time in the world for that.”
“Seriously, God was running low on creative juice the day she came up with the male prototype.” She picks up the icepack and presses it to my face. “You can walk, talk, and hold that against your bruises all in one go.”
Again, I do as I’m told because, Scarlett.
I do it with a twitch of my lips that gets me an eye-roll that I really fucking like.
Scarlett’s edges are definitely fucking smoothing.
She might still be fighting our attraction, but it’s only a matter of time until she white flags me.
18
Scarlett
My brother was wrong to question whether my chest holds a heart. I know that surer than ever as I exit the rehab clinic out into the winter chill that doesn’t feel anywhere near as cold as I do after seeing Bailey.
He doesn’t want to get off the meth.
He’s saying all the right things and hasn’t left the clinic yet, but I only have to look in his eyes to read his soul. If our mother wasn’t already dead, I’d kill her for the nightmares she’s given him. The ones that are slowly taking his life.
That heart in my chest is heavy today. It might actually crush under the weight of sadness I feel over what I saw in Bailey.
I wanted this to be the time he wanted back in, but it hits me as I walk to my car that he never even got started in life, so he has nothing to want back in on. Our mother took that from him when she gave him his first rush.
Motherfucker.
I smash my hand against my car as sadness gives way to anger.
Fucking drugs and fucking mothers who fuck their kids up should not be allowed to exist.
My arms are manic limbs controlled by the hatred that fills me as I hit the car repeatedly.
It’s too much hatred for one person.
I know this, but I don’t know how to rid myself of it.
The only thing I’m beginning to realise is that I can’t want something for my brother that he doesn’t want for himself. And if he does want it, even just a little bit, I can’t want it more and make it happen simply because I do.
As far as I’m concerned, that understanding can fuck off with itself.
I finally give up on trying to punch my anger out of me and get in my car so I can make the short drive to work. I’ve got a busy Saturday afternoon and night ahead of me at Trilogy and am really fucking hopeful it’ll take my mind off Bailey.
Wilder is talking with Brody in the kitchen when I arrive. They’re going over the produce list our new supplier sent through yesterday after Wilder finally gave Col the flick. That decision would have earned him a lot of points with me if he’d made it a long time ago, but I did get great satisfaction out of hearing him give Col the what for.
I leave them to it and head into the staff room to dump my bag and get ready for my shift. Thoughts of Bailey and our family are still messing with me, causing a whole lot of energy to agitate my body and mind. I’m pretty sure I should come with a warning to avoid at all costs today.
Once I’ve changed into my uniform, I make my way to the kitchen but am stopped by Wilder, who’s now in his office.
“Scarlett,” he calls as I walk past.
“What?” It comes out way harsher than I mean, and at Wilder’s confused look, I say, “Shit, that should not have sounded like that.” I shove my fingers through my hair as I enter his office, grimacing as pain shoots through my hand from using my car as a punching bag. “I advise strict precaution coming near me today.”
“I advise that most days,” he says, eyeing me with concern but not voicing it, something I appreciate. I’m not about talking my shit out, and Wilder respects this.
I don’t know what leads me to do it, but I drop down onto the stool across from him and say, “Do you know something I like about you, Wilder? Like, really like?”
“What?”
“That as much as you can drive me all sorts of crazy, you seem to know exactly when not to drive me crazy.”
“I’ve learned when to pick my battles, Scar.”
My heart beats a little faster at the realisation I’m having and the fact I’m going to share it with him. “No one else ever has.”
The green shade I like so much flashes in his eyes, waking all my butterflies up. Who even knew they existed? Not me, until just recently. “You need the day off?”
“No.” I stare at him in silence that he doesn’t try to fill. I’m so fucking grateful he gets my need for it.
A text comes through on my phone during that silence.
Paul: A week is too long to go without seeing you. We need to align our schedules so we can make drinks happen.
We’ve been texting all week, unable to get together because of work and life commitments.
I look at Wilder. “Your brother is some kind of voodoo I may never understand.”
He smiles but I detect that it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m gonna need further clarification on that.”
“He’s the only person I’ve ever met who I liked instantly, and I like everything about him. That’s some black magic right there. Your parents know their shit when it comes to making boys.”
I never hand out compliments, and the only excuse I have for this one is that I’m in a funky mood after seeing my brother and reflecting on my shitty family. Well, that and the fact I’ve given up on trying to deny my attraction to Wilder. He kissed my will to resist him right out of me on Monday. Not that I’m moving fast on letting him know that, but my defences are way down.
I see how much he likes what I’ve said, but he doesn’t comment on it like I expect him to. Instead, he says, “I don’t think any parent knows their shit fully.”
“Well, I don’t have any experience with a parent who knows even just a little bit of their shit, so I can’t comment on that.”
“What was your dad like?”
“That’s a good question that I might be able to answer if I knew who he was. But you know what? I’m better off not knowing him and not having any expectations because they only lead to disappointment.”
Fuck, this conversation hasn’t gone anywhere good, and I’ve probably dragged Wilder’s mood right down to where mine is.
I jerk up off the stool and am about to announce my departure when he says, “What happened today, Scar?”
“And there I was thinking you were good at knowing which battles to pick.”
“I am. I’m also good at knowing when to pick them.”
“Your timing is all kinds of off for this one.”
“I don’t think so.”
More silence sits long and weighted between us as my mind tries to chase me out of his office.
It fails.
It turns out his timing is all kinds of right.
“I went to see Bailey.”
“And?”
“And he’s not ready to break his addiction.”
“You wanna talk about how that makes you feel or you wanna throw things at me for asking?”
“You already know the answer to that question.”
“And yet, I’m still hoping you’ll give me a different answer.”
Goddamn this man and his ways.
I want to throw all the things at him.
I also want to tell him shit I’ve never wanted to tell anyone.
“I have this knot of hatred so fucking big that sits in my chest and my stomach and every-fucking-where that I can’t get rid of. I hate my mother. I hate the drugs she gave Bailey. I hate the world for creating those drugs. I hate that it’s so hard to break an addiction. And I fucking wish I could get rid of all this hatred.” I snap my mouth shut before opening it again and throwing out, “I
bet you’re glad you asked.”
“You’re not filled with hatred,” he says, his voice softer than usual. “You’re filled with hurt.” At my blank stare, because seriously, any fool can deduce I’m filled with hurt, he adds, “You need to let it hurt. Stop doing your damnedest to run from all your feelings and just let them fuckin’ bleed.”
That churning energy he caused in my chest the other day roars to life.
I’m standing in front of him, feeling more exposed than I ever have, and I don’t know how to escape.
I’m also not sure I want to escape.
When I finally figure out how to speak again, I say, “Who knew you had it in you to Dr. Phil me? Next time I’ll stick to throwing things at you.”
Wilder proves how smart he is when he holds out an iPad and says, “I need you to go through the rosters at some point today and fix the staffing issues we have next week.”
I take the iPad. As I’m exiting the office, I turn back to him and say so softly, it’s almost a whisper, “I’m not good with blood.”
That green of his I like so much flares in his eyes. “I am.”
The night whizzes by so damn fast I can’t recall even breathing. I don’t get a break until just after nine, at which point I stick my AirPods in, pull up some ’80s rock, and head to my milk crate in the corner of the kitchen. I’m halfway through my dinner of a burger when Harlow texts.
Harlow: Girl, you need to come out for a drink after work.
Me: It’s a no from me if you’re on that green shit again.
Harlow: LOL. I’m not. I’m sticking to gin tonight.
Me: I’m tired. I’m just gonna go home.
Harlow: Nooooooo. We need you.
Harlow: Scar, it’s Chelsea. You better say yes or I’m gonna find ways to torment you at yoga on Monday.
Me: You don’t need to search for those ways. You’ve already found them.
Harlow: Still Chelsea. I can find new ways. Trust me.
Jesus, I don’t doubt her.
I’m tapping out a reply when Wilder folds all those muscles of his onto the spare milk crate next to me. I pull out my AirPods and look at him while trying to ignore the sensations caused by his body being so close to mine.
I haven’t seen him since our conversation in his office, but I’ve spent a lot of those hours thinking about him. Wilder has a depth I’ve not met in a man before, a depth I’m drawn to. When I add it to the physical attraction I have for him, I’m looking at a whole lot of inescapable magnetism.
“You think you can get any closer to me?” I ask. Seriously, there’s barely any room for a small person in that space between me and the wall; there’s certainly not enough room for him.
“I can try,” he says, a rasp teasing his voice that starts a domino effect of want from one part of my body to the rest.
My breaths crash into each other as they fight to get to my lungs faster than normal. I try to latch onto words in my brain but flounder. All the while, Wilder waits patiently for my response, and my phone pings with what feels like a million fucking texts.
I get all in a fucking tizz as my want collides with my inability to speak and my irritation over the pinging. Finally, I yank my attention to my phone and snap, “For fuck’s sake, can’t a girl have a moment of peace?”
Harlow: That’s a yes, right?
Harlow: Why are you keeping us in suspense?
Harlow: Honestly, I will come and drag you out if need be.
Harlow: You know I will.
Harlow: Scar, stop hiding from me.
Harlow: OK, I’m taking your non-response as a yes, and if I don’t see you here later, I’m sending someone to come get you.
“Jesus,” I mutter.
“What?”
My head jerks up to look at Wilder again. “Girl squad is hard fucking work.”
The smile that spreads across his face is a smile a girl can get on board with. Maybe it’s because he’s so close to me that I feel it more deeply, but holy fuck me into next week, I am here for it. Like, he just needs to give me all his smiles already.
“Why?” he asks.
I hold up my phone to show him the mountain of texts I’ve received tonight. “They’re relentless.”
He takes my phone and reads the messages before handing it back to me. “Pack your shit up, go home, and put your party dress on.”
“Ah, that’d be a no. I’m rostered for a couple more hours.”
“And we don’t need you. Go.”
“I’m wounded that you think you don’t need me.”
He laughs, and it reaches his eyes in so many good ways. “We always need you, Scar, but I think we can manage without you for the rest of the night. Go and shoot the shit with your squad.”
“Did you come in here for a reason?”
“Yeah.”
When he isn’t forthcoming with information, I say, “Are you gonna share it with me or do I have to guess?”
Still with that smile in place, he says, “I was just checking in on you to make sure you’re doing okay.” He unfolds himself from the crate and looks down at me. “Go be with your squad.”
I stand, which is as much a bad move as it is a good one because now I’m so close to him that my breaths wanna play Speed Racer again, and I might just throw myself at him. “For the record, I don’t own a party dress.”
“Yeah you do,” he says, all rasp and green eyes. “You were wearing it the night I showed you my moves.”
Holy Jesus, how did I not see that coming?
“That wasn’t my dress. It was Harlow’s.”
Those greens of his don’t take their attention off me as he leans even fucking closer and shows me that if I thought I’d seen his moves, I was mistaken. “Thank fuck for that. I don’t need to spend the night thinking about anyone’s eyes all over you in a sexy-as-fuck dress.”
I pick my mouth up off the floor as I watch him saunter out of the kitchen.
And since saunter is not a word that has ever been anywhere near my brain or my tongue, I declare myself completely fucking fucked.
I actually think I need squad time.
19
Scarlett
“And what’s with those muscles of his? A girl can’t get any fucking peace when they’re around. There’s no way we could be together. I’d never get anything done again. I’d just spend all my time trying to remove my tongue from him,” I vomit the words all over the place like the proud squad member I am.
I’m three hours into the night with the girls and this is what I’ve been reduced to.
“Scar,” Harlow says, taking my drink from me, “I think you should stop drinking.”
“She’s right,” Madison says. “You’re wasted, and I know this because you haven’t stopped talking about Wilder for the last hour.”
“Lemme get this straight,” I say, vaguely aware of the fact I can’t really feel my lips anymore. “First you guys are all over me to be all about him, and now that I am, you don’t wanna hear about it?”
“No, I’m good with hearing it,” Madison says. “But I feel like you might regret this in the morning since usually you don’t wanna tell us a single thing.”
“Fucking hell.” I snatch my drink back off Harlow and throw the rest of it down my throat. “Men!”
Madison laughs and nods. “Agreed.”
Harlow frowns at me drunkenly. “Remind me again what he did wrong? I think I missed that bit of the story somehow.”
Chelsea smacks her. Well, she tries, but girl is as wasted as me and misses so she really just smacks the air. “Keep up. This isn’t about what he did.”
Harlow keeps frowning, which confuses me, so I drunk frown back at her. “What?” I say.
“What’s it about then?” she says.
“Personally, I think it’s about his muscles,” Madison says.
I stare at her like she’s the drunkest one here when she’s actually the only sober one. “Huh?”
“Muscles ruin a woman,” Madis
on says. “They get us all hot and bothered.”
“Right,” I agree, following where she’s going.
“But,” she says, “Wilder’s a good guy, and that’s what’s really getting you hot and bothered.”
“Yes!” Harlow says, finally stopping with the frowns.
They’re both right; even my drunk brain knows this.
Also, I don’t wanna talk about it anymore.
Looking at Madison, I say, “That’s enough about him. Tell me how your pregnancy is going.”
Madison laughs again. “Can we all take a minute and acknowledge what just happened?”
“What just happened?” And why are they all grinning at me?
“You just completed your initiation,” Madison says.
“What initiation?” Fuck, I must be drunker than I think. I have no clue what she’s going on about.
“The one into our group,” Madison says, while Harlow looks ready to burst with those unicorns she told me she could conjure up. “You just spent an hour whinging to us about a man and then asked about my pregnancy.”
Harlow raises her glass and Chelsea clinks it with hers. “There’s no going back now, Scar.”
Jesus.
I did do that.
Harlow hooks her arm around my neck in the way only a drunk girl can and pulls me close. “It’s okay to admit you love us. We love you too.”
I fight my way out of her hold and mutter, “For fuck’s sake, I just asked how your pregnancy is going. Are you gonna answer my question?”
The three of them burst out laughing.
Madison then launches into a detailed discussion about boobs, and morning sickness, and how much she wants to fuck J all the time. It’s enough to make me wish again for the ability to whoosh words right back on into my mouth.
When Chelsea asks them to describe labour, I’m out.
I stand, wobbling a little on my drunk legs. At Harlow’s questioning glance, I say, “I’ve gotta pee.”