by Lane Hart
It’s the same recurring dream that I’ve had for weeks now, where I’m paralyzed, unable to touch Brody or speak to him, as he makes love to me, with home plate as my pillow. After he finishes inside me and the sun begins to light up the sky, he always scowls down at me, warning me not to tell anyone – that he’ll deny it if I do – and that it will never happen again. As he moves off me to redress, I try to open my mouth and beg him to stay, but no matter how hard I struggle for the words, I can’t speak or move a muscle; not until it’s too late, and he’s already gone…
Using the sheets tangled around me to dry my face, I give up on any more sleep and climb out of bed to take a shower, trying to wash away the memories of grass, dirt, and Brody with a little soap and hot water. As usual, it doesn’t work.
Trying to be productive, I decide to bring my laptop over to the bed with me and start checking my emails. There are two new rejection letters, one from a school portraits photographer position and another from a sales associate at a studio, each telling me thanks for my application, however, they’ve decided to go with a more experienced candidate. Well, of course they have, because pretty much everyone in the field has more experience than a recent college grad.
Growling in frustration, I open up the web browser to start searching for more jobs to apply to so they can also reject me.
“You okay in here?” Cheryl asks as she sticks her head in the doorway.
“No!” I grumble. “Two more no thanks emails. That’s like, ten this week,” I tell her. “And it’s only Wednesday!”
“Something will come up,” she assures me.
“Not soon enough to make my big, fat student loan payment! What the fuck am I gonna do, Cher?” I ask my best friend.
“Have you applied to Micky D’s?” she suggests.
“Oh, screw that! They wouldn’t pay me enough for my loan, even if I got hired,” I whine. “Which I probably wouldn’t because I have no experience in anything. All I have is a fucking degree that cost a small fortune, and it’s not worth shit!”
“Art degrees are, like, so last year,” she says in a mock Cali girl accent, sweeping her long, non-existent hair over her shoulder.
“Apparently,” I agree. “There is nothing out there for me. I can’t even get a damn internship. I’m offering to work for free to get experience and nothing, nada. Nobody wants me.” But what else is new.
“You’ll find something, Riles. Just be patient.”
“Easy for you to say,” I huff. “You have a nice job and don’t have a three hundred dollar a month student loan coming due in a few months’ time.”
“I know, and I’m sorry,” she says, hopping up on the bed next to me. “If I hear of anything artsy, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks,” I mutter.
“How have you been doing otherwise? I heard you this morning. Still having wet dreams over Daddy Morefucks?” she asks, using the ridiculous nickname.
“Yes. I’m pathetic,” I admit glumly.
“I still get chills thinking about that goodbye kiss,” she says. “If you ask me, that wasn’t a ‘this is over’ type of kiss.”
“Oh, but it was,” I disagree. “That relationship was doomed from the very beginning. You warned me.”
“I did, didn’t I?” she remarks. “You know, I bet he’s actually good for something more than orgasms too.”
“He was good for lots of things,” I argue. Brody was sweet and caring…
“I mean, I bet a successful man like him in the art industry would have tons of contacts, maybe even one who could use an intern.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not like I can reach out and ask him, is it?” I grumble. “He didn’t even give me his phone number.”
“No, but I know someone right across the apartment complex who has it,” she points out.
And this is why I love my best friend.
“Will you ask Sara for me?” I beg her with my hands clasped together pleadingly. “But don’t tell her it’s for me because then she probably won’t do it.”
“Oh, Riles. How little do you know my good friend, Sara,” Cheryl says with a giggle. “If she had the opportunity to ship you off to anywhere else in the state or, even better, the country, just to get rid of you, you can bet your ass, she’ll do it.”
“She hates me that much?” I ask, my chest swelling with hope.
“God, yes. Especially since the beach trip. For some reason, she seems to think you were flirting with her father.”
“Like I would do such a sordid thing as hit on one of my friend’s fathers,” I gasp in mock indignation. “What kind of two-bit whore does she take me for?”
“I know, right?” Cheryl says with a laugh. “I assured her that you’re just super friendly with everyone, that’s part of your natural charm, and there was no way you were hitting on her old man.”
“Thanks,” I tell her, appreciating her covering for me.
“Let me go talk to her this afternoon when I get home from work, and see what I can do,” she offers.
“Thanks, Cher! You’re the best!” I tell my roomie as I throw my arms around her.
Chapter Seventeen
Brody
If someone asked me how long it’s been since I’ve seen Riley, I could tell them it’s been exactly seven weeks, four days, and about eight hours. You would think that by now I would be over her absence, that I would have forgotten the smell of her coconut oil and fruity shampoo, the softness of her skin under my fingertips, or the taste of her sweet lips on mine.
I haven’t.
Which is incredibly annoying.
After Riley was gone, I assured myself that there were plenty of other women in the world who smell, feel, and taste the same as her, but it’s a lie. A big, fucking fat one.
For the first two weeks after the girls left, I worked twelve hours a day or more, for fourteen straight days, trying to stay busy enough to forget her. When that didn’t work to dull her on my senses, I decided to start dating again. Five weeks later, and that doesn’t seem to be working either…
“Brody?”
“Huh?” I ask, snapping back to the beautiful woman sitting in the booth across the table from me at the steakhouse.
“Have you heard anything I’ve said tonight?” she asks with a tilt of her blonde head, an amused smile on her flawless face.
“Yeah, of course I have,” I answer, my fingers fidgeting with the handles of the silverware on the table. My hands need something to do lately since I can’t seem to keep still. I’ve been in this constantly agitated, anxious state for weeks now.
Clearing my throat, I tell Maryanne, “You were saying that you need to redo your headshots for your fall advertisements, and asked if I would take them this Friday,” I recite, proving that I was in fact paying attention to her talk my ear off, even if my mind, or heart, as the case may be, is somewhere else.
“Brody, are you attracted to me?” Maryanne asks, so totally off topic that I start to worry I actually did miss more of the conversation. “Well?” she prompts when I hesitate.
“What kind of question is that? You’re beautiful, and you know it,” I tell her because it’s true. Heads turn whenever the real estate agent walks into the room, not because she’s recognizable from billboard or television ads, but because she has the height and grace of a supermodel walking down the runway everywhere she goes. And another bonus, Maryanne is also previously divorced and thirty-six, so our age difference is nothing compared to say, someone my daughter’s age…
Putting her hand on top of mine to make my fingers still, Maryanne leans across the table and whispers, “Then why don’t you take me home with you tonight and prove it?”
Nope. I can’t do it. No fucking way.
While sex sounds really great right about now, I don’t want it to be with Maryanne for the most ridiculous reason --- I’m not ready to replace the memories of Riley yet.
Being with Maryanne or someone else would fuck up the replays in my head of that handfu
l of nights, weeks ago, and I want to hang on to them. Remembering being with Riley, how her curves fit perfectly against me, how she felt coming apart in my arms, and how her simple touch could set off fireworks inside of me, is better than the real thing with someone else. I don’t even have to get naked with Maryanne to know that’s true. My cock might enjoy himself, but afterward, I would regret using her to get off when all I want is to be with someone else.
Pulling my hand out from underneath Maryanne’s because even that touch from another woman is too much, I tell her, “I’m sorry, but that’s not gonna happen tonight.” Or any other night in the foreseeable future.
“Then I’m sorry too, Brody, but I just don’t think this is going anywhere,” Maryanne says with a sad smile. “We’ve been on seven dates now, and you’ve barely kissed my cheek. And when I talk to you, I’m pretty sure you’re somewhere else. I need more. I want passion and a man who wants me too.”
Passion.
There’s that word again in the context that I’m lacking in it. Maybe I am. Only one woman has ever told me she thought I was passionate. And I can’t help but wonder just how many other men Riley’s been “passionate” with since I let her go. Those are the thoughts that keep me up at night, wondering if I made the biggest mistake of my life and knowing it’s too late to try and fix it.
“I understand that, Maryanne. I do. You deserve better, and honestly, I can’t give you any of those things right now,” I reply.
“Let me know if you change your mind. Until then, I hope we can remain friends,” she tells me before she slides out of the booth and stands up with her purse on her shoulder.
“Of course,” I tell her. “See you Friday at three for headshots?”
“Thanks, Brody,” she says, leaning over to kiss my cheek before she walks out of the restaurant.
…
Later that night, when I get home from eating dinner alone, and am sitting in the living room zoned out watching television, I’m happily surprised when Sara’s name shows up on my cell phone’s caller ID.
“Hey, sweetie,” I answer. And still, even weeks later, any time I talk to Sara, I can’t help but think about those nights I made terrible decisions with Riley. Bad decisions that I want to make over and over again, but shouldn’t.
“Hey, Dad,” Sara says sweetly, and I know right away that she wants something. She hasn’t been back to see me since the week in June, but I do chat with her through texts messages most days. I’ve finally realized that she prefers that to phone conversations, which is why I’m a little surprised she called.
“How’s the new job?” I ask her. Sara recently went to work as the assistant to a corporate executive. It’s lower on the totem pole than she wanted after college, but it’s a good start for her.
“It’s okay. I’ve been swamped having to attend boring meetings and take notes, but I think I’m getting the hang of it all.”
“Oh, well that’s good. I’m glad to hear it’s going well,” I tell her.
“Yeah, me too. But the reason I’m calling is, do you have any photographer friends, or any type of artist really, that are looking for an intern?”
Chewing that question over for a moment, I tell her, “No. Not that I know of.”
Then I can’t help but wonder if Sara’s asking because she wants to make a move to photography. Hoping that’s the case and that she’s decided to follow in my footsteps, I quickly tell her, “You know, I could probably use an assistant in my studio. I need help with getting internet orders ready, and several friends have weddings coming up that I agreed to shoot. The only thing is, I’m not sure I could offer something permanent full-time because business will probably slow down by the end of the year.”
Honestly, I’ve needed an assistant for years, but I’ve just been too stubborn or too much of a control freak to trust another person to come into my studio, my baby, on the chance they’ll screw up. But I wouldn’t mind having Sara there with me every day. That would be amazing.
“Oh,” my daughter mutters, clearly unenthusiastic about the idea of coming to work with me. “Then never mind.”
Wow. Tonight is really turning out not to be my night with the women in my life.
“I’m sorry, but could you explain why you wouldn’t want to come work for me,” I say, unable to just let her refusal go after getting so excited about the possibility of her moving down here.
“Oh, no. It’s not for me,” she explains. “You know all that art, hippie stuff has never really been my thing.”
“Right,” I reply, trying not to take that insult personally, but failing. “So why did you even ask?”
“Never mind. It doesn’t matter,” she says, and I can hear another female voice talking in the background.
“Sara, wait, I don’t understand…”
“I was asking for someone else, but I really don’t think it’s a good idea for you to hire her.”
“Who were you asking for?” I pry.
“No one, really,” Sara says, still talking over the female voice in the background. “Riley was looking for a job and wanted to get some experience while she sends out applications.”
My eyes threaten to pop clear out of my head.
“Ry…Riley?” I stammer. “She’s the one…she needs a job and wants to work in photography?”
“Yeah, you probably remember her. She’s the girl that came to the beach with Cheryl this summer.”
Oh, I fucking remember her all right. I remember her most nights with my dick in my hand and during the days, when I think about what a fucking moron I was to sleep with her. Although, you can’t really call what we did sleeping together. It was so much more than that, and I…miss her.
“I don’t care about her stupid student loans, Cheryl, so give it a rest! She’ll find a job eventually,” Sara’s muted voice says over the phone, like she’s covering the microphone.
Fuck.
It sounds like Riley is desperate for a job, and Sara is adamant she doesn’t want her to work for me. But I can’t just sit here and do nothing when I could easily help. And, God, I really want to see Riley again.
What I don’t understand is, if Sara clearly doesn’t like Riley, why would she ask me to help her find a job?
“Sara, you called me because your friend needs a job, so why can’t she come work for me until she finds something full-time?” I ask calmly.
“She’s not my friend,” she snaps. “She’s Cheryl’s.”
“Then why are you trying to help her?” I ask in confusion.
After a heavy sigh, Sara admits the truth. “To just get rid of her. I can’t stand her or the way she screws every man she sees!”
I cringe hearing my daughter say something so harsh against the woman I can’t stop thinking about. And I hate knowing Riley’s probably been with plenty of men since she left here. But that’s my fault for letting her go, and it doesn’t change how I feel about her.
Riley cared about me and I think I was actually starting to fall for her, when I let her up and leave because I couldn’t offer her a future. And now I may possibly have another chance with her. I had no idea that Riley was that serious about art, though.
“What was Riley’s major?” I ask Sara, to change the subject from her social life and stick to some facts.
“Cheryl says she was an art major.”
“Really?” I ask in surprise. Riley never even mentioned that to me, only telling me she liked my work.
“Yeah, liberal arts with a minor in photography,” she huffs. “Apparently she loves your photos and is like freaking obsessed with you. Cheryl said she has one of yours set as her screensaver, which is so pathetic.”
“She does?” My dick shouldn’t be so goddamn happy about hearing that Riley loves one of my photos that much. “Which one?”
“Which one?” she asks Cheryl. “Uh, the gold, full moon over the ocean at night or whatever,” she addresses me.
“Full Moon Fever.”
Does she have it becaus
e she still thinks about me and that first night we were together?
“Yeah, anyway, like I said, she’s evidently infatuated with you, which is so freaking gross. And after the way she tried to flirt with you the week we were there, I don’t think you want her hanging around, constantly throwing herself at you. She’s such a slut. Yes, she is and everyone knows it!” Sara says when Cheryl obviously tries to defend Riley’s honor.
“Sara, that’s enough!” I tell her, so angry at her accusations it causes my teeth to grind together, especially if Sara’s opinion rests on the bastard who drugged Riley. “Friend or not, you shouldn’t be so damn hateful,” I snap. “Give the phone to Cheryl.”
“What? Why?” my daughter huffs.
“Give the phone to Cheryl. Now!” I demand.
I may not have given in to a relationship with Riley because I knew Sara couldn’t deal with it, but that doesn’t mean I’ll let her stop me from helping Riley when she obviously needs it.
“Fine,” Sara mutters. “Here.”
“Hello?” the voice I assume is Cheryl’s says.
“Cheryl? Hi, it’s Brody.”
“Hi, Mr. Harrington,” she replies, refusing to use my first name.
“So, Riley is pretty desperate for a job?” I ask.
“Yep,” she answers on a sigh. “But I don’t think her working for you is a good idea.”
“You don’t?” I say in surprise.
“Nope.” Her response is short and sweet without needing any elaboration.
“But didn’t I hear Sara mention that her student loans are coming due soon?” I remind her.
“Well, yeah. Her mom couldn’t help pay for any of her tuition…”
“If she’s interested in getting a job in the art field, I could be her mentor until the end of the year. She could gain some valuable experience and take that with her when she finally finds something full-time,” I brag because, for whatever reason, I can’t let this opportunity to see her again go.
“I don’t know,” Cheryl replies. “She needs a job, but she’s also getting over a broken heart. You wouldn’t want to deal with that drama.”