by A. R. Hadley
Fuck alcohol.
This house.
My bed.
Fuck alone.
Finally, she reached the top of the stairs.
Everything seemed heavy.
The steps.
The doorknob.
Her feet.
She lost the empty glass on the dresser — or somewhere — fell onto the bed, and sank down into the feathery quicksand sheets.
Swallowed whole.
She spun.
Sank.
Spun.
Maybe she would puke.
That would be fun.
Not on Grandma's quilt.
What was a spider web like?
This.
Now.
God.
She ached.
How could she ache? Right between the legs. Her body deceived her. Her heart needed mending, and her pussy ached. The room spun. Drunk orgasms were never good.
She pulled her knees toward her chest, assuming a fetal position.
I hope he's curled up in a little ball too. I hope he has blue balls.
God … the ache.
Aching for his touch, his breath, aching for his body against hers, no space between them, aching and spinning-spinning-spinning...
Annie fell asleep, spinning on top of the quilt, fully dressed. The ache reverberated through her body's speakers, everywhere, blasting love-sex-time-static through her alcohol-soaked veins.
Annie sat across from Albert inside one of his favorite downtown restaurants, The Metropolitan Grill, a renowned steakhouse in a building old as fuck, in an oversized green booth.
Resting her back against the plush seats, she stroked the green velvet with one hand while placing the other on the mahogany table. Bottles were stacked neatly behind the sheets of glass to her right, and booths and tables were full of diners to her left, but she mostly watched her father.
She’d missed him.
"Stop looking at me, for Christ’s sake." Albert Baxter gripped the edge of his menu and glanced at Annie over the top of it. His sandy, gray hair fell across his forehead. "Pick up your menu and figure out what you’re going to have."
“I’ve missed you,” she said, ignoring his gruffness.
Lowering the menu, Albert gazed at his daughter. His hazel eyes lit up a little from the glare of the upside-down, umbrella-shaped lights hanging all along the center of the dining room, but they mostly lit up at the sight of Annie — his Doodlebug.
“I’m not going to cry until I at least eat,” he mumbled.
The waiter appeared, placing fresh martinis — extra olives, extra dirty — in front of them. Albert thanked the lanky man and told him they needed a minute.
"Get a steak. That’s why I brought you here."
"You brought me here because you love this place."
"Well, you do still eat red meat, don’t you? I hope Miami hasn’t changed you into some sort of health-nut vegan or some other new-age bullshit."
"I eat meat." Annie laughed while ticking off the selections in her head. She definitely ate red meat. Her mouth watered.
“Good.” Albert nodded. “Miami must’ve been good to you. You look beautiful. Radiant. The sunshine was good for you."
Yeah, Daddy. It was the sun.
Annie blushed, swung her crossed legs under the table, and tugged at the hem of her dress. She felt beautiful — damn it — wearing a brand-new black shift dress, hair pinned up, lost pieces falling out and framing her face. She started to fidget with the silver feather dangling from her ear as she made her decision: a dry, aged, boneless ribeye steak, house fries, and roasted vegetables. She snapped the menu shut.
"Did Mom tell you I want to buy a car?" Annie asked several minutes later after playing a little catch-up … and just as their dinner had arrived.
God, it had arrived all right. Holy shit. The sixteen-ounce steak looked huge, much larger than it had on the plates of other customers she’d observed. Maybe it was her eyes that had been large. Bigger than her stomach.
"No, she didn't tell me, but I think it’s a great idea." Albert nodded to the waiter, dismissing him. "I would like to buy it for you."
"I can afford to buy myself a car." She took a sip of her stiff drink.
Fork and knife in hand, crisscrossed over his prime rib, Albert sat forward and looked her in the eye. "Annie, you went to college on scholarship. You worked your ass off the entire time. Let me buy you a goddamn car. Enough with the humility. I don't know where you get that from. It's certainly not from me, and we know it isn't from Beverly."
She paused, contemplating her next words, questioning whether she should speak them.
"I get that from Peter." Annie's heart lodged in her throat. "He taught me."
Albert glanced at Annie, then looked away. He shook his head at the meat. "It's been a hell of a year." Picking up his martini, he looked off into the distance. "I should say," he continued, his brows pinched together, "the year has been hell."
Annie swallowed nothing but air and hurt and pain. And months of grieving she didn't know how to keep in motion without dropping all the death balls on the ground.
"How are you doing, really?"
"You know"—he shifted his eyes back and forth—"I think of Peter every five minutes of my day instead of every minute, so, you know, it's getting better." He raised his glass and indicated its contents with his eyes. "I keep a quart of this stuff at my desk."
"Daddy," she said as she watched his eyes darken. He seemed to grow older, looking hardened yet fragile.
"That damn kid." He shook his head, ruffed his chin. "His damn bike." Albert's eyes glossed over.
"He rode that damn bike because he loved life," Annie said, trying to duct-tape herself together for the sake of them both always. "He wouldn't have lived his life any other way.”
Fine. He wouldn't meet her face now. Fine.
They both began to eat again. Red meat to join the awkward sensation already swirling in their stomachs.
The waiter returned. Albert broke the silence, and the chewing, by ordering a third martini, but Annie declined another drink. She could feel the Grey Goose in her legs.
"Your mother tells me you met some guy in Miami." A twinkle was in her father’s eye.
"Since when do you talk to my mother?"
"We've talked more since Peter. We talk. We’re friends," he said, his mouth partially full of dinner.
"I did. I met someone.” Annie paused and grinned. The bastard and his time clock, and Cal could still make her grin. “I'm in love with him."
Jesus. She couldn't adjust to saying the words out loud. In love with him. Him. Intense, quiet, chameleon man.
She stuck a good-sized bite of ribeye into her mouth and immediately began to doubt whether she could actually swallow it.
Why wasn’t her father speaking? He was waiting. What was he thinking?
Annie didn’t move, aside from the chewing, waiting for her father’s reaction, studying him. Here it comes... Albert wiped his mouth on his napkin, picked up his drink, and took a sip. Come on, Daddy. He set the glass down and looked into her eyes.
"And this man … does he love you?"
Using her fork for distraction, Annie shuffled the food around on her plate as she peered into her father’s discerning eyes. She crossed her ankles and then uncrossed them.
"Ahh, Annie, there should be no hesitation. Does he love you?"
Annie swallowed the meat. It went down past the resident throat lump with difficulty.
"I thought he did." She exhaled. What the fuck? "I don't know." I don't know? You do know. Liar. Annie finished her martini. Her legs were definitely drunk.
"Well, he's one lucky bastard to have your love. I hope he knows that much."
"I think he does."
“Love isn’t easy, is it, Doodlebug?" Albert stared at the plate. "I'm getting a divorce."
"What?"
"Christ. Number three."
"What happened?"
"I'm surprised
your mother didn't tell you. I think she’s enjoying watching me squirm." Albert clenched his napkin in his fist.
"Monica says”—he cleared his throat—“she says a part of me died with him." He shrugged. "Maybe she's right."
Annie thought it looked like a tiny weight had been lifted off her father’s chest, but his eyes were still full of two hundred-pound dumbbells.
"All I know is we've been miserable."
"I'm sorry." Annie’s brow crinkled. "I guess we’re both unlucky in love." She raised her water glass with a half-hearted smile. "Shall we drink to that?"
Albert folded his arms and chuckled. "You really are something, Annie Rebekah Baxter. Damn! It's good to see your face again." He smoothed a hand over his clean-shaven face. A glimmer appeared in his eyes as he reached across the table. Annie touched his wrist.
"I love you." He looked into her eyes and squeezed her hand.
"I know, Daddy." Annie squeezed his palm in return. “I love you, too.”
Albert removed his jacket and placed it over his daughter’s shoulders along with his arm as they walked to the car.
“You look so grown."
“I’m done growing, for God’s sake, and you just saw me in June.”
“I know. But you still surprise me. I think I’m going to see my little girl, and I see a woman instead.”
“I’m your girl,” she said, leaning her head against him for a second, and then she took in a deep breath. “You can actually smell the fall, and it’s barely September. God, I’ve missed home.”
They stopped in front of the vehicle, but Albert hesitated. He scratched his temple with the key.
“What is it?” Something was off. Was it Peter again?
“What does he do, Annie?” Her father stood tall and stiff, and wore his face that brokered no time for sass or shit.
“What?”
“The guy. What does he do? For work?”
“He has a name.”
“I don’t know it,” Albert said, voice raised and strained.
“Must you always be concerned with work?” She slipped off the wool jacket and tried to give it back to him, but she couldn’t help but shiver.
Albert glared at Annie and wrapped the blazer around her again. “I’m concerned about you." He tugged the lapels closed. “What’s his name?”
“Cal. Calvin Prescott.”
“What does Cal do for work, Annie?”
“He buys things and sells them.”
Albert palmed her biceps, smirked, and sighed.
“It’s not like that.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I trust him." Well, well, well.
“What kinds of things does he sell?”
“He deals mainly in commercial land development. He puts together contracts. The financing. He scouts. He networks with potential clients. It’s tedious really. He’s partners with John Allen. I can’t believe Mom didn’t tell you that. She seems to know everything.”
“No." He shook his head. His posture relaxed. “No, your mother didn’t tell me much. Just his ag—”
“Dad..." Annie could feel her Go-Go-Gadget eyes pop out of her head.
“I’ve not said a word." He opened her door, ignoring her stubborn expression and kissing her stubborn forehead.
She sat down in the front seat of the SUV.
Albert lingered at the door, cradling the frame with his palm. His chin was tilted toward the concrete, but he watched Annie.
“What is it now? Do you want your jacket back?” She shoved off her heels and ran her soles over the tops of her feet repeatedly.
“No, silly." He moved a fallen strand of hair from her eyes.
“It’s Cal’s age?” she whispered.
“No." He smiled and shook his head.
“Then, what? What is it?”
“Your work, Annie. How’s it going?”
Annie rolled her eyes. Work... “I told you … I’m going to California—”
“I know, I know,” he said, pushing his fingers across his chin, thinking and delaying what must’ve been his real question.
“Then, what?”
“You’re not losing interest in your photography … because of your relationship?”
“No." She stiffened. "You know me better than that."
“Yes, I do. But I’ve never seen you like this.”
“What are you talking about?”
“What you feel … for this man. It’s different?"
She placed her elbows on her thighs and dropped her face into her palms.
“Annie." Albert touched her back.
“I feel… I feel..." Annie lifted her head. Crazy. Mad. Sick. Elated. Home. Safe.
“It’s okay. Take your time.”
Relaxing her shoulders, Annie dropped her head against the seat and looked at her father as she pondered Cal, readying herself to exhale truth and feelings and sentimental bullshit.
“I feel like I’ve always known him. I want to always know him. He … Cal sees me so clearly it almost scares me." Annie swallowed, then shifted her gaze toward her father. His expression was a mixture of understanding and pride and love. "Yes, it’s different. I love Cal in a way I didn’t know existed.”
“Oh, Doodlebug," Albert sighed, taking Annie’s hand and squeezing it.
A love she didn't know existed... This keeps getting better and better. What would be next? Fairy-tale princess forever, white picket fences, dogs and cats, babies Cal said he didn't want?
What did she want?
A million reasons to go on. Hope and love and a camera.
What did she need?
A friend, her family, a man, a confidant, a lover. Me.
A release…
Annie couldn’t keep running from her mind or her strength or her own needs.
Being afraid belonged to yesterday.
Maybe love could be forever. It didn’t have to die. Death might take away a body, a beating heart, a mind, but it wouldn’t end love.
Ever. Ever. Ever.
Day four.
Scene twenty-six.
Quiet on the set.
Action.
Another day in Beverly's house, and if it hadn’t already been difficult enough living with an alcohol-dependent narcissist, missing Cal made it worse.
He made it worse with his messages. Or maybe he made it better.
Annie didn't know anymore.
She only knew she felt split open, on a table, ready for open heart surgery without the anesthesia. Her mother held the gas mask, and Cal held the scalpel. The man had been tearing her heart up with each text he sent. With each fucking song. He’d started blowing up her phone on Tuesday morning.
So much for time, distance, and space.
Annie: Don't text me again while I'm gone. You asked for time. Take it.
Cal: I miss you.
Annie: Stop. I can't.
Cal: You can. Do you have any idea how strong you are?
This again. Such bullshit. She knew she was strong. But when he actually asked the question, it changed something inside her, or it lit her on fire, or it gave her permission to be what she always knew she was. Except he didn't get to play the boyfriend or the supporter.
He held the scalpel. But didn't the scalpel wielder save the patient? I don’t need saving. She needed loving. Maybe this was how he showed it.
Annie: You don't get to do this.
Cal: ???
Annie: Send me songs. Tell me stuff about me. Don't play dumb. Doesn't suit you.
Cal: Did you buy your return ticket?
Annie: You don't get to ask me any more questions either.
Cal: And you made a promise.
Annie: Don't!
Cal: What DO I get to do?
Annie: Miss me. Take your time. Miss me.
Cal: Are you drinking?
Annie: Go away.
Cal: I'm calling you.
Annie: I won't answer. Stop texting me.
Cal: Another rule to add
to the no touching or looking or wanting?
Annie: Please. No more songs. You're pushing and pulling me. Which is it? Love me or time?
Cal: I won't text you.
Of course, give him an ultimatum, and he can make a fast choice. Snap.
Annie scrolled through his older texts, the songs. She’d tried to ignore them. They were unexpected and expected, and they tore her operate-on-me-on-the-table heart right out of her chest, sang to it, then set a flipping match to it.
Time.
He needed time.
Time meant thinking and deciding and maybe drinking, not dying or tearing or ripping or pulling. Not surgery. It wasn't tug-of-war. It wasn't red-rover-red-rover-send-Annie-right-over.
The last song he’d messaged — just now — was Bruno Mars. The fucker. Not Bruno — Cal. Choosing a song he didn't even know very well or like. He knew she liked it. Loved it. I love him. Well, thank you very much, Cal Prescott. She wouldn't be able to hear "Just the Way You Are" again without thinking of him. She wouldn’t be able to listen to any of the songs since “She's So Heavy” because they all wailed, “Cal, Cal, Cal, Cal, Cal!”
Enough.
She shut the phone off.
Off!
If he called, he would get voicemail.
He would get... Wait for it...
Time.
Put that in your bottle, Jim Croce, and smoke it.
The day had finally arrived on which Annie would drive to California — alone — and it was Sunday.
The bright-red car Annie's father had bought was in the middle of Beverly's gravely driveway. The trunk was open, and all four doors were ajar.
Annie's mother stood out front in her oversized bathrobe, a lit cigarette in her hand. Twitching, she habitually flicked the ash, her fingers mussing her hair while watching her daughter secure the last few essentials she needed.
“I don’t want you to drive at night." Beverly smashed the cigarette under her Keds and walked toward her daughter. "And don’t go off alone, wandering and daydreaming.”
Having heard the worry so many times, understanding it but hitting her limit, Annie ignored the comments tainted with Beverly’s overbearing tone. God, she’d hit her Beverly limit the moment she’d first come home.
But still, this was home.
Annie set her camera on the front seat and closed all the doors to the car except her own, and then she began to scroll through emails on her phone. Actually she was going over the list of items she’d packed in her mind, making sure she had everything. The emails were only a distraction. A prop to avoid goodbye or emotion.