by T. I. Lowe
Back in front of my computer, I’m too antsy to write. I need to smooth things over with my best friend. I pick up my phone and text Jack while admiring my fire-engine-red nails.
Me – I let a stranger touch my toes.
Jack – You’re into foot fetishes now? Can I watch?
Me – Next time. Promise.
Jack – I’m holding you to that promise. ;-)
He sounds like his normal self again, which makes me feel a little better about the decision I’m going to be making soon. Leaving the text message app, I check my emails. The saying no news is good news doesn’t feel appropriate in this situation. Not one agent has gotten back to me in the last month. Not even a rejection letter has shown up to give me direction. The empty inbox leaves an unsettling void. Wishing to fill it, I text Beck next.
He’s off being the real drill sergeant for a week. I miss him, but the time apart has been good for us. We’ve tiptoed all around the drinking habit he seems to not care for and the worship services I don’t care for. I’ve shown him in the last month I can do without the alcohol by not having one drop. Of that I’m right proud of myself, but the church going has been more painful than breaking up with my beloved bourbon. It always leaves my chest hurting, but the people are friendly and it seems to make Beck happy, so I endure it.
Honestly, Beck makes me happy. Although, it’s freaked me out a little with how rapid my feelings have grown for him. When he is around, we can hardly keep our hands off the other. Needless to say, we’re acting like teenagers barely holding on to abstinence.
Me – I let a stranger touch my toes. I add a photo of my glossy toenails this time to accompany my tease.
Beck – No one should be touching you but me.
Me – Wish you were here touching me.
Beck – You can’t say stuff like that, woman. I’m stuck babysitting new recruits!
Me – But I’m lonely.
Beck –Go write a bestseller and behave.
Grinning at our silly banter, I set the phone to the side and get lost in the new military romance I’m working on. Yes, I said romance.
Chapter Twelve
It’s when life is going great and your idiot-self stops paying attention, because you’re too wrapped up in your delusional bliss, that something creeps up out of nowhere and attacks.
The cute girl, who showed up at my door this morning, crept into my house offering me a timid smile and kind eyes, blindsided me. The little hussy was a wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing and I invited her right on in like a fool.
“Just answer my question. Why have you been hiding behind Roselyn Scott?” the reporter asks for the thousandth time. She dodges around the coffee table as I make a lunge for her. We’ve been at this game of chase for the better part of an hour with me trying to get the little wolf out of my house and her eluding me.
I chase her through the kitchen before finally getting a grip on her hair. Maybe all that running Beck tortured me with has paid off to an extent.
“You come in here saying you’re doing a local survey about beach tourism. That’s false pretenses! I’m calling the cops!” I give her a harsh shove toward the foyer when she tries sidestepping me.
“You owe your fans the truth!” She’s no bigger than a minute, but she’s definitely got tenacity.
“I owe nothing. Now get out and don’t come back here ever again!” I shout while shoving her the rest of the way out the front door. Slamming it and securing the lock, I lean against it and try catching my breath.
Before my nerves have time to settle, another knock hits the door. Thinking it’s the little wolf coming back for more, I yank the door open and am blinded by several flashes.
“Miss Blume!” the small crowd of reporters chants out, peppering me with questions of all sorts.
Slamming the door and locking it, I hurry to the French doors to secure those locks as well. Just outside on the sand is another group of cameras. I close the blinds on them and rush to the office to find out what in the heck is going on.
I type Roselyn Scott into the search engine and nearly faint at what pops up.
The Weighty Truth Behind Roselyn Scott…
The Fat Lie of Roselyn Scott…
Roselyn Scott’s Hefty Secret…
Each headline is accompanied by a picture that has bile rising up the back of my throat. Not believing it, my eyes scan the shelf where the frame hides. I hurry over and pull it out, wondering how this made it online. The thin coating of dust that usually muddies the image of me at my parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary has been recently wiped away. Even though I was well over two hundred pounds, they thought I was an appropriate accessory for that occasion. I stood between them in the picture, wearing a blue evening gown and a forced smile.
Shoving the frame back in its hiding spot, my stomach plummets. Only three people have access to this picture. Beck, Jack, and Nadine. Who would sell me out and why? Nadine is easily eliminated since she’s not actually spent much time inside my house, but there’s no comfort in leaving the two men I trust the most as the only suspects.
Do you trust me? I got you, okay? Beck’s sincerity whispers through my thoughts as tears begin to fall.
Trust me, darlin’. Jack’s smooth tone echoes.
Moving back to the computer to shut down the blaring reality, I pause when glimpsing the outlandish number of emails filling my inbox. Hundreds. With no bravery to face it, I shut the computer down and hurry out of the office to get as far away from the hurt as I can. The trek is a short one to the kitchen where a bottle of bourbon sits in wait at the back of the cabinet. It’s been there for well over a month, so I pull it out and welcome the amber liquid to do its worst.
Not even two swallows in, a pounding at the front door interrupts my progress of getting sloshed. I ignore it until a familiar voice barks out from the other side. Setting the bottle on the counter, I stomp to the door and slide the security chain in place before cracking it open. As soon as a sliver of Beck comes into view, camera flashes blink behind him.
“Let me in.”
“No.”
The pucker on his forehead deepens. “Why not?”
“I don’t trust you.”
He pushes a foot into the door crack before I can get it closed. “I can’t help you if you don’t explain to me what’s going on here.” He points a thumb over his shoulder, but I don’t dare look at the small crowd.
“Someone ratted me out about the Roselyn Scott situation. It could have been only you, Jack, or Nadine.” Tears blur my vision.
“What about your agent or publisher or even Roselyn?”
“You’ve not seen the picture online?”
Confusion reaches his eyes as they narrow. “What picture?”
“One of me when I was the size of a cow. The very same picture I keep in my office.” I release a harsh snort. “How pathetic am I that only three people could be responsible for selling me out. I hope whichever one of you who did it made bank.” I push the door aggressively against his foot, but Beck doesn’t even flinch.
“I don’t know who did this to you, but I’ll find out. In the meantime, keep this door locked and stay out of sight,” he orders. I wait for him to leave, but he snakes his fingers over to where mine are resting on the side of the door. “I got you, okay?” When I don’t respond, he gives my hand a gentle squeeze before stalking off the porch.
The late afternoon dwindles into evening and I can do nothing but sit on my couch, frozen in shock and embarrassment. The phone was the only noise to penetrate the inside of the house until I dismantled it, tossing piece after piece down the garbage disposal and causing another more raucous sound to ring out. But that was hours ago, now only a weird burnt smell lingers from the sink. I ignore it as well as the persistent taps on the door. The politeness of each knock is a clear indicator that another wolf is trying to manipulate me into opening up to them. Already learned that lesson the hard way and there’s no desire to repeat the mistake.
The chipping red polish on my toes catches my attention as I rest my feet on top of the coffee table. Only a few weeks back, they were shiny and perfectly done, mirroring how my life felt. The chipping spots and the dulling finish are a strong reminder of how nothing is really ever flawless and one should never trust the illusion of perfection.
A severe knock hits the door, leaving no doubt who’s outside. After the third round of pounding, I ease off the couch and go open it, leaving the chain in place. I find Beck and Jack standing on the dark porch.
“Open the door, Harper. Now.” Beck’s voice is low and raspy and resolutely delivers the order.
I close the door to unlatch the chain, and then reopen it. Before I can get out of the way, Beck shoves Jack inside without entering himself.
“You make this right with her,” Beck snaps, giving Jack one final shove, before closing the door behind him.
I glance from the door to Jack as he takes a step toward me. He’s disheveled with his hair a mess, shirt rumpled and untucked, but what catches my attention the most is the dried blood around both nostrils and the bouquet of white tulips in his hand. He hands them to me and I accept them in confusion.
Jack has given me these flowers in the past and their meaning dawns on me. White tulips symbolize forgiveness and that is what he wants from me. Understanding hits me so severe the impact sends me to my knees. “How could you?” I screech. “You’re my person!”
Jack lands on his knees in front of me, tears streaming down his face. It makes me want to punch him in the face, but from the dried blood and the bruising emerging like a newly developed photo underneath both swelling eyes, I’d say Beck has done enough physical damage there already. Instead, I rear the bouquet back and start whacking him in the shoulder with them, sending confetti of broken petals to rain down around us.
“Shame on you,” I gasp with barely enough breath to form words when he remains silent. I whack him one last time with the stems before slinging them across the foyer.
“I am your person. I did it for you.” His normally smooth voice presents hoarsely, but I stay firm on not pitying him.
“Thanks a lot! Thanks for humiliating me for me!” I scoot away from him so that my twitching fist doesn’t lash out. I can’t even stand up from the debilitating pain my best friend has inflicted on my soul, so I crawl into the kitchen to where I abandoned the bourbon earlier. I lean up enough to yank it off the counter, plop back onto the floor and take a long pull from the bottle. The liquid fire doesn’t immediately take the edge off the hurt, so I take a jagged breath before tipping the bottle back for another go of it.
Jack yanks the bottle away from my lips, sending some of the bourbon to spill down my neck. Using the back of my hand, I wipe it away and slice him a look of pure malice.
“You listen to me…” He pauses to slam the bottle down on the floor and grasp my arms in his trembling hands. “I did do it for you. It’s time you own up to who you are, past and present, or you’ll never be able to claim the future you deserve. That woman in the picture is just as brilliant as this woman in front of me right now.”
I scoff while forming a reply, but Jack gives me a slight shake before I can come up with one.
“Shame on me, Harper?” His bloody nose flares. “No! Shame on you! Shame on you for not loving and respecting the woman in that picture. She deserves nothing less than your absolute devotion and love… Shame on you for making that beautiful mastermind believe she’s unworthy…” His voice trails off on a sob and mine joins in.
I push his hands away, not ready to let him close. “But the headlines… the backlash to what you did… it hurts… you hurt me,” I stutter between sobs.
“You have to endure it.” Jack delivers honesty instead of an apology, staying true to his nature.
I bat the tears away angrily and glare at him. “Why that picture? Why not a recent one?”
“I wanted to make sure you didn’t go back to being chained to Maxine. I figured this way you would get the most media exposure.”
The epiphany strikes me in a peculiar way. All that time I was heavy, I felt invisible. The hundreds of emails and phone calls and reporters coming at me from all directions today just proved me completely wrong. They saw that heavy woman and responded in an outright frenzy. My shoulders slump and my head bows.
Jack moves over to sit beside me and pulls me close. My first instinct is to push away, but his familiar cologne and the warmth of his touch lures me until my head is resting on his shoulder.
“I still hate you,” I whisper.
“No you don’t.” He presses a kiss to my forehead. “Darlin’, I did it with your best interest at heart. Your readers will be able to relate to you better because of it. It’ll show you’re human with real struggles and not that plastic actress known as Roselyn Scott. I know it doesn’t feel like it at the moment, but you’re free now to just be Harper Blume.”
He reaches over me to retrieve the bottle and takes a long pull from it. He passes it to me as maybe a peace offering. I reluctantly accept it and take a sip and hand it back while taking in everything he just said, but it still hurts no matter his reasoning.
After he takes another generous sip, Jack sits the bottle between his legs and says, “I read this saying once. It goes something like, ‘Life isn’t about avoiding the bruises. It’s about collecting the scars to prove you showed up for it.’” He brushes the hair out of my face and leans slightly down to make eye contact. “Allow the bruises to hurt, but also give them a chance to heal. And be proud of the scars left behind. They prove you not only lived but survived it.”
A long time passes with us sitting on the kitchen floor in stillness. Every so often, a hiccup or sob is shared as I struggle to come to terms with the reality Jack has forced me to face. He’s right. I could never hate him, but I don’t like him much in this moment for making me own up to the shame and self-hate I’ve been inflicting upon myself for far too long.
*****
“If I ever go missing, please put my picture on the back of a bourbon bottle so my person will know to look for me,” I slur out while pointing to the empty bottle lying helplessly on its side. Poor thing has been drained dry.
Jack takes a deep breath and nods in agreement. “One thing’s for certain, alcohol helps remove many important problems… stress, bras, panties…”
I snicker and slap his wandering hand away from my leg while trying to come up with my next lame joke, but my bleary thoughts are having a hard time producing anything.
Clearing my throat, I whisper with exaggeration, “Too much of anything is bad for you, but too much bourbon is barely enough.”
“Warning,” Jack begins with a slurred robotic voice. “Too much alcohol may make you think you’re whispering when you’re not.” His eyes go round, cracking me up.
“You are so stupid funny.” I snort and snicker.
Jack glances around, blinking several times. “Sergeant Hotshot is liable to tear your kitchen island out if he catches us hiding back here.”
We’ve been rooted to the kitchen floor for what feels like somewhere between a few minutes to a decade, but I have no desire to move.
“We are hidden behind an island. He’ll never find us.” I slice my hand through the air and barely stay upright. We both giggle at that, but was it really funny? I haven’t a clue. I look away from the bank of white cabinets in front of us and focus on a fuzzy version of Jack. My finger reaches out and lightly taps his swollen nose. “Can you feel that?”
“A little, but it’s pretty numb now. You can kiss it and make it better.” He waggles his eyebrows.
“Warning,” an angry voice announces, making us both jump out of our skin. Looking up, we find Beck peering down at us from the other side of the island while wearing a menacing scowl. “Too much alcohol is probably gonna lead to you getting your butt kicked again.” He lets out a frustrated growl. “This is how you make things right, by getting her drunk? What kind of friend are you? Encoura
ging her to shove something down her throat, so you don’t have to deal with the harsh truth.”
“Uh oh. Sergeant Sexy is mad at you, Jack.” I snicker.
Jack shrugs his shoulders, tries standing, but falls sideways. It takes him a few attempts to right himself back into a sitting position. “I got it right first. Then we had a little drunk.” He tries pinching an invisible inch between his thumb and index finger while squinting at it. “It was either bourbon or a chocolate binge. We chose to drink our feelings instead of eating them.”
All I can do is roll on the floor, laughing. Jack’s so funny… And cute… Even with his black eyes…
“You think I’m cute? Aww!” Jack coos.
I didn’t realize that was spoken out loud and this cracks me up until Jack is back to laughing, too. “Like a puppy!” I laugh some more. “Too bad the big bad bulldog whooped ya hiney and messed up your purty face.” My hand waves in Beck’s direction, but he’s not there anymore.
“He only got one punch in,” Jack slurs while holding up two fingers, confusing me.
“You’re working on some more,” Beck warns, appearing by my side on the floor.
“You’re magic now? Appearing out of thin air?” I ask, working my fingers to snap but all they’ll do is wiggle around like fools. Dang things won’t work.
“You feel like eating something or maybe a shower?” Beck asks.
“Shower,” Jack and I both answer in unison, sending us back to giggling.
Beck releases a long sigh and scratches at his scruffy cheek. It looks so inviting that I reach out and stroke his other cheek, loving the coarse texture of his stubble.
“You’re so sexy,” I say before climbing onto his lap and attacking his inviting lips. It takes Beck a second or two before he participates, but he’s all in now. Hmm… This man can kiss like nobody’s business.
“Let’s not do this in front of Jack,” Beck says against my lips.
“It’s just kissing,” I rebuke, but then notice I’ve yanked his shirt up to his neck. Oh my. He moves my hands away and pulls the hem of his shirt back down.