Beneath the Shine

by Lisa Sorbe

  But George ignores me, drawing me into her arms, and now I feel like a burden, one of those energy vampires that suck the life from everyone in the room. And I refuse to draw any more energy from George.

  “It’s okay. I’m okay,” I say, pulling back. “It was a long time ago.” Her eyes are shiny, and she cares so much. And I don’t deserve it. Not really. Because I put myself in that position. And even though what happened wasn’t my fault (according to every self help book I’ve ever read), I know that if I hadn’t acted so impulsively, so irresponsibly in the first place, it wouldn’t have happened at all. If I hadn’t acted so out of character to impress a stupid boy—one who, it turns out, didn’t deserve it anyway—that guy wouldn’t have had a chance to do what he did to me.

  And for that? For that I blame myself.

  “I feel so guilty.”

  George’s face contorts in anger. “Betsy! You have nothing to feel guilty for!”

  Her face is bright with passion, and I love her for it.

  I put a hand on her arm to calm her down. “What I feel guilty about is that I never even tried to find out who it was. I mean, I was so scared…and way too ashamed to admit it even happened in the first place. But after a few years, it started haunting me… Like, what if whoever it was is still out there doing stuff like this? I have to live with that, and that makes me a shit person. A few years ago, I tried to google the names of the guys from the party that night, just to see if anything suspicious popped up. And maybe I could help, you know, if there was a case or something against him. But I could barely remember who was there, much less their names. And most of them were older and graduated the next year…”

  George smiles a watery smile.

  “I just told you this because…because…” I root around in my brain for an explanation, one that makes sense. One that doesn’t make me look like someone searching for a pity party. “I don’t know why I told you, to be honest.”

  George squeezes my hand. “I’m glad you told me. But hell, Betsy! The fact that you never told anyone about this? Carried something like this with you all these years? It had to eat away at you.”

  “I dealt with it in my own way. I’m a perfectly normal functioning adult.”

  She lifts a brow. “In a way.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She shrugs. “Just that you sort of half-ass everything you do. Not,” she says, lifting a finger to shush me when she sees my mouth pop open. “Not when you do things for others. But if it’s something for yourself, you totally half-ass it.”

  I frown while she ticks off examples on her fingers. “College. From what you told me, you wanted to do something with art… like graphic design, I think it was? You never finished your degree, and now you work as a legal assistant, which is about as far away from art as you can get. Not to mention, your boss wants to pay for you to get your paralegal degree, but you won’t take him up on the offer. So you’re not even furthering your life on that aspect.”

  I open my mouth again, but she cuts me off.

  “Two,” she says, making a peace sign with her fingers. “You want do photography. You practiced and practiced and practiced, and then…nothing. No advertising. No updating your website. Nada.”

  “There are reasons for that,” I interject. “The equipment and advertising are expensive. It costs money to start a business. And it’s not like I have my family’s support.”

  But George doesn’t buy it. “Look, I don’t doubt what you’re saying. It is expensive. Opening my own studio last summer was hella expensive. And I didn’t have rich relatives to go to for cash, either. I was only able to do it because I made it a priority. Plus, I took out a loan, something most business owners have to do. And you, hon… How much have you spent on food for the soup kitchen? Pounds of noodles and cans of spaghetti sauce. Meat and deserts and those take-home bags you put together for god knows how many people each week… All of this comes out of your pocket when you could be putting it towards the photography stuff you say you need. And then there’s Clint, who mooches off you because you’re too damn nice to say no. You’re avoiding your dream. Plain and simple. Maybe…I don’t know.” She lifts a shoulder, her next words careful. “Maybe after what you went through, you don’t think you deserve it. Going through something like that has to warp your sense of self.” There’s no condemnation in her voice. Not like there would be in my mother’s. She states this all matter-of-factly, because it’s the truth. And I know it even if I don’t want to admit it.

  No, actually, I do admit it. I know that’s what is going on with me. It’s that stupid self-sabotaging thing I do whenever I come to a fork in the road or have an important decision to make. I don’t make the best decisions because I purposefully make the wrong ones.

  But the big question is, how the hell do I stop? Knowing is only half the battle.

  How do you heal the wounds you can’t see?

  “And that brings us back to Adair.”

  “Adair bought me a camera for Christmas,” I blurt.

  George’s jaw drops. “He did?”

  I nod.

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” she admits. And when I tell her about the argument between me and Clint, she nods. “Yeah, I can see why he’d say that. It’s obvious to anyone who’s looking that the dude is head over heels for you.”

  I scrunch my nose. “Who, Clint?” Clint, who I still haven’t heard from. A sure sign we’re over, even though the words still haven’t been spoken outright. His lack of communication pretty much speaks for itself. Actions, or lack thereof, say so much more, anyway.

  Like my actions. When I kissed Adair, I wasn’t even thinking about Clint.

  “No, not him, stupid. Adair.” But George smiles.

  “Love is fickle,” I counter, and I want to smack myself for sounding so cliché.

  “Yeah,” she says slowly. “It can be. But it can also be pretty damn great.”

  I know this. I know this, and yet… “I don’t know how to be with someone I actually have feelings for.” I say this without thinking, the admission flying out of my mouth and shocking me. But it’s true. What if we give it a go, and it doesn’t work? Hmm? What then? What if he gets tired of me, finds someone better or, for no reason at all, simply doesn’t want to be with me anymore? What if something he does one day hurts me so much I can’t recover?

  “Being with Adair…in, you know, that way? I think I’d be scared all the time,” I confess. “Scared that the tide could turn any minute.” I’ve been so blind before, back in the past when I knew nothing and gave away everything. Even before that night at Josh’s house. So blind and stupid, giving up pieces of myself for people that I loved. For people that I thought I loved. And those people took those pieces and ran away with them, leaving me a little less than each time.

  Maybe that’s why I still do it…give so freely now. So eventually, there won’t be anything of me left at all.

  And oh, wouldn’t that be nice?

  “The tide can turn any minute, regardless.”

  I shrug.

  George leans forward. “Look, I don’t want to be one of those people that tell you what you should do. Because I’m not you, and I haven’t,” she pauses, lets out a breath, “been through anything remotely close to what you’ve been through. But my opinion is that you should go for it. Take the chance.” Her sweet smile turns devious. “And you know you want to. I mean, that man is fine… You could bounce a quarter off that ass, am I right?”

  She’s trying to make me laugh, so I indulge her. But my eyelids flutter, and all this talking and drudging up the past has me so tired I can barely sit upright. I lean my head on my hand and it feels so good to take the weight, even that little bit of weight, off my shoulders.

  George narrows her eyes. “Let me guess. You barely slept last night.”

  I sigh. “Not a wink.”

  “And Adair?”

  “Like the dead.”

  She smirks. “I don’t doubt
it. The man got himself a hot piece.”

  “You’re incorrigible,” I moan.

  She hops out of her chair and pulls me up by my elbow. “Take a nap here. I’m not letting you drive all the way across town in the state you’re in. Friends don’t let friends fall asleep at the wheel,” she sings.

  I’m led to a plump suede couch that takes up almost the entire wall of her tiny living room, and when I sink into the cushions, exhaustion takes over. “Thanks,” I mumble, curling up on my side and adjusting the pillow under my head. “I’ll try not to drool on your good pillows.”

  She huffs, draping a throw over me. “Those things? Walmart, six bucks a pop. Drool away, m’dear.”

  And I cackle, thinking of my Pottery Barn pillows and how bent out of shape I got over something so trivial.

  “Look, I’ve got to head into the studio for a bit. I’m going to put the dress you wanted to borrow on the hook on my bedroom door. Feel free to root around in my closet for some shoes if you want, too. And if you feel more comfortable hanging out here all day and then getting ready for Adair’s party together, that’s fine. But I really think you need to talk to him.”

  I nod and reach out, snagging her hand as she turns to go. “Thanks, George. Sorry I butted in on your morning.”

  She just laughs. “Don’t thank me,” she says, patting my hand. “It’s high time I paid you back for all the years you’ve had to sat and listen to my sob stories. Hon, I’m just happy you let me be there for you for once.”

  Rusty Bucket is lit up like a Christmas tree, a dome of soft white light against the dark country sky. I pull into the parking lot and slide my truck into a spot in the back, nerves twisting my stomach into knots despite the glass of champagne I allowed myself before leaving George’s place.

  Ian, George’s boyfriend, pulls his SUV into the spot next to mine, and after we all climb out of our vehicles, he offers me his elbow. George is already secure on his other end, and he winks at me. “Shall we?”

  I laugh even though I want to puke, slide my arm in his, and listen as he jokes about being so lucky that he gets to end the year with two beautiful women on his arm. He’s a sweetheart, though, and I hope more than anything this thing between him and George works out. Words can’t describe how much she deserves it.

  As we approach the front doors, the floor-to-ceiling windows that line the front of the building reflects our images back to us. Ian looks like a Ken doll, all blonde and tall and clean cut with a square jaw and laughing blue eyes that seem even brighter against his tan skin and white dress shirt. Next to him, George is a life-size doll come to life—Barbie hair and Barbie eyes and Barbie lips and hips and long legs, all stuffed into a little black dress—and together the two seem better suited for a party out in LA, gallivanting around with the rich and famous, than they do here.

  I’m more sixties-meets-punk than Hollywood glam, with my pink hair piled into a beehive and cat-eye makeup. George’s green sequined dress fits me like a glove, and it’s no wonder she told me to keep it when I tried it on earlier—it barely reaches mid-thigh on me so I can only image what a postage stamp it would be on her. The long sleeves feel good on this frigid night, although the deep V in the back leaves my skin exposed to the chill that bites right through my thin pleather jacket.

  The sign on the door reads Closed for Private Party, and Ian swings it open and waits until George and I cross before following. The Killers is playing through the overhead speakers, a Romeo lamenting over his Juliet, and I immediately search the room for Adair. Because as much as I don’t want to see him, I want to see him.

  Aside from this morning, we haven’t spoken. I slept for a few hours and then, like a wuss, decided to hide out at George’s place until the party. I did text him, though, making up the excuse that George needed me, that she and Ian had an argument and she was a sick mess and I was trying to talk her through it. And it wasn’t lying, not really, since the pair really did have a small disagreement right before we left tonight. Granted, it was a disgustingly sweet clash over who liked who more, and I had to listen to it from my spot on the couch while waiting for them to finish getting ready in the bedroom. I gulped down a big glass of champagne and watched funny dog videos on my phone while they fought it out.

  Feeling the need for some liquid courage, I untangle myself from Ian’s arm and head to the bar, where a self-serving station filled with wine and champagne has been set up. I fill a glass to the brim and take a sip, eyeing the bartender who’s filling orders farther down the bar. When he’s free, I wave him over. “Landon!”

  Landon sees that it’s me and smiles, wiping his hands on a rag as he makes his way to my end of the bar. He’s young, just over twenty-two, and follows Adair around like a puppy, eager to learn everything he can about the business. Which is probably why he doesn’t mind working tonight when most of his friends are out living it up at the bars in town. “Hey, Jem.”

  I smile at his nickname for me, and retort with one of my own. “Hey, Weasley. How’s it hanging?”

  Landon blushes, the fire in his cheeks matching the red in is hair, and laughs. “I’m good,” he says, leaning one hand against the bar and the other on his hip. “You?”

  “Peachy.” I tip my head back and empty the flute. “Geesh, your boss is kind of a dick for making you work tonight, yeah?” But I smile as I re-fill my glass. Knowing Landon, he probably volunteered.

  “Aw, not at all,” he says sincerely. “I offered.”

  “He around?”

  Landon scans the guests. “He’s here somewhere. Last time I saw him, he was asking if I’d seen you, actually.”

  I nod, my eyes roaming the room. Where the hell is he? I need to at least be able to see him coming so I’m not caught off guard. I still haven’t decided what to say, how to act. The anticipation is wreaking havoc on my nerves.

  George sidles up to me, and I jump. “Stop hogging the sauce,” she jokes. She flicks her eyes Landon’s way before reaching to pour her own glass. “Hey, Landon.”

  I smirk in my drink as I watch his face redden even more, his lips working a bit before anything comes out. “H-hey, George.” He clears his throat and stands up taller. Shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Leans back against the bar again. “Haven’t seen you in here in a while.”

  The poor guy is crushing so bad I feel sorry for him.

  “I’ve been in Hawaii,” George explains. “Two weeks in paradise, and then back to the ice and snow.”

  “Looks like you brought the sun with you,” he says, referring to her tan.

  “Yep, the snow pretty much melts before it even touches me.” She laughs, the movement making her chest bounce, and Landon’s eyes look like they’re going to pop out of their sockets.

  “Well, you…like totally look…I mean, tan…” Landon fumbles until a voice cuts him off.

  “Landon.”

  I feel a hand brush my back, the simple touch sending tingles up my spine, and turn to see Adair towering behind me. Just, you know, manifesting out of nothing, popping in from out of nowhere. His black suit hugs his body like it was tailor made, and the white button-down shirt he’s wearing underneath is opened at the collar, exposing a part of his neck that I want to reach up and touch with my tongue. He shoots a stern look at his employee and then nods toward the end of the bar.

  Landon nods, and his face is a ripe tomato. He hurries away.

  I gulp more champagne.

  “Oh, don’t be so hard on the guy,” George scolds. “It’s New Year’s Eve. Old angle zine and all that.”

  “It’s auld lang syne,” he says, and the way his lips wrap around the words make his accent seem thicker than it usually does. Maybe it’s all these years he’s spent in Iowa, the way he jokes he’s become so Midwesternized that he no one can tell he isn’t from here. Or maybe it’s just that I’ve been listening to him for so long I don’t hear the Scottish burr anymore.

  But now I do. And it makes my stomach summersault.

  “
And I’m paying him good money to be here tonight, so don’t go feeling sorry for him, Georgina.”

  George rolls her eyes. “You’re such a hard ass.”

  Adair tries to catch my eye, but I pretend not to notice, instead craning my neck this way and that, like I’m searching the room for someone I can’t seem to find.

  Meanwhile, the two joke and talk, and Adair asks her about her trip and George gushes about the islands, the sun, the surf. “Well, Hawaii definitely suited you. You look great,” he says. Then he leans in, his voice low. “And I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

  George looks at him strangely, then Adair looks at me, and I frog-smile. “I feel great,” she says. “Better than ever, actually.”

  And Ian choses this moment to pop over, pull George into him, and smack a kiss on her cheek. “There’s my girl,” he says. His fingers are wrapped around a Rusty Bucket glass, the amber liquid swishing back and forth. He shifts his drink to his other hand and reaches for Adair’s. “Hey, man. Thanks for the invite.”

  George cuddles in under Ian’s arm and it’s obvious the two never had an argument that required me to stay and referee.

  Adair smiles, but it’s forced. No one else seems to notice, but I do; I know his faces. And after last night, well, now I know all of them. That realization alone fills me with heat. The fact that he’s still standing so close, almost possessively, is grinding any rational thoughts I have to a halt. I feel the urge to lean back into him, slide my hand under his jacket, and trace the curve of his back. Tug on the waistband of his pants, a nonverbal hint that I need him to take me somewhere and take me now. I’m thinking all of this while the three launch into a conversation I only half listen to. I smile and nod and laugh when appropriate, all the while my mind forming dirty thought after dirty thought until the only thing I can do is quietly slip away to refill my glass and make a lap around the room so I can cool my sorry self down.

  Adair catches me before I get very far, his hand gentle on my elbow. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” He sounds a bit like he did when he was speaking to Landon, and damn it all if that tone doesn’t make the heat in my body reach a boiling point.