by Chloe Walsh
TODAY WAS NOAH’S BIRTHDAY and I found myself, like every birthday before that, standing in front of the postbox at the end of my street with a crumpled envelope in my hands. I had lost count of the number of times I wrote him a letter, only to chicken out before mailing it.
Crowds of people brushed past me, carrying on with their day-to-day lives, oblivious to the turmoil churning around inside of me.
Maybe I had too much pride, or maybe I was a coward, but as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into months and then years, I found myself too afraid to send that damn letter. I wanted to, but I was frightened of what he would say, or worse, what he didn’t say if he chose to behave the way I had in the beginning.
My life wasn’t like the fucking Notebook. My Noah wasn’t at war, he was a criminal serving time for a serious crime, and I sure as hell wasn’t anybody’s Allie.
I didn’t have money or a rich fiancé.
No, all I had was a stack of bills longer than both my arms, and a best friend who was more emotionally fucked up and closed off than I was.
Tucking the envelope back into my coat pocket, I closed my eyes and whispered, “Happy birthday, Noah.”
“KILL ME NOW.”
The half snarl, half roar that came from Hope’s bedroom was my first warning of trouble.
The large stuffed gorilla she slept with at night being hurled halfway across the landing from her room into mine was my second.
“What’s wrong?” I dared to ask, unsure if I really wanted to know.
“I’ve lost sixty thousand words,” she hissed, stalking into my bedroom, looking somewhat deranged with her hair in knots and standing up in forty different directions. “Gone, freaking lost. Forever. That’s what’s wrong.”
With a yodel of sheer despair, Hope threw herself down on my bed beside me and grabbed my pillow. “That piece of crap computer just crashed again and wiped all of my work again. I have a deadline I can’t meet, I have obligations I can’t fulfill, and now I’m officially screwed,” she moaned, covering her face with my pillow as she lay on the flat of her back. “All that work for nothing. Just leave me here to rot. I’m done. I quit. I retire.”
I told you to back up your work, was on the tip of my tongue, but I forced myself to refrain.
Hope was right about one thing.
Her computer was a piece of crap.
It had been giving her trouble for months now. “Don’t be so dramatic, Hope. You work for yourself and your readers will understand if you need to push the date back a few months. So just calm your shit and buy a new computer,” I told her. She really needed an upgrade. “But maybe take a shower before you go into town.” I took a quick whiff of my friend and gagged. “I get that you’re in your hermit, locked-in-the-house writer mode, but I think you should get out of the apartment for a day.” With me, I silently added. I knew full well why Hope preferred to hang around with her new friends; they didn’t remind her of the past. They didn’t know about Jordan, and she could pretend when she was with them. God knows, I understood it, but I didn’t like it. Hope was vulnerable and I hated to see her being taken advantage of.
“You don’t get it, Teegs,” she moaned, ignoring the shower part. “I started on that one – I wrote my very first book on that piece of crap. It holds sentimental value. And I don’t want to jinx myself. For all I know I’ve been incredibly lucky. That computer could be my lucky charm.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re not lucky, you’re bloody talented.” Jumping off the bed, I reached forward and grabbed her hand, pulling her miserable, stinky, overgrown ass off my bed. “The words are in here,” I told her, tapping her head, “not in that piece of shit plastic in there.”
I was used to Hope’s crazy writer mode, and I understood when she needed to dive into a book and stay there, but she was like a dazzled baby bunny when she came back up for air.
This time was more severe than usual. Hope only got this bad around the anniversary. It kind of ruined her, and her being ruined kind of saved me from going down that similar spiral.
“I don’t know,” she mumbled, tugging on the sleeves of her hoodie – the same hoodie she had been wearing since Wednesday.
“Well then it’s a good thing I do,” I countered. “Come on,” I told her. “Clean your ass up and we’ll hit the shops.”
“I do need ink cartridges,” she offered, slightly optimistic at the thought of our shopping spree. “And some sharpies too.”
“Yes.” I nodded, as I shoved her towards the bathroom. “We can get all of those and more. Just clean yourself up first.”
“Hey Teegs?”
“Yep?” I looked back at my distraught looking roommate.
“Thanks for taking care of me,” she muttered sheepishly, as she poked her head around the bathroom door. The steam rising behind her assured me she was indeed going to clean herself.
“It works both ways, Hope.” I told her.
WE SHOPPED UNTIL WE DROPPED, and when we were fed and watered, we made it back to the flat to get dolled up for a night out on the town with our friends.
We ended up staying in Reilly’s bar, our usual hangout, for karaoke night.
It was going really smoothly, right up until Hope put her hand up for a song.
Liam, noticing me grimace, turned to me and asked, “Is she a terrible singer or something?”
“No.” I closed my eyes and braced myself. “She can sing, but she gets a little…weepy after alcohol.”
Hope took the microphone and when the background music of Pink’s Who Knew blasted around me, I knew this was bad.
She sobbed into the microphone, and I flinched, feeling her pain right down in my bones. Sometimes I wished I could erase Jordan Porter altogether. It killed me watching Hope live this half-life of an existence.
I hoped his conscience kept him up at night.
Bastard.
In many ways it was worse for Hope. With Noah, I knew I was playing with fire. He was like a ticking time bomb, ready to go off at any moment. But Jordan wasn’t like Noah. He and Hope had been together their entire lives and the guy had let her down worse than anyone I’d known. I’d never seen heartbreak quite like that.
I was living my life, miserable as it may be, whereas Hope’s life seemed to be on a complete standby. She was on pause and it infuriated me.
I had fair warning with Noah.
Hope never stood a chance with Jordan.
BY THE TIME LIAM had managed to wrestle the microphone out of Hope’s hands and get her back to the apartment I was completely wiped out.
“Happy Valentine’s Day to us, buddy,” I whispered when I had finished undressing Hope and had gotten her into bed.
Closing her bedroom door behind me, I went back to lounge to where Liam was standing. Wrapping my arms around his waist, I gave him a drunken hug. “Thank you for tonight,” I whispered. “I wouldn’t have been able to get her home without you.”
“Whatever you need, Teagan,” he replied warmly, enveloping me in his arms. “Always.”
“You can stay here tonight,” I said against his chest.
“I can?”
“Sure.” I nodded, breaking out of his hold. “You’ll never get a taxi at this hour. I’ll go grab you a blanket for the couch.”
“You looked beautiful tonight,” Liam told me when I returned with his blanket.
“Thanks,” I replied, embarrassed.
Reaching out, he tucked a loose tendril of hair behind my ear and smiled. “You’re welcome.”
“So…do you want to watch some telly?” I offered, desperate to change the weird clammy atmosphere that had settled between us. “I have the first three episodes of the new season of The Walking Dead recorded?”
Liam stared at me for a long moment, almost imploring me with his eyes, until finally he shook his head and sighed. “Sure, Teegs, it’s your call,” he told me, sinking down on the couch.
Grabbing the remote, I flicked on the television before settling down o
n the far side of the couch. “Rick Grimes it is,” I replied nervously.
“MERRY CHRISTMAS, DUDE.” Tommy Moyet slid the packet of cigarettes towards me.
“Ho fucking Ho, man,” I shot back, smirking. Fucker sure knew how to brighten up an inmate’s day.
Tommy and I had been friends since high school and to be honest, the guy had stepped up when I went inside. He visited frequently, at least once a month, which I had to admit I enjoyed a helluva lot more than I let him know.
Reaching down, I slid the packet into my sock. It wasn’t against the rules to have cigarettes in here, but I sure as shit didn’t share and Lucky was a chain smoker. “Appreciate it, T.”
“Anytime,” he replied warmly. “Eight more months, Noah,” he added, leaning back in his chair. “You’ll be out before you know it, man.”
I responded with a grunt.
It might seem that way to Tommy, but anyone who had ever been inside knew that you weren’t out until you were out. A million and one fucking problems could happen between now and my parole and I wasn’t getting my hopes up. Not for one fucking moment. Not when there were assholes inside who could jeopardize my future at the drop of a hat.
This was a dangerous fucking world to live in and the only reason I’d made it this far as unscathed as I had was because I had been born into it. I knew the rules of the underworld. I knew the code of the scum. Stick to myself, keep my nose clean, and never back down.
But I would be a liar if I said I wasn’t nervous.
Eight more months.
Two hundred and forty days.
I was on the cusp of freedom. I could practically smell it… and it was fucking terrifying.
Say nothing bad happened and I was released in eight months? How would I make it in the real world? I was only a kid when I came here, eighteen and green. Now I was almost twenty-four. That was a long ass recess from the real world.
“People are talking, Noah,” Tommy said in a hushed tone, leaning over the table towards me. “There’s more interest in you with the MFA now than back in high-school, dude. Some of the guys are saying that with some training you could go pro –”
“Incase it’s passed your attention, I’m a criminal, Tommy. I’ve got a record as long as your arm, dude. I’m not getting signed by any respectable company,” I responded wearily, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. My getting signed had been Tommy’s wet dream of an obsession since we were in our teens. Back then, before Teagan Connolly had come around and knocked my concentration to shit, the MFA – the fastest growing league for mixed martial arts and street fighting in North America – had shown an interest in me. That was then, before I had a rap sheet to contend with. “You know it and I know it, so why don’t you give the whole MFA shit a break, man. Please.”
Shrugging my words off like the optimistic bastard I knew he was, Tommy continued planting the seed in my brain. “Times are changing, Noah,” he argued, excitement evident in his eyes. “And the rules are changing too. In your favor, dude. The sport is sluggish, and they’re looking for fresh meat – someone with enough personality to draw the crowds back in. Young, skilled and ruthless.” Drum rolling his hands against the table, Tommy grinned. “And you’re all of those, man.”
“Forget it,” I told him. “There’s not a company on this side of the continent gonna sign the likes of me.”
“You sure about that, man?” Stuffing his hand into his pocket, he dragged out a crumpled sheet of paper and placed it in front of me.
“And this is?” The letter was scribbled out in cursive. I was a fucking terrible reader and I sure as hell wasn’t about to embarrass myself by trying to sound it out in a prison visiting room.
“A handwritten letter from Quinn ‘The Ripper’ Jones himself,” Tommy informed me proudly. “Letting your pessimistic ass know there’s a place waiting for you in his gym when you’re out. In eight fucking months.”
“Why?” It was the one question I needed answering. Why the fuck would Quinn Jones write to me? That guy was practically MFA royalty. Two-time heavyweight champion, I’d followed his career back in the day. Hell, come to think about it, I was fairly certain that I’d had a poster on my bedroom wall of him when I was a kid. Since his early retirement a few years ago – when he broke a bone in his back – Quinn had settled for coaching up and comers. He had his pick of the litter and trained only the best. The elite. The guys with the biggest potential. The guaranteed future heavyweight champions. The fighters that were guaranteed to bring in the big bucks and make a shit ton of cash. So what in the fuck was he doing sniffing around a waste of space like me?
“Gimme that thing.” I snatched the letter out of Tommy’s hands and held it up to my face, concentrating my hardest.
Nope, still couldn’t make out a damn word, but I believed Tommy. He wouldn’t fuck with me. The guy was as loyal as they came.
“This is it, Noah,” Tommy chuckled, rubbing his hands together. “This is your goddamn meal ticket out.”
I leaned back in my chair and sighed.
My meal ticket out?
Well shit…
GOD, I LOVED MUSIC.
It was by far my favorite wonder of the world. It was soul searing and wondrous and deserved to be on the list.
How amazing were the writers, poets and musicians of the world?
They could shove their hands through your chest and pull on your heartstrings with lyrics and melodies.
Okay, so I knew music wasn’t listed in the Seven Wonders of the World, but I thought that was a crying shame. Sure, Niagara Falls was nothing short of wonderful, and the Coral Reef was splendid, the Grand Canyon spectacular, but I could easily live without those. What I couldn’t live without was music and that had to count for something, right?
Pumping Imagine Dragon’s Radioactive on my iPod, I pounded the footpath, desperate to rid my body of the tension building up inside of me since I got out of bed this morning and had to spend an entire day ignoring what today represented to me.
I hated New Year’s Eve.
It was the worst day of every year for me and this year was harder than others.
As I ran down the path, dodging happy couples and families with smiling children, I couldn’t help but think of my mother.
Today was the anniversary of her death and I think I missed her more now than I did when I was fourteen. I missed her voice and her hugs. I missed her advice and the way she could always make me feel better no matter how hard things were.
I wondered what she would say to me now.
Would she be proud of me?
Of the choices I had made?
WHEN I MADE IT BACK TO THE APARTMENT, I let myself inside and headed straight for a shower, desperate to wash away the icky sensation of windburn and sweat.
When I was finished and dressed, I decided to bite the bullet and call the one person in this world that hated New Year’s Eve as much as I did. Sitting cross-legged on my bed, I inhaled a deep calming breath and dialed his number.
“Hello?” The sound of his familiar voice filled my stomach with a flurry of nerves.
“Hi, Uncle Max,” I heard myself say in a voice much smaller than normal. “It’s me.”
“Teagan,” he acknowledged slowly. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” I replied, nodding slowly. “You?”
“I’ve been better,” was his response. “I’m at work, actually,” he added, and the sound of machine’s beeping in the background suddenly made sense.
Max was a doctor – a workaholic to be exact.
I should have known he would be at the hospital today. He had a tendency to work through his feelings – literally.
“It’s been a while,” I said, throwing it out there, tackling the big fat elephant between us. I hadn’t spoken to my uncle since I left The Hill.
Not a single word.
All correspondence between us had been done through the Carter’s.
“It’s lonely not having family around – especially t
oday,” I admitted, closing my eyes, hating how weak that sentence made me sound.
“That was your choice, Teagan, not mine,” Max replied coolly. “But I presume you already know you made the wrong decision by shacking up with that criminal.”
“I am not shacked up with Noah,” I snarled, rising onto my knees.
This was the crux of it all; Max would never get over me choosing Noah over him all those years ago.
“Because in case it hasn’t crossed your attention, Noah’s in prison.” My voice was full of pain and sarcasm. “And it wasn’t his fault,” I added.
He might be a cheating bastard, but Noah wasn’t a criminal – not through choice at least. He had been thrown into a world of crime and had done the only thing he could do. Survive. “Hate Noah if you want, Max,” I growled. “But don’t call him that.”
“I’m simply calling a spade a spade,” he replied, not giving an inch.
Sighing heavily, I struggled to rein in my emotions and make the peace. “Look,” I coaxed in as reasonable tone as I could muster. “It’s been almost five years. Can’t we just bury the hatchet and call a truce?”
“And when Noah gets out?” Max countered, ignoring the olive branch I was offering him. “What happens then?”
“What do you mean what happens when he gets out?”
“How long will this so called truce last when lover boy gets released from prison?”
Shaking my head in confusion, I opened my mouth to defend myself but Max jumped in before I had a chance.
“I will not condone you being in any sort of relationship with a criminal, Teagan,” he told me in that snotty, superior tone I had forgotten he loved to use when talking down to me. “I will have no part in it.”
“Oh my fucking god,” I hissed, “Max, do you realize how insane you sound right now?” Jumping off my bed, I stalked my floor, feeling angrier than I had in months. “This conversation is pointless because Noah and I are over.”
“We’ll see how over you two are when he gets out, won’t we?” he shot back coolly.