The Way Back

by Melissa Toppen

  Deciding I need to use the bathroom more than I need to get dressed, I make my way to an open door along the back wall, entering a bathroom that is entirely too big for one person. What does someone need with all this space? The walls, like the bedroom, are done in a light gray. A large, jetted tub takes up the majority of one wall, a double vanity and large mirror on the other. There's a standing shower tucked into the right corner and then another door on the far left that leads into a private room with a toilet.

  I quickly use the bathroom and then proceed to the sink to splash some water on my face and try to bring some order to my tangled mess of hair, with absolutely no success. I locate a bottle of mouthwash underneath the sink and take a huge gulp, swishing it around my mouth until my taste buds feel numb before spitting it out.

  Draped over the side of the massive tub I find one of Zayne's t-shirts. An old vintage band tee that smells so strongly of him I consider stealing it. That way I can smell him whenever I want, the intoxicating smell of expensive cologne and his natural smell. It's an overwhelming concoction and makes my insides twist with desire.

  I quickly slip on the shirt, hoping he doesn't mind that I borrow it and make my way back into the bedroom. When I enter, Zayne is sitting in bed, a glass of water in one hand, a bottle of Advil in the other. He gives me a wide grin as I cross the space of the room and climb back into bed. I sit next to him in the middle of the mattress and cross my legs in front of me.

  “I have a new rule.” He hands me my water and places two small pills in my palm. “You can wear nothing but my old t-shirts when you are here.” His eyes trail down my body before finding their way to my face again.

  I let out a light laugh and pop the medicine into my mouth before chasing it down with a large gulp of water. The liquid feels amazing on my throat and I immediately feel a little bit better.

  I set the water on the bedside table next to me and collapse back down into the pillows, rolling to my side so that I can see Zayne. He mirrors my actions and rolls to his side as well, our bodies angled like puzzle pieces laid out on a table. You know the pieces will fit together perfectly but you haven't connected them yet.

  “How are you feeling?” He pushes my hair behind me, his hand trailing down the side of my neck causing my skin to prickle.

  “I'm okay,” I whisper. “Where are we?”

  “My house. I thought that was obvious.”

  “No, I mean, where are we exactly? Like, in comparison to my apartment.”

  “Um, we're about fifteen minutes from your apartment give or take. We're in the Heizer Building,” he says, like I should know what that means. “You're even more beautiful when you're confused, you know that?” He laughs, wrapping his arm around me before pulling me into his chest. He rolls onto his back and I readjust my body. Snuggling into him, I drape my arm across his bare stomach, my fingers making slow circles across his defined muscles.

  “Who is that?” I ask, pointing in the direction of the painting.

  “No idea.” His gaze follows mine. “A friend of mine is an artist and he paints the most exquisite pieces. When I saw this at one of his art shows, I had to have it. Do you like it?” he asks, looking back to me.

  “It's beautiful. I love the way he uses the red to make the neutral colors seem so natural against its boldness.”

  “Well aren't you just full of surprises. I didn't know you liked art.”

  “I don't really know anything about art,” I admit. “But I know enough to recognize a very talented artist.”

  We fall silent for a moment and I search for something else to talk about. While I feel like I have known Zayne my entire life, the fact still remains that I know very little about him. Truth is, I probably wouldn't even be here if it weren’t for his relationship with Alec. The fact that my brother trusts him tells me everything I need to know, and while he may be unpredictable and still a stranger to me, I feel safe with him.

  “Tell me something I don't know about you.” I peer up at his beautiful face.

  He thinks on it for a moment before responding. “I hate seafood.”

  “That's not what I meant and you know it.” I give him a pointed look. “Tell me something real.”

  “I really hate seafood,” he says, tensing just in time for my hand to smack across his chest.

  “You're such a jerk.” I huff, a wide smile lighting up my face. “Fine. Tell me about how you and Alec became such good friends.”

  “I don't really think that's the most appropriate conversation given our current situation.” He looks up at the ceiling. “Why don't you tell me something? Tell me your favorite thing in the whole world.”

  “Music,” I say without hesitation. “Well that and rainbow sherbet.” I laugh.

  “Rainbow sherbet? Really? Why not ice cream? I mean, at least that I can understand.”

  “No way. Sherbet is ten times better than ice cream, not to mention it's fat free. To a girl, that's a win-win.”

  It's so refreshing to see him relaxed and carefree. Usually he seems so serious. It's nice to see these little glimpses into who he really is as a person.

  The conversation dies off for a few moments as we simply lie together. His hand slides gently up and down my back while my fingers continue to trail across his stomach and chest, eventually finding their way to his bicep.

  “Why did you get this?” I ask, pulling my head back slightly, resting it on the pillow so I can look at the black tribal tattoo covering his perfect skin. I trail the outline with my fingertips, waiting for him to answer. When he doesn't, I look up to his face. His eyes are fixed on the ceiling again and while he seems completely at ease, I get the feeling it's not something he really wants to talk about.

  Wanting to know as much as I can about this man, I push for more. “Does it mean something? Does it symbolize something for you?” I ask.

  Looking a little closer at the black lines, I realize that some of them aren't lines at all but words.

  Squinting so that I can make out each word that swirls and dips with the design of the tattoo, I slowly read them aloud. “Got a long line of heartache, I carry it well. The list of lives I've broken reach from here to hell. Bad luck wind been blowin’ at my back. I pray you don't look at me, I pray you don't look back.”

  I recognize the lyrics immediately. “Thirteen” by Johnny Cash. I look up at him questioningly. For the first time since asking about the tattoo his eyes meet mine. “Johnny Cash?” I ask, my voice breaking slightly.

  He lets out a light laugh, clearly trying to brush it off as nothing. “I got it a few years ago. I was going through something and well, it seemed fitting.”

  “You realize that life is a lot less lonely when you let people in from time to time?”

  “This from the girl who closes herself off to the world,” he responds, turning his face down to me. “You would do well to follow your own advice from time to time, Miss Morgan.”

  “Spoken like a true master of avoidance,” I reply, rolling to my back on a loud sigh. He rolls toward me and props up on his elbow so that he is hovering over me.

  “Did I offend you?”

  “Not at all.” I turn to meet his gaze. “Does it ever bother you? You know, that no one really knows you. That people assume you’re a certain type of person and you’re constantly judged on what people don't actually know about you?”

  “Not really. If I let people believe the bad then I don't have to worry about disappointing them. If people see good, they expect good and I don't want to have to live my life pleasing other people.”

  “But you failed.”

  “How so?”

  “I see the good,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. Before he can say anything, I wrap my hand around the back of his neck and pull his lips to mine.

  JUST AFTER SIX IN THE evening I manage to escape the confines of Zayne's bed, insisting that if I don't get food in me I will simply die. While Zayne busies himself in the large, chef style kitchen making us sandwiches, I snea
k off to explore his apartment.

  It really is a beautiful place. The living area is open and light with more windows than I would ever care to have. Just imagining having to clean all of them gives me anxiety, but I bet Zayne has someone that takes care of all of that for him. I can't imagine him cleaning windows of all things.

  The apartment is a one level but the size is massive. I have a feeling my mom was right in her assumption of just how well Zayne and Alec have done for themselves. Everything about this place screams money.

  A few paintings line the walls that aren't occupied by windows. All beautiful but nothing like the painting in his bedroom. Based on the style and the use of colors, I can only assume that they are from the same artist.

  To the left there is a hallway that houses four bedrooms, two additional bathrooms, a study, and the master at the very end of the hall. To the right is the kitchen which only has a half wall that separates it from the living area.

  I walk to the back wall and pull open the sliding glass door. The patio isn't huge, but it's spacious enough that a table and four chairs fit with plenty of room to spare. I step out into the warm summer air and take a few steps out to the railing. The view is one you would expect in New York; buildings, buildings, and more buildings, but we're high enough up that I can only see the rooftops of a good portion of them.

  I hear Zayne approach behind me and I turn to see him place two plates holding sandwiches and fresh fruit on the table. He smiles at me and then disappears again, reappearing seconds later with two glasses of iced tea.

  “I must say, I'm impressed.” I take a seat in the chair that he slides out for me.

  “I am nothing if not a gracious host.” He slides down into the seat next to me.

  We make small talk about nothing of any real significance. The weather, Emma's audition, and he makes it a point to find out as much about Carver as he can.

  While I doubt he would ever admit it, I can't help but get the feeling that something about Carver really bothers him. I would describe it as jealousy but I'm not a hundred percent convinced that he cares enough about me to actually be jealous.

  He drives me home just after seven, pulling over about a block from my apartment building. I know right away what he's doing and I can't help but laugh at his over cautiousness.

  “What?” he asks, putting his black Cadillac CTS sports car into park before turning to face me.

  “Are you really that worried that someone will see us together? I mean, we could be friends, you know. That wouldn't be a completely ridiculous idea, would it?” I ask, shifting in my seat to face him.

  “I don't think we could pass as just friends, Grace, even if we tried.” He reaches out to trail his fingertips lightly across my collarbone through his old t-shirt that I had no choice but to wear home, given that my shirt somehow seems to have disappeared.

  “Why's that?”

  “I don't think I could keep my hands off of you long enough.” He leans forward, his hand falling to my inner thigh.

  “I think you could manage,” I croak out, feeling hot and flustered by the closeness of our bodies in the tiny space of the car.

  “I don't.” He closes the gap between us. His lips brush against mine so gently that I don't even know if you could classify it as a kiss. “Now go home before I decide not to let you leave.” He blows a warm breath against my mouth.

  I can't find the words to respond so I simply push back against my door, my hand fumbling with the door handle before getting it open. I slip out of the passenger seat and glance back at him. He's still leaning across the center console, his eyes dark and hungry and it takes everything I have to shut the door between us.

  I quickly make my way to the sidewalk. Deciding that looking back at him again would be a horrible idea, I keep my eyes forward and reach the front steps of my apartment building within two minutes. When I finally push my way through the front door, Emma rushes toward me, anger wild on her beautiful face.

  “Where the hell have you been?” she lashes out at me, not giving me a chance to get all the way into the apartment. “I have been trying to call you for hours!” she exclaims, stepping back to give me enough room to close the door.

  “I'm sorry, I lost my phone,” I say, tossing my keys onto the kitchen counter. “I went out with Becca and Jake last night after work and ended up crashing on their couch. I should have called.”

  “Ya think? Carv, she's here,” she yells down the hallway. I hear Carver's bedroom door open and he appears in the living room moments later.

  “Thank god. Where the hell were you? You had Emma blowing me up at work hoping I had talked to you.”

  “Again, lost my phone. Stayed with a couple co-workers. Sorry, Mom and Dad, won't happen again.” I hold up my hands in surrender.

  “Now darling, you know your mother and I worry about you. We just want you to be safe.” A wide smile breaks across his handsome face. Carver has to be the most likeable person I have ever met in my life. His ability to make fun of an otherwise serious situation has always been one of my favorite things about him.

  “I know. I love you guys too.” I wrap my arm around Emma's shoulder, pulling her into my side. “Sorry, Em. Won't happen again. I'm hoping I left my cell at the bar. Next time, I'll make sure I text you if I'm not coming home.”

  “You better.” She pouts, smacking my arm away. “What are you wearing?” Her eyes fall to my shirt.

  Shit...

  “I borrowed it from Jake. Spilled beer on mine,” I lie.

  “Hmm...” She considers this for only a moment before she quickly moves on. “I have been dying to talk to you all day and now, well now my big news doesn't seem that exciting. You stole my thunder.” She stomps toward the couch.

  “Big news?” I question excitedly, quickly joining her on the lumpy old couch. “You got cast?” It's more of a question than a statement.

  Emma's face immediately lights up.

  “I got cast!” she says with a squeal, bouncing up and down in her seat. “It's not a major part, not yet anyway. I am the understudy for the part of Elphaba.”

  “But that's the lead role. Em, you will be the understudy for the lead role in one of the hottest musicals out right now! Do you realize how amazing that is?” I pull her into a tight hug. “I am so proud of you,” I say, releasing her. “You're doing it, Em. You're actually doing it.”

  “I know! New York Theater, can you believe it? I never dreamed I would get cast on my first audition.” She sighs, sinking back into the couch.

  “I knew you would. Em, you are the most talented person I have ever seen. There's no way you're not gonna end up in the spotlight.”

  “Thanks, Grace. What about you? Any news from the agencies?”

  “Not yet.”

  “It’s only a matter of time,” she says, so certain of her words.

  I told Emma and Carver about my interest in getting published, but I have yet to tell anyone what the novel is about. I'd rather wait and let them read it. Talking about it is... well, it's too hard and honestly I don't want to rehash the past, especially with Emma who was there to see me fall apart first hand.

  After congratulating Emma for the next twenty minutes and making plans with her and Carver to go out sometime next week to celebrate, I head to my room to relax for a little before I have to head to work.

  I collapse on my bed, hoping to be able to close my eyes for a few minutes before hitting the shower, but my plans are foiled when a light knock sounds on my door. “Yeah,” I call, not bothering to get up.

  The door creaks open and Carver steps inside, a small shipping box in his hand. “Hey. This came for you earlier today,” he says, placing it on my bedside table.

  “Oh okay. Probably my mom. She's always sending me random things from home.” Carver walks over and flops down on his stomach next to me, the bed sinking under his athletic frame. “You okay?” I turn my head to the side to look at him.

  “I am. Just tired,” he says on a sigh, cl
osing his eyes.

  “Me too,” I groan out, wanting nothing more than to lay here with Carver and take a power nap. Unfortunately, time is getting away from me. “I gotta get ready for work,” I tell him, pushing myself into a sitting position. Carver lets out a light grunt but doesn't open his eyes.

  I pat my goofy best friend on the head and push myself to my feet, making my way down the hall to the shower.

  When I re-enter my room thirty minutes later, Carver is fast asleep on my bed, a light snore filling the otherwise quiet space. I can't help but laugh at his tall frame draped sideways across the bed, his long legs hanging off the side.

  I quickly dress under my robe before hanging Zayne's shirt in the corner of my closet. I know it's silly, but I like the idea of being able to pull it out and smell it whenever I want to. His scent is the most intoxicating smell in the world and in a weird way it comforts me.

  After spending another thirty minutes in the bathroom doing my hair and makeup, I head out into the living room to slip on my Converse and say goodbye to Em, who is lounging on the couch watching Snapped, a show about people who literally snap and start killing other people. It's a crazy show and one that I don't care for. I hate anything that has to do with death, and as such, I avoid shows like this at all costs.

  Realizing I never opened the package that came for me, I head back down the hall and grab the box from my nightstand, careful not to wake Carver in the process. Poor guy. His uncle has him working close to sixty hours a week and it's clear that he is exhausted.

  I place the box on top of the kitchen counter and then grab a knife to slice through the packing tape before pulling the box open. A note is perched on top and I recognize the handwriting.

  It's from Ian.

  Gracie,

  I hope you’re having a blast in New York and not missing me too much. I sure miss you. And Emma too. How is Emma by the way?