by Scott, S. L.
The clack of Kiki’s heels on the floors as she comes toward me could wake the dead. Stopping in front of me, she crosses her arms and pushes her hair away from her face. “Did you hear what she said to me?”
“Yes.”
Looking over her shoulder, clearly to make sure the coast is clear, she turns back, and rants, “She’s so rude. Obviously, she wants you, and she’s just jealous of me.” Touching the front of my T-shirt, she puts on a fake smile and utters, “Namaste, bitch,” under her breath.
We’re an inch from each other. Did she really think I wouldn’t hear that? “Don’t call her that.”
“But you heard how she talked to me—”
“Ever.”
A thin, tweezed red eyebrow cocks, and her lips purse. “So you’ve had sex with her? If not, why would you defend her?”
“It’s none of your business. You and I are friends. I don’t owe you answers regarding who I do or don’t sleep with.”
“Friends, huh?” she asks to herself as if she’s just accepted a challenge.
I knew better than to bring her. She caught me in a weak moment—lonely, drunk, and horny as fuck—and begged me to give her another shot.
She just blew it. Again.
Going inside the bathroom, I shut the door behind me, making sure to lock it so she doesn’t think it’s an invitation. I hear her hanging around outside the door, and then she says, “I’m sorry. I get jealous. You know that, Ridge.”
I understand jealousy. I’ve fucking felt it all night, but I’ve been better at hiding it behind bad alibis—the wood crackling, the waves crashing. The growl that ripped through me earlier when that preppy asshole touched Meadow’s lower back was explained away with a lame excuse of a piece of glass cutting my foot. It distracted Kiki enough to forget she heard my body reacting to the woman in the white dress.
There was no glass, only a bad acting job on my part. Kiki wants to hook up so badly that she’ll swallow any pill of an excuse I give her. That I have to give her excuses is the exact reason I didn’t want to bring her.
I take a piss and then wait her out. When the heels clack back down the hall, I open the door and decide it’s time to leave. I can’t be here with her. I don’t want to be here with Meadow and that dick in the rolled-up dad pants. Am I giving him a fair shake? Nope. I sure the fuck am not. Do I care? Nope. I sure the fuck don’t.
Kiki’s out on the patio. As soon as she sees me, she wraps her arms around her body and shivers. “It’s so cold.”
“Sorry. I don’t have a jacket.” I stand near the railing and look down at the bonfire, scanning the partiers to find Meadow. When I don’t see her, I say, “I’m ready to go.”
“Me too.” She comes to me and rubs my arm. “I’m so ready.”
As soon as we go inside, Meadow’s there with a red cup in hand. I’m not sure what to say, not in front of Kiki. Seconds tick and Meadow finally says, “I was getting a refill. Wine.”
“Wine. Yeah.” Stepping forward, I ask, “Hey, do you have quick sec to talk?” Her eyes drift over my shoulder to Kiki, so I add, “In private?”
“Sure.” The answer is as awkward as we are right now, but I’ll take it.
I may not be happy with Kiki, but she deserves better than I’m giving her, so I try to fix it the best I can. Turning back to Kiki, I keep my voice down. “Do you mind waiting a minute?”
Her arms are crossed over her chest, and her foot is tapping. As she searches the high-beamed ceilings for the answer, she huffs. “I guess.”
“Thanks. I’ll be right back.”
Taking Meadow by the arm, I guide her to the back hall again, but this time, we enter one of the bedrooms. When I shut the door, she doesn’t even flinch, not one worry crosses her pretty face. Because she knows me. She trusts me.
“I’m being a total asshole to her right now.”
That makes her smile a little too big. “You are.”
“It’s worth it to talk to you.”
“It is, huh?”
I replace a heavy breath, and suddenly, it feels like us again. Without pretenses or dates, just her and I alone, we can let down our guards. “I want to see you.”
Surprise colors her face. “That’s unexpected.”
“Not really. Let’s meet and talk. Catch up. I want to hear about everything you did in London. I want to hear about where you lived and what you ate. Who you hung out with and your work. I want to hear about you.”
She sits on the end of the bed and takes a sip of her drink. Knowing Kiki is waiting on us, and asshat is probably waiting on her, I dig her rebellious time-sucking ways. “Only to talk?”
“I think it’s clear we aren’t where we were when you left. So let’s get to know each other again.”
“As friends?”
The question knocks me in the gut. Is that what we are? “I thought we were friends.”
Her smile returns. “We are. I leave for Austin next week. Maybe we can get together before then?”
I pull out my phone to get her number, realizing I already have it. She walks next to me and stands, arm to arm, looking at the phone in my hand. “You never called me either.” She opens the door and looks back over her shoulder when I look at her over mine. “You’ve still got my number. Make sure to use it this time.”
She leaves the room, and I’m left with my phone in my hand and the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the air. Fuck. She’s amazing. Make sure to use it this time. Feisty little thing. I call the number I never took off speed dial.
Laughter echoes down the hall, and then she answers, “Hello?”
“Hey. It’s Ridge—” I catch myself. “It’s Dave. Dave Carson. I don’t know if you remember me.”
“I remember you. Long time, no talk.”
“Too long. Sorry about that.”
“We all get busy sometimes.”
“Yeah, we do.” I clear my throat, and then say, “So I was thinking we could get some tea or grab a beer together. Something low-key and catch up.”
“You remembered I like tea.”
Peeking out of the room, I spy her leaning against the wall at the far end of the hall. She’s sliding one of her flip-flops back and forth and smiling as she looks down. That’s the smile I remember she had just for me. “Some things are hard to forget.”
Her voice is low for privacy, but light as air in emotion. “They sure are. I’d like to catch up with you. Did you have a day and time in mind?”
“Tomorrow too soon?”
“No. You’re right on time.”
“I’ll text you tomorrow morning then.”
“It’s a date . . . I mean, it’s a catch up.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, a catch up.”
Her sweet melody of a laugh follows mine, and she says, “Bye, Dave.”
“Bye, Meadow.”
I give her a minute to rejoin the party before I leave the room. We left it in too good a place to ruin it with my exit as I take another woman home. To her home, not mine, but still. I don’t want get into all that tonight.
Anyway, she has her own situation to sort out. By her body language tonight and considering she just said yes to meeting up with me, I’m taking it that they’re nothing serious. A favorite phrase of hers.
Wonder if it’s what I’ll hear this time around.
Fuck, I hope not.
4
Meadow
Pulling the covers up to my neck, I lie in the dark bedroom of my sister’s house. It doesn’t feel like home since the surroundings are still so new, but it feels homey, like her, like Rivers. Even a little like me.
I’m comfortable here, but I’ll be returning to Austin soon to finish my last year of school. Not before a quick . . . I don’t know what it is, but catch up feels safe to use when it comes to Dave. Ridge. What do I call him these days? He was Ridge when I met him and became Dave as I got to know him.
The woman in the red dress called him Ridge. It makes me wonder how well she knows him. For the pub
lic, I always called him Ridge too. He was Dave to me in private. Ugh. I’ve drunk too much to get caught up in this mind spin.
I close my eyes, my thoughts going back to the beach tonight.
Carrig’s nowhere to be seen, so I ask Rivers, “Is he dating her?”
“Is who dating who?”
Sometimes, I wish men were more in tune to reading women’s minds. I whisper, “Ridge. Is he dating the woman he was with when he was here?”
Rivers takes a drink of beer and looks around as though he hadn’t noticed they left. Lowering the cup, he shrugs. “Dating’s not really what they do.”
“Oh.” I try to act casual, but there’s a weird ache in my chest. I rub it with the pad of my palm. “So they’re a thing? Like you’ve met her before?”
It didn’t seem like she had met the band by the way she was dragging him over to Rivers and Tulsa and chatting them up. Tulsa was distracted by his wife who was skinny-dipping, and Rivers doesn’t play the fame game. If someone acts like a groupie, he retreats inward and goes quiet. Stella is great about taking the lead at times like those.
He shakes his head. “We haven’t met her, but we’ve seen her around before. She’s connected to the Hollywood scene. Her brother’s a producer or some movie exec.”
Stella joins us with a half drunk beer in her hand. “I love the ocean.”
Rivers’s arm wraps around her shoulders, and he pulls her close. He always keeps her close. After a five-year breakup, he’s not willing to lose her again.
But what I love the most is watching Rivers come alive when Stella is near. Having watched him around Kiki, I saw the man reticent to engage. But he’s so different with Stella. He’s great for her, but God, she is amazing for him. Seeing them together? It almost makes me believe in fairy tales. Almost.
I’m careful not to walk that tightrope. Too many people fall and there’s only one place to land—heartbreak city.
A text catches my attention, and my heart beats a little faster. This is not a good sign. I thought he was out of my system, but a simple chime has me wishing we were right back where we used to be. Dave and I may not have ended on a great note, but we always made great music.
That fast beating heart sinks to the pit of my stomach when I see the message is from Carrig. I want to tell him to fuck off, but he’s not doing anything wrong. He hasn’t crossed any lines since I drew them in the relationship sand.
Just because we went out a few times together and it didn’t work out doesn’t mean he’s the enemy. He’s actually a decent guy, just not “the one” for me. But when I was in London, he became a friend I appreciated.
Tonight wasn’t all bad. I mean besides the good of seeing Dave again, Carrig was entertaining. By the end of the night, he managed to find his way back to his hotel in Beverly Hills despite getting lost on the beach after taking a walk. He finally found his drunken way back to the bonfire, but is lucky the neighbors didn’t call the police.
He’s definitely out of sorts when he’s not in the city. Our goodbye was short, and though he tried to make it sweet, his lips landed on my cheek.
The text reads: I had a good time tonight. Leaving in the morning, but would love to have a chat soon.
Me: Safe travels.
I’m not sure what else to say, so I leave it at that, and apparently that’s enough because he does too.
Or so I think. My phone rings. “Ugh. Really?” I answer to get it over with so I’m not the one left to have to call him back. “It’s late, Carrig, and—”
“It’s Dave.”
I sit straight up. “Oh. Hi. Sorry, I thought it was—”
“Yeah, Carrig. I gathered that.” He chuckles, and I appreciate that he’s not upset. I mean, why would he be? He doesn’t really have the right. Something I also don’t have.
We were never a couple in the traditional sense, but we were working our way there. Life. His. School. Mine. We had so many obstacles in our way. My internship came at the right time. It allowed me not only the perspective I needed to stay on track with my own goals but also to focus on me.
Now that I’ve had a taste of real life beyond school, I’m more motivated than ever to graduate and finally start living.
He says, “I was lying here thinking about you.”
“Something we have in common.”
“You’re lying in bed thinking about you too?”
I start giggling. “Something like that. So what were you thinking about me?”
“It was good to see you again. I just wanted to tell you that.”
Dave was always a good guy, but it’s nice to have the reminder. “It was good seeing you again too. And I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”
“Yes. Good night, Meadow.”
“Good night.”
My smile remains long after we hang up. Something with us, the interactions and the vibe between us seems different. Better. I have to go back to Austin, but this time when I leave, maybe we can remain friends.
* * *
I was tempted to wear one of my fancier dresses but decided it was too much for a tea date. Anyway, he’s a rock star who never cared about fashion. He used to love yoga pants and a tank top on me. So I know I can dress casually.
That doesn’t mean I’ve given up all sense of fashion just because I left London, though. I straighten one of my flutter sleeves that has been giving me trouble since I left the Hollywood Hills. Giving up on the impossible sleeve, I tug at the top of my capri-style jeans to make sure the bloating from all the vino last night isn’t making a grand entrance.
Dave stands when I walk in. I weave my way through the tables to the one in the corner. I’ve been to this coffee shop before and know it’s impossible to score a table. I lift to kiss him on the cheek, but he angles back not sure what I’m doing. “Oh,” I say, “Sorry about the cheek kiss. Habit I picked up in England.”
“I was going to say Hollywood, but what else did you pick up in England?”
I’m not sure if he’s referring to people or habits, and since I set myself up for that, I let it go. “How early did you have to get here to score this table?”
“Just a few hours.”
My jaw drops. “You’ve been here for hours?”
He sits down after I do. “No,” he says, laughing. “I just walked in, and a guy was leaving. Great timing is all.”
“As a guitarist, you always did have great timing.”
“Maybe not so much with us.”
“Your timing was perfect. It’s my timing that . . .” I set my purse down on the edge of the table since the floor looks like it’s in need of a good mopping. “Well, no sense living in the past.”
A barista walks to our table and sets down two hot drinks and a plate of treats. “I love these biscuits . . . I mean, cookies.”
“Wow, you really acclimated right into the English lifestyle.”
“I went into survival mode so I wouldn’t be made fun of. Over there, they called me ‘the American,’ but here, my sister says I picked up an accent.”
“You did. It’s not strong, but I hear it.”
Of course he does. Musicians have great ears. But that he noticed after so few words, that . . . well, that makes me feel a little special.
“It will fade completely once I return to Texas.” I spin the mug around and read the tea tag, “Your life is made of infinite possibilities.”
“It’s true.”
“Yes,” I say amused. “I’ll be saying y’all before you know it.”
“The part about your life and the possibilities.”
I nod. “I’m starting to believe it’s true.” I leave the tea bag in the cup and don’t use cream or sugar violating British law. Well, I’m sure it has to be a law over there by how much I was harassed by Darcy to remove the bag before drinking. The memory makes me smile. “Thank you for the tea. You remembering what I like means a lot to me.”
“You’re welcome.”
When I look up, his eyes are trained on me, running
the course of my face as if checking for other differences between who he knew me to be then and now. I say, “Stella said the band has already played fifteen shows this summer.”
Wading into safer waters, he sits back and begins to relax. Like me, I can tell he’s trying to figure out so much of what we were versus what we are. “We have fifteen more to go and then Europe in September.”
“How many shows?”
“Four overseas and then we’re back.”
“You’re popular in London. Sometimes I would hear the songs playing through the open windows of a passing car or speakers in the park, and my roommate listened to your albums more than a few times.”
“You’d hear us played everywhere, but did you ever listen to the songs?”
Avoiding the question, I reply, “I know the songs. I know them by heart.”
He sees through me, still knows how to see the truth. He chooses not to pursue that avenue, and asks, “So you’re going back to Austin next week?”
“Yes, I’ll be registering again, but it’s mainly because I have to meet with my advisor to turn in my paper. The internship provides credits I need to graduate, but it all has to be verified as well as me writing about it. The trip will be fairly quick since I need to be back for the wedding planning.” My gaze falls to the tea that’s getting cold. “Are you going to drink that?”
Looking obligated, he picks up the mug. I’ve never seen him drink tea before, and I watch with rapt attention as he takes a sip. “Do you like it?”
“It grows on you. It’s good to hear you’ll be back.”
“Thanks. I’m trying to help my sister as much as I can. She’s always been there for me. I want to be there for her.”
“You’ve always been close. I remember the first time I saw you . . . two. The Fellowes sisters.”
Taking a shortbread cookie, I break it, devouring one half and savoring the other. “What do you remember?”
“I remember the jeans you were wearing.”
“The jeans?” I ask, shocked by his answer. “I don’t even remember what jeans I was wearing.”
“They were tight in all the right places.”