For now, as much as it hurts, I know we’re both better apart.
He needs to grow on his own, and so do I. Seeing my father might’ve been a big step, but there’s still more baggage I need to let go of. One moment of clarity doesn’t erase years of mental and emotional abuse.
I backspace the words and close my eyes, tossing my phone so I don’t see where it lands—that way, I can’t be tempted to pick it up and do something stupid.
Eventually, I fall asleep with the feel of phantom arms around me.
Parking my car outside the post office I dig through my bag and procure my key to my box. I rarely check it, because I don’t get anything important, just junk—all my bills are either taken care of directly with my landlord or online. It’s been probably two months since I checked it, which is longer than I normally go.
The bell tied around the handle jingles as I enter. The post office is long and narrow, lined with rows and rows of boxes for all the apartments around here. I locate mine and open it, pulling out the stack of fliers and advertisements someone has wrapped a rubber band around. A piece of yellow paper flutters to the ground and I bend down to pick it up. I squint at it, finding that it tells me I have a package too large to fit in the box.
I march up to the empty counter and slap it down.
“I didn’t order anything—so I think this was put in my box by mistake.”
The man picks up the slip of paper and looks at it. “Kira Marsh, right?”
“Um … yeah,” I answer reluctantly.
“It’s the right one then.”
He gets up then and heads into the back returning with several Amazon boxes.
“There you go.” He shoves them at me and air whooshes out of my lungs as I struggle to carry them out and to my car. I end up having to make several trips since the boxes are heavy.
I still think they were sent by mistake, but my name is on the label.
Once they’re loaded it’s a short drive to my apartment and I have to make five more trips to and from my apartment to get the boxes and my other stuff inside.
Finally, I lock the door behind me and pause to catch my breath. My pregnant ass is not equipped to walk up and down the stairs that many times in a row.
Once I don’t sound like I’m wheezing on my last breath I grab a knife and begin opening the boxes.
Each one contains baking supplies—cake pans, cupcake pans, a glass display, a sheet for piping out macarons, icing bags and tips, basically anything and everything I could possibly need to bake whatever I want. Opening the last box, my jaw goes slack at the sight of the bright red Kitchen Aid mixer. I’ve dreamed of having one for years but I never believed I could afford one. Now one’s been handed to me and I know there’s only one person who could’ve possibly done this.
Despite my better judgment I pick up my phone.
When he answers I blurt, “You shouldn’t have done this. You didn’t need to buy me all of this stuff. Rush, I can’t accept this.”
“I wondered when you’d get it.” I can hear his smile on the other end.
“I don’t deserve this.” I press a hand to my head, trying to ignore how my heart picks up speed at the sound of his voice.
“I wanted you to have it.”
“How long ago did you send it? Surely after everything you’d rather me return this so you can get your money back.”
“I bought it all the minute this beautiful brown-eyed girl spoke of her passion for baking and her dream of opening a shop one day. I know you’d make an amazing nurse, Kira, but you shouldn’t give up on your dreams.”
“Most of us have to be practical,” I reason, exhaling a breath. “We can’t all be rock stars.”
He sighs, but it’s not a disgruntled sigh—more one born of defeat and maybe despair. “I had to give up on my dream once, not by choice, but by force of circumstances. If it’s something that can be avoided, it should. At least now, you can bake when you have time. Even if you never open that shop like you dreamed, you’ll still be baking. Did you get the card?”
“No, I didn’t see the card, but I haven’t gone through the mail portion yet. And what did you mean? What dream did you have to give up on?”
I hear a door close in the background and some rustling. “I wanted to play basketball. I got a full ride scholarship to Duke University on the same day I was in the car accident that took away my ability to play. It’s the day I lost not only my dream, but my parents.”
“Rush,” I gasp, my voice breaking along with my heart.
“There are no excuses for what I’ve done and who I’ve been, but maybe you can understand just a little bit more.”
“I still don’t feel right accepting this,” I say, before I blurt out something I can’t take back.
“It’s a gift,” he says softly, almost sadly. “It’s not given with the expectation of getting anything return. I want you to have it.”
“Well, thank you,” I reply. I know I should hang up the phone, but I don’t want to. I want to linger in this moment a little longer.
“It’s good to hear your voice,” he says. “H-How’s the baby?” he asks hesitantly.
“He’s doing good. I should feel him moving soon.”
Clearing his throat, he says, “I better go, Kira. It was good to hear from you.”
Strangers, it’s what we’re acting like—and it doesn’t feel good. I don’t like this one bit, but everything is fucked up and I don’t know how we can ever repair it. We are both on our way to fixing ourselves, so maybe there’s hope. I’ll hold onto that—to hope, because without hope there’s nothing left in this world.
“Bye,” I whisper.
He lingers on the phone a few seconds longer and then he exhales a breath and the line goes dead.
I feel warm all over from the sound of his voice and now in its absence I can feel a chill starting to seep into my limbs.
Grabbing the stack of mail I rifle through it and find the card he sent.
Tearing it open, I slide it out of the envelope, nearly giving myself a paper cut in the process.
I read the front and out the side five-hundred dollars falls into my hand with a note attached:
For ingredients.
Inside the card in his scrawl he’s added:
We might make new dreams, but it doesn’t mean we should give up on our old ones. Dreams are fuel to making the impossible become possible. I’ll thoroughly enjoying eating whatever you bake—and eating other things if you let me. –Rush
I grab my phone and send him a text.
Kira: You shouldn’t give up on your old dreams either. Even if you couldn’t play basketball in college and go pro if that’s what you dreamed of, you can still get on a court and make the best of it. Maybe it’ll fill a blank space.
A moment later the message shows it has been read, but he doesn’t reply. Regardless, I hope my words will impact him in some way.
42
Rush
“I come bearing cupcakes,” Mia sing-songs as she dances into the studio in the afternoon. We’ve been at it for hours, and since I’m no longer drinking, I suddenly understand why Cannon’s always lighting up a cigarette. I need something to take the edge off and I guess a cupcake will have to do. “And before you ask,” she adds, setting a cupcake carrier down on the chair, one I’m familiar with since I added it to my Amazon shopping cart months ago when I ordered supplies for Kira, “no, I didn’t make these. Kira did. Apparently, there’s a Martha Stewart in her that I didn’t know existed.”
A pleased smirk lifts my lips and I hide it behind my hand. I’m happy, because I knew something about Kira that Mia didn’t. It’s something Kira could’ve shared with her years ago, but like so many things, kept it to herself. It’s one small piece of herself she gave willingly to me and only me.
“They’re chocolate with chocolate icing and chocolate chips sprinkled on top, because apparently Kira is having a chocolate craving or something. Honestly, I think we’re all lucky they
’re not Coke flavored and we should count our blessings,” she rambles, passing them out.
I give her a small smile when I take mine. Staring at the blue cupcake wrapper with white dots, I wish selfishly I could’ve watched her bake them.
Does she sing when she bakes? Does she dance? I wonder if she wore the apron I sent?
I force the thoughts from my mind as I peel back the wrapper, exposing the chocolate cake part. It looks moist and delicious. Even the icing is applied expertly. The care and love she put into creating these is obvious.
When she gets to Hollis she gives him a saucy grin and I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. Not only are they grossly in love, but for the first time in my life I’m jealous of it. I’ve always looked down on lovey-dovey couples, finding their devotion annoying and overdone, but I’d give anything to have Kira smile at me, to touch her freely.
More importantly, I wish we could exist in a world where our demons could be easily defeated and being together was easy.
Even if she does forgive me at some point, there will be nothing easy about our life. I’ll always be an alcoholic and her past will always exist. But hopefully we could keep each other from being pulled under by the tide.
I take a bite of the cupcake and it tastes fucking good, even better than it looks, which is saying a lot.
“Tell her thanks for the cupcakes,” I say to Mia, raising my half-eaten cupcake.
“I will.” She gives me a sympathetic smile and it makes me want to cringe. I don’t need her sympathy or anyone else’s. I made my bed, now I have to lie in it.
Speaking to Kira on the phone almost a week ago was nice—hearing her voice made me pathetically happy. I could send her a text myself and thank her for the cupcakes, but I don’t want to push myself on her. I want her to know she has as much choice in this as I do. If she doesn’t want to give us a shot, I’ll be okay with it. Will I be happy about it? Hell, no. But I won’t be an asshole about it either, because I understand she doesn’t owe it to me to give us a shot.
I want her to know she can come to me when she’s ready and I won’t crowd her.
This whole trying to be a better person, and doing the right thing, is fucking hard.
I finish the cupcake and toss the wrapper in the trashcan. I take a swig of Mountain Dew—my new vice of choice, I guess—as Hayes directs us to get back to work.
We’ll be flying out to L.A. soon for a short trip to meet with a couple of managers and PR people to see if we can find a fit. I don’t want to fucking go, and I’m hoping I can talk my way out of it. The last thing I need right now is to step back into that city. It’s the kind of place that demands a price to be paid. I’ve been paying it for years and didn’t know it, with my drinking, with women, with my pure and uncontrolled self-destruction.
It’s weird looking back, at all the times I believed I was in control, that my choices were mine, and I realize now that the alcohol had taken hold and numbed me to it, all while making me believe I was fine.
A couple hours later we’re heading out of the studio. Fox turns for the hotel and Hollis is still inside with Mia while she straightens things up—hell, they’re probably fucking instead. I’m slightly jealous at the thought, but there’s only one woman I want, and she doesn’t want me right now. Probably, not ever.
But I also know it’s better if I don’t have sex right now, either. Like alcohol, I was using it to fill a void in my heart. One I was trying to cover with dirt, but it kept sifting away. None of the things I’ve been doing were helping me. They were only making things worse instead of better.
Cannon leans against the exterior of the building and lights up his cigarette. A girl passing by on the street in a Crazy Cat Lady shirt with cat faces on her leggings, eyes him up and down. She pauses, nibbling on her bottom lip and my brows knit as I watch her.
“Can I help you?” Cannon asks in a polite tone. “Are you lost? I’m not from here and I’m shit at directions.” He blows the smoke from his mouth away from her. Even still, she inhales it likes it’s the most pleasant aroma she’s encountered in her … I’d say twenty-three years.
“I’d love to call you Daddy,” she blurts. “Oh my God, did I say that out loud?” I stifle my snort and give her a nod that yes, in fact, she did confess she wants to call my best friend Daddy.
I can imagine her cries of passion now.
Yes, Daddy. Harder, Daddy. Oooh, right there, Daddy.
I’ve never gotten the appeal of calling a man daddy in bed. It just sounds … disturbing to me, but to each their own. The ironic part is, he acts like such a dad, but I know that was not where her brain was going.
In fact, I’d say she was more likely imagining the length of his rod and how fun it would be to take for a ride.
Cannon looks like a deer caught in headlights. “Um...” He begins, not sure how to respond.
The girl, her pale skin entirely flushed now, says, “I’ll just be going now. Pretend this never happened.”
She takes off down the street as fast as her legs will carry her.
Cannon shakes his head. “I always get the crazies, man.”
I chortle. “Remind me to tell Hayes we need to make Daddy Cannon shirts for sale.”
He pushes me. “Don’t you fucking dare.” He tosses his cigarette down on the ground, grinding the toe of his boot into it.
“I better get going,” I tell him.
“Where?” he asks, but for once his eyes don’t narrow in suspicion.
“I … I’m attending a grief counseling meeting,” I admit. There’s no point in me being ashamed of the truth. I’ve been spending a lot of time with Blaire and Ryder at The Paper Crane Project, getting to know them and listening to their story. Somehow, through their heartbreak they found the power to continue on, to even fall in love with each other. Already they’ve helped me to understand I’ll never forget my parents and the ache will never truly go away, but it does get better once I accept that it can.
“Really?” Cannon raises a brow.
“Yeah.” I nod, exhaling a sigh.
“I’m proud of you, man. Truly, I am. You’ve made a lot of progress the last few weeks, and if you stay on this path, I know you’ll get even better. You’re like a brother to me. I’ve only ever wanted what’s best for you. Seeing you throw your life away hasn’t been easy.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it too. “I’m sorry you, Fox, and Hollis had to watch me spiral out of control. I’m sorry I couldn’t see what was going on. I was blind to everything I was doing and becoming. I’m sorry you’ve had to shoulder so much because of my sorry ass.”
He claps me on the shoulder. “That’s what friends are for, and anyone who doesn’t think so isn’t a real friend. You always do whatever you can, in any way, for the people you love.”
“Thanks, man. I better go.” I hook a thumb over my shoulder.
“See you later,” he calls as I head off.
Ten or so minutes later I open the door to The Paper Crane project. The tables are pushed out of the way, to each side of the room, with the chairs arranged in a circle in the center of the now empty space.
I’d be lying if I didn’t say my heart races with fear.
I feel incredibly vulnerable looking at those chairs, some already filled, knowing I’m about to face the loss of my parents head on. Somehow, this is worse than attending AA and I don’t know what that says about me.
“Glad you could come,” Ryder says, and I jolt away in surprise since I didn’t realize he was practically beside me.
He gives a small chuckle, watching me from behind his thick-framed black glasses. His dark hair is slicked back and his smile is kind. He knows how hard it is for me to come here, and what exactly it means.
Acceptance.
The final step to grief.
Accepting that they’re gone and not coming back.
Accepting that it’s okay to hurt some days, but not all of the time.
Accepting that I can move on with my
life and it doesn’t mean forgetting or loving them any less.
“We have drinks, coffee, snacks, whatever.” He indicates a table. “Help yourself if you want anything. We’ll be starting in a few.”
I nod my thanks as he moves off. I spot Blaire speaking to someone and when she sees me, she waves with a smile.
I grab a bottle of water, not because I’m thirsty, but because I know I’ll feel better with something in my hands instead of nothing.
Heading over to the chairs I take a seat and brace myself for what’s to come.
A couple more people trickle in, but all total, including Ryder and Blaire, there are only eight people.
Ryder speaks, but I barely hear what he’s saying. It’s like there’s thunder rumbling in my ears and I can’t hear anything else over it.
One by one everyone in the circle speaks. Some losses fresher than others. There’s even one person attending who is facing the imminent death of her father.
Each story pierces me like an arrow shot into my body, because while we might all be grieving different things, we are all still grieving, and there’s a bond born of that kind of grief.
Finally, everyone has spoken but me.
I know I don’t have to speak, it’s a choice, but all these people were brave enough to share their story so I might as well too. I can do it. I know I can. I’m stronger than I give myself credit for—that’s something else I’ve come to learn the last few weeks, the strength I thought I had was nothing but a farce, something I manufactured to once again trick myself into thinking I was okay.
Clearing my throat I say, “Eight years ago I was involved in a car accident that killed my parents and injured me. The other driver was killed on impact. All the paramedics and doctors told me I was lucky.” I laugh at the word, shaking my head. “I didn’t feel lucky. My parents were gone, my dreams of the future…” I sigh, thinking of the text message Kira sent me after we spoke on the phone. “I felt like I had nothing worth living for and that I was the unluckiest person on the planet. For years, I’ve been masking my pain with alcohol and sex,” I admit softly, ashamed. “It’s only recently I’ve come to understand I can’t keep throwing my life away like that. I have people to live for, ones I care about, and a girl I’ve fallen for but am completely undeserving of.” I shake my head back and forth, leaning forward with my hands clasped. “I’ve made so many shitty mistakes since I lost my parents. The pile is endless and sometimes I don’t think I can see my way past them, but then I hear my mom’s voice telling me there’s always a way, and even though it hurts hearing her voice, it feels good too. For the first time in a long time I don’t feel angry every waking moment. Most of the time it wasn’t even an all-consuming anger, just something that hovered at the peripheral of my mind, waiting for something to set me off. It fucking hurts knowing they’re gone,” I confess quietly. “I hate knowing I’ll never see them again, not in this life anyway, and maybe not even the next. I wish I didn’t miss them so much, but then … if I didn’t miss them, wouldn’t I forget them?”
Wild Flame (The Wild: A Rock Star Romance Book 2) Page 33
