by Henry, Max
I already got what I needed earlier tonight; the fantasy ended the minute I opened my eyes.
TWENTY
Alice
“Flawless” - Dorothy
This place has more windows than I’ve had hot meals. Charcoal shutters adorn each double-high window, the woodwork around each pane a pristine white as though repainted just last week. Somebody has done well in the past decade. I frown and turn my head to assure myself that the rideshare I caught over here has, in fact, driven too far away for me to change my mind.
I checked the details twice on the way over, but something in my gut worms the thought that Emery was fucking with me when he gave me the address. I could order another rideshare and get the fuck out of here. But then you’d be a quitter. And I’m not a quitter.
I’m a believer in serendipity, in things happening for a reason. Too many chance occurrences to reach this point now for me to overlook the fact I have a rare opportunity.
How many times did I wish I could have acted differently when he left? How many times did I wish I had the guts to set it right?
How do I know that all of this, his unexpected request, isn’t the Universe at work giving me what I desire most deep?
With a loaded sigh, I take the first step toward either victory or defeat, heaving my luggage with me. The broad stone steps leading up to the entrance are large enough to host an intimate gathering on, barely minimized despite the size of the potted topiary either side of the double oak doors.
I search for a buzzer and give up when there’s no sign of a button anywhere, lifting the weighty iron knocker instead. The sound resonates on the opposite side, and I figure I may as well occupy my restless hands by downing my second painkiller for the day.
I stand poised with my water bottle to my lips, head tipped back when the door swings slowly open.
“Can I help you?”
Jesus. He’s her spitting image. I choke on the water halfway down my throat, spluttering most unladylike as I recap the metal canister. “Mrs. Morgan?”
Her eyes narrow—my only indication I’m at the right house.
“I’m Alice, a friend of your son.”
Her gaze roves my attire and settles on the tattoo winding its way up my left arm. “Emery isn’t home, but you’re welcome to wait inside.” Thankfully, she fucking smiles. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”
“No,” I blurt, drawing a curious glance from her. “I’d rather surprise him.”
She frowns, sighing out her nose. “He has company, so it may be best if I make him aware.”
My pill threatens to make a rapid return back up my throat. I swallow hard, twice, and nod. “I can come back another time, then.”
“Alice,” she repeats as though confused. “Why is that name familiar?”
I never met his mother; we kept our private lives to ourselves despite sharing next to every detail on them with each other. The fact he might have mentioned me enough that after all these years, she remembers? I feel as though I could choke for an entirely new reason.
“I played the circuit with Em before Dark Tide.”
Her eyes spark, the massive smile she gives me completely transforming her face. “It is you!” She steps back, sweeping her arm toward the belly of the house. “Please wait. I’m sure he won’t be long. It was a timed function, not an all-night affair.”
I pale at the word. Is this what I’m doing by being here? Hoping to initiate an affair? Don’t be ridiculous. That would insinuate I want something physical with the guy, and after what he did, he’s lucky I’m here to check up on him. Right?
Right?
“Would it be okay if I left this in your foyer?” I gesture to my two suitcases and guitar.
I feel like a moron carting them around, but the later I check in to a motel, the cheaper I can get the rate.
“Of course.” Emery’s mom steps forward to grab one of the cases handles. “Pop it over here.” She wheels the hard case to a spot on the right behind a stone sculpture of an eagle.
I set the matching luggage and guitar beside it. “Thank you.”
“On your way somewhere?” she asks, flitting through to the living room.
I find it odd she left me to shut the door but do it anyway. “On my way home.”
“You’ve just finished a tour?” She returns once the muted sound of the TV ceases. “No wonder you look exhausted, love.”
“Yeah. I’m pretty tired,” I say on a chuckle. Pretty sore, too.
“It must be important if you came straight here, then.” She leads the way down the lavish hallway, saving me from an immediate answer.
Em’s mom guides me into a second, less formal sitting room that adjoins the breakfast nook. She pats the back of a plush sofa, gesturing for me to sit, and then continues through to the far kitchen.
“Are you hungry? I was about to fix myself an evening snack. Emery’s father is already in bed,” she explains. “Early start. I like to indulge when it’s quiet.”
“I’m sorry for interrupting.” I feel like a damn imposter.
“Nonsense.” She waves me off, seeming so small. She has to be at least thirty feet from me; this place is enormous. “Sweet or savory?”
“Whatever you’re having is fine.” I’ve crashed in on her home uninvited—I hardly expect her to go out of her way to appease my appetite.
She returns a few minutes later with a gold-rimmed China plate stacked with cinnamon rolls. “Out of curiosity, how long has it been?”
“Pardon?”
“Since you’ve seen my son.” She takes the armchair adjacent to me, gesturing to the food. “Guests first.”
I take a roll out of sheer politeness and rest it on the opposite palm. “It had been a few years, Mrs. Morgan, but I crossed paths with him a week or so ago.”
“When he left town?” She studies me, making it even more awkward that neither she nor I eat.
I nod, shoulders relaxing when she leans forward to retrieve a treat for herself.
“He must have done something right, then, if you’re here now for a surprise visit.”
The sound of the heavy oak door opening in the foyer saves me. Footsteps crash into the house and then promptly stall before restarting at twice the speed.
“It sounds as though you didn’t have to wait long at all,” his mom remarks with a smile. “Aren’t you glad you stuck around?”
My mouth drops open to answer, yet I‘m beaten to the punch by the man of the hour.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
Dressed in a gray button-down, his tattoos peeking out at the edges, he should seem intimidating. Yet, all I can do is stare as Emery takes a step further into the room.
I’ve never seen him in anything but jeans and a T-shirt. This change, whatever prompted it, is the total opposite of what I expected to find.
“Emery!” his mother scolds. “Is that how you treat a guest?”
I snap out of my daze and remember why the hell I’m here, in his mother’s house, seemingly imposing. “You asked me to come.”
“Um,” he scoffs. “I think I’d remember doing that.”
I lift an eyebrow. He glares.
“Well,” his mom announces with a clap of her hands. “I’m going to step out and leave you two to decide what the next step is.” She crosses the room and places a gentle hand to her son’s shoulder, back to me. “Play nice.”
I wait for her to be far enough out of earshot before rising from my seat and closing the space between Emery and me. “You messaged me this afternoon,” I hiss.
He rears his head back, scowling as he whispers back. “Why the fuck would I ask you to come to my goddamn house, Alice?”
“You said you needed to talk to me face-to-face,” I remind him.
“Wouldn’t I have just done that on the fucking bus?”
“You’re the one telling the story,” I snap, raising my voice.
He jerks a hand between us, circling it frantically around his face. �
�Does this look like I have a clue what you’re on about?”
I turn with a huff and retreat to the window; trees that line his parents’ backyard partially obscure the neighbor’s house lights. The glow illuminates a faint outline of a pool and loungers. Everything about this place reminds me of the differences between us. He was supported from the outset, whereas I had to kick and scratch for every scrap I earned.
“Here.” Reaching into the pocket of my cut-offs, I retrieve my phone. “If you don’t believe me, read it yourself.”
His smoky wood scent envelops every sense as he steps beside me and takes the device from my hand. I study Emery’s profile while he reads, noting the new lines around his eyes and the scar beside his ear that I don’t remember seeing before.
“Well?” I prompt when he continues to stare at the screen.
He shoves the phone back in my hand and brushes past to head for the kitchen. The light of the fridge illuminates the dull space between us. “I still don’t remember sending it.” He jerks a bottle of premix whiskey from the chiller and unscrews the top.
I nod toward his drink of choice. “Is it honestly that much of a mystery why?”
“Okay, so maybe I drunk texted you,” he exclaims, arms wide. “What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal,” I argue, walking toward him, “is that you asked me here, and now you’re kicking me out.”
“Because I don’t want you here.”
“Why?” I shove him in the shoulder with the heel of my hand. “Did it occur to you that perhaps after a few drinks, you let down enough of a guard to admit what you’re too stubborn to say soberly?”
He laughs in my face and then takes a healthy swig of the drink. “Nope.”
“Ugh!” I take the bottle from him and match his intake before realizing that’s probably not the best idea when I’ve doubled up on my meds today.
“Hypocrite.” He snatches the remnants back.
“Coward.” I turn to leave, yet my feet come to a kicked-out halt when a firm hand captures my upper arm.
“I am not a coward.”
“Yes, you are.” I jerk free and spin to face the smug shit again. “You want to know why?”
He lifts an eyebrow as though to say, “Humor me.”
“Because you’re too chicken shit to admit you fucked up when you let me go. Even worse, you’re too chicken shit to admit the giant mistake you made and cut Deanna loose.”
“What if I didn’t fuck up, huh?” His hard eyes dull with the cruel smirk he dons. “What if everything happened exactly as it was supposed to and you’re the one who’s a screw up because you just can’t let go of what was never yours to have.” He spits the venomous words my way before recognition dawns in his eyes. “That’s the issue, isn’t it? You wanted me all for yourself.”
I could vomit. This is not how I expected the conversation to go or my secret to come to light.
“You’re mad because Deanna stole your best friend from you,” he continues. “What did you expect to happen when I got a girlfriend, Alice? What woman wants her guy’s best chick friend hanging around like a third wheel all the time?”
I stagger backward and find stability with my ass on a dining chair. Not because he’s cut me to the bone with his assessment of why we ended, but from relief, because he still believes we were only friends.
He really doesn’t remember sleeping together.
I don’t know whether that’s a reprieve or utterly soul-destroying.
“I never wanted to be an accessory to your relationship, Emery,” I whisper, staring at the pristine hardwood floor. “I just thought maybe I meant more than she did.”
“You were my best friend,” he repeats. “I fuck her. It’s not the same.”
Hand to my throat, I grip tight in the hopes it keeps my tears at bay. “Why do you always side with her? I never understood that.”
He settles, turning slightly away to set the bottle on the stone mantle. His fingers never leave the neck. “Isn’t that what you do in a relationship? You pick their side no matter what?”
“Was it her decision?” I whisper. “Did she tell you we couldn’t be friends?”
“Honestly?” His eyebrows peak.
I nod.
“I don’t remember. It was eight years ago, Alice. All I recall is that one day you were there for me, and the next, you weren’t. I don’t know why.”
“You truly don’t recall what happened between us?”
“Would we be here arguing after eight years apart if I did?”
Dropping my hand to my lap, I stare down at the callouses on my fingers. “I guess not.”
I lift my head to find him seemingly sad as he wanders back through the kitchen to the adjacent sunroom. My legs straighten of their own volition, feet carrying me the same way. Shoulders slumped forward, he takes a seat on a wicker chair in the darkened room and stares down at the empty bottle in his hands.
I hang back at the open doorway shoulder leaned against the jamb while I watch him study the label, turning the glass in his large palms.
“You should go home,” he murmurs into the night. “Forget whatever I supposedly said.”
“You know I can’t do that,” I whisper in return, daring to move closer.
A bitter laugh slips past his jaded lips. “Why not? You’ve done it before; left me alone to deal with this shit by myself.”
“That’s hardly true—”
“Isn’t it?” The accusation in his pained gaze tears me into a thousand fluttering pieces, weak and weightless as I slide to the floor.
Legs bent beneath me, I rest in a heap at his feet, reaching for the forbidden.
“No.” Emery whips his head to the side, squeezing his eyes tight. “Don’t you dare think you can waltz back in my fucking life and pick up where you left off, Alice. Forgiveness doesn’t work like that.”
“Forgiveness?” I lean back as I frown. “What the fuck have I done that needs forgiveness?”
“Didn’t you just hear me?” A door closes behind us. “You fucking abandoned me to these goddamned vices.” He leans forward to search my face for God only knows what. “You. Abandoned me.”
“I abandoned you?” The need of mere seconds before forgotten, I rise to my feet and stagger back to give this hate of his enough space to breathe. “You fucking left!”
“Shut up.” An angry finger stabs toward the ceiling. “You’ll get Mom back down here if you start doing that.”
“Doing what? Showing how un-fucking-believable it is that you think I left you behind?”
Emery quirks one eyebrow, lips pressed into a hard line.
“You’re the one who got some fancy record deal and forgot all about me,” I hiss. “Made sure you twisted the knife one last time before you left to play Mr. Rich and Famous.”
His laugh resonates off the pale, blank walls. “Is that what you think I did?”
“What else would you call it?” I snort. “Oh, wait. You can’t remember, so you wouldn’t know.”
He pushes from the chair, all five-foot-eleven of him bearing down on me with unchecked rage. “I’d call everything I’ve done doing my fucking best to forget about you.”
Ouch. Tears burn behind my eyes; the fire matched in the back of my throat as I take a deep breath and steady my words. “Well, then, don’t let me hold you up from getting on with it.”
I force my shaky legs to carry me to the foyer so much on autopilot that I don’t even recall lifting my luggage, let alone how I made it out the front door without falling apart.
“Alice. Wait.” The distant light in the kitchen highlights one side of his broad frame in the door.
I swallow down the shame, regret, and, most of all, anger at myself for believing there could be any other outcome for us. “I don’t have anything left to say to you, Em. I’m… I’m done.”
“You don’t get it,” he sighs. “Just hear me out.”
“Not this time, okay? I just can’t anymore.”
I
have enough pain in my life as it is.
I don’t need to add more willingly.
TWENTY-ONE
Emery
“Bad Machine” – Boston Manor
“Didn’t go well?” My mother’s soft words shake me out of my head.
“Nope.” I shut the front door, blocking my view of Alice as she heads down the sidewalk to fuck knows where.
“I’ve only ever known her to have her heart in the right place, Emery.” She steps back to let me past.
I lift my hand to indicate she should stop and push on to get another drink from the fridge. The damn woman beats me to it, cutting through from the opposite side of the room to place her hand firmly against the refrigerator door.
“It’s almost eleven, Emery. Don’t you think it’d be better to turn in for the night?”
“Nope.” I wrench the door open, pushing her back in the process.
She staggers out of the way with a sigh, arms folded over her satin pajama set while she watches me uncap the bottle.
“What?”
“Does it actually achieve anything? Drinking yourself into a stupor every damn day.”
“I don’t need this from you.”
She persists when I walk away, ghosting me toward the back door. “Then who do you need it from?” I can hear the ache in her words, the pain in her tone. I don’t dare look. “You don’t listen to your father or me. You ignore the boys in the band, and you send away friends who care—friends like Alice.” She pauses before dropping her tone. “You sit up there and slowly kill the gifted mind you were given, all while allowing a selfish, manipulating cow to bleed you dry of what it has earned you.”
“And how is any of what I choose to do your business?” I roar, spinning on the woman.
Mom backs up a step; chin held high. “You’re living under our roof, for starters. But more importantly than that, you’re our son.” Her voice breaks, hand flying to the base of her throat.
I get it—she cares. And fuck, do I love her for that. But I’m also done with people telling me how I should be living my life. All I ever get told is to go here, do this, be that.
