by Frankie Rose
******
Luke parks up outside Rosito’s and jogs around his ’67 Ford Fastback to open my door before I have a chance to do it for myself. The journey over to the restaurant was quiet. Too quiet. I don’t know what he wants to talk to me about but he was on edge and that put me on edge. I mean, what can he possibly think is so important? There are only a few topics of conversation that we can really share, and all of them lead back to Breakwater. I don’t even want to have to talk about the place, but Luke seems determined. He always was stubborn. He hasn’t changed much since high school, really. Sure, he’s perhaps a tiny bit taller and he’s definitely filled out, but the twenty-three-year-old version of him looks pretty similar to the eighteen-year-old version.
I step out of the car, giving him a begrudging smile of thanks as I dodge past him to jog for the restaurant door. Luke doesn’t hang around either, and we both sigh a little when I pull open the pasta house door and a blast of hot air hit us in a wall of heat. At least I don’t have to add freezing cold to my list of reasons to be uncomfortable.
A waitress with orthopedic shoes and a nametag that says, Welcome! I’m Rosie! shows us to a table, grinning in an inane way that says she’s probably been doing the job for many years and she doesn’t even realize she’s smiling anymore. Thankfully she supplies us with some menus and a wine list and leaves us to it.
“You going to eat?” Luke asks, flipping open his menu.
“I guess.” I scan the menu and pick out a duck and squash ravioli dish that sounds good and then go about picking my nails nervously under the table. Luke slides my menu away and places it with his at the edge of the table to signal that we’ve decided. I peek up at him, waiting for him to say something. It’s annoying when he doesn’t; he’s dragged me here, after all. If we have to sit through an awkward dinner before he gets to the point, my nerves are going to end up irreparably damaged. We have to talk about something. It’s all too tempting to just sit here and appreciate how amazingly long his eyelashes look against his skin as he scans the room. Dark, like charcoal smudges. I shake my head.
“So…” I do my best to make my voice light. “Are you still with Casey?”
Luke’s mouth twists up at the corner. He drums his fingers against the starched white tablecloth. “Not for over a year now.”
My eyebrows shoot up. I told Morgan he had a girlfriend just to get her off my back, not doubting that he and Casey would still be together. Theirs was one of those rock solid high school sweetheart type affairs. Luke and I haven’t ever really talked about relationships before. If he and Casey broke up over a year ago, that means he was single the last time we met for coffee.
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
He shrugs. “Don’t be. I’m not. It was mutual.” He picks up the saltshaker and sets about twisting it around in his hands. “What about you? You still dating…what was his name?”
“Justin. And no. That relationship lasted all of five minutes. He found out about my dad and, well…you know how it is.”
Luke chews on his lip. “People are just jerks, Iris. There are good ones out there, though.”
He doesn’t seem to realize he’s forgotten my new name. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, about to remind him, and also about to laugh bitterly about the possibility of there being a guy in the world willing to date me after the crazy shit that’s gone down in my family, but before I can do any of that Rosie returns with a small notepad in hand. Luke orders Bolognese—why do guys always do that when they order pasta? Always with the Bolognese—and a beer. I order my ravioli and smirk when I tack a beer on at the end, too. Luke doesn’t bat a single one of those long black eyelashes. Neither does Rosie. She set us up with cutlery and disappears without any chitchat, which makes her the very best waitress in the world.
Our beers arrive and I take a long pull at the bottle before setting it down and squaring off at Luke. “You get why I’m mad, right?”
He replaces the saltshaker with his beer, which he rolls between his hands, fiercely studying the bottle. “Yeah, I’m not entirely oblivious. I know I’m probably the very last person you want to see. I keep cropping up in your life. I get that you want to move on. I’ve been pretty selfish over the past few years, continually rehashing everything with you, but I’ve been dealing with my own…” he looks up at the ceiling, blows out a long breath, “bad memories, I guess. After tonight, I can totally understand if you never want to see me again. But there’s something you need to know, and the news should come now and from a friendly face so you have time to prepare.”
My stomach twists. None of this sounds good. Luke’s face doesn’t exactly look friendly, either; it looks crumpled and concerned. I hate it. “Just tell me.”
“Don’t you want to eat first?”
If he waits one more second to explain what’s going on, the hot ball of pent up fear and paranoia in my chest is going to explode and all that will remain of me will be the crater left in the bench where I am sitting. “Please, jus—” I close my eyes and try to remember who I am now. Avery Patterson. Avery Patterson. I am in control.
“Have you heard of the Wyoming Ripper?” Luke asks, trepidation lacing his voice.
“No. Should I have?”
Luke’s brown eyes stare straight at me, making me twitch nervously. His eyebrows pull together. “No, I guess not. You were young back then. People probably tried to keep news like that off your radar.”
I grip hold of my beer and take another swig, never taking my eyes off him. He’s building up to something, and I have a really bad feeling about it.
“The Wyoming Ripper was the name the media gave to a serial killer who murdered a string of teenaged girls in Wyoming about five years ago. They were,” he flinches, picking at the label on his bottle, “they were pretty brutal murders, Iris.” He immediately realizes his mistake this time and clenches his jaw. “Sorry. Avery. I will remember, I swear. Anyway, the murders stopped suddenly. There was never any other trace of the perpetrator, and a lot of people on the force thought perhaps he’d died or something.” Luke swallows. “Colby Bright has written a book claiming that your dad was the Wyoming Ripper. That the reason there were no more murders back then was because your dad killed himself. It’s coming out in a couple of months. I thought you ought to know, because the press…the media, well they’re gonna dig it all up again.”
The beer bottle shakes in my hand. I set it down on the table and stare at the beveled rim of the glass. My mind stops working but my body seems to kick itself into over drive. I start to tremble, every part of me vibrating like the very molecules I’m constructed out of are pulling in opposite directions, wanting to escape.
“Avery?”
I look up at Luke and open my mouth to speak. I’m breathing far too quickly. It feels like the oxygen I’m drawing inside my chest is carrying a thousand razor blades down my windpipe with it. “Colby Bright? Adam Bright’s brother?” I whisper, my voice incredulous.
“Yeah. He’s running for mayor again. It’s purely a publicity stunt. They’ll never be able to prove it was your dad who killed all those girls.”
“Publicity?” I’m repeating random words now, but I can’t for the life of me form a proper thought. I stand up and the room tilts on a drunken angle. “Excuse me,” I mutter.
Luke gets up when I leave the table, his hand pressing lightly on the base of my spine as I hurry toward the ladies room. I shove back the swing door and rush into a stall before I throw up everywhere, getting most of it on the bathroom floor. The second time my stomach heaves I do better, hitting the bowl for the most part. I fall back and slump against the stall door, staring at the grainy pattern on the opposite wall. It takes ten minutes for the cold to seep up through the tiled floor and into my bones. I get to my feet and rinse out my mouth, doing my best to fix up my mascara where it’s run. When I leave the bathroom, Luke is waiting for me, leaning up against the wall. He looks anxious.
“Do you want me to take you home?”
I walk numbly back to our table and sit down. “Yeah, but… I think I just need a minute. Can we wait a sec?”
“Sure.” He sits back down in his seat and starts cracking his knuckles. “I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to think of a way to tell you but—”
“Do you think he did it?”
Luke goes still. “No. No, of course not. I knew your dad. He was…”
Loving? Kind? Always smiling? A complete joker?
I bite back the bile in my throat and snatch up my beer. The bottle’s empty in three mouthfuls. “I need something stronger.”
“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
At this point Rosie arrives with our food and my stomach clenches. She goes to set our plates down but Luke sighs and holds up his hand. “Any chance we can get that to go?”
If Rosie’s bothered or even cares that we’re being difficult, she does a damn good job of hiding it. “Not a problem, kids.”
She disappears with our food and returns a minute later with two plastic containers. Luke pays and we leave. Outside, he pauses at the passenger side of his Fastback. “If I take you home right now, what are you going to do?”
I grip my hands around my arms, too hollow to shiver or even react to the bitter weather. There’s an arctic locker inside me, way colder than anything New York in November has to offer. “I’m going to call Morgan and she’s going to hook me up with a bottle of Jack,” I tell him, knowing that she will. She’s my best friend, after all, and she has a stash of alcohol that would shame a liquor store.
Luke huffs. “If I take you to a bar and get you a shot, do you promise you’ll go home and go to bed?”
I level my gaze with his and register the worried look on his face. “No.”
He sags against the car and rakes his hands through his hair. “Okay. You’re coming with me.”
“Luke, no! I’ll be fine, I—”
“You’re a goddamned beautiful girl, Avery. I’m not letting you loose in New York City where any frat jerk could take advantage of you.” He opens the car door and ushers me inside, and I comply without a fuss. I choose to ignore the fact that he just called me beautiful. I’m far too screwed up to feel weird about that right now. I have no idea where Luke’s taking me but if it isn’t towards a bottle of something seriously strong, I’m leaving. Half an hour later, we pull up outside a three story brick building in Wiltshire. It looks like it was probably a factory of some sort once upon a time, but now it’s apartments. Luke let us in and leads me toward an elevator in the lobby, but I shake my head. I am already having trouble breathing. The last thing I need is an enclosed space. He seems to understand and we take the stairs up all three flights. There’s only one door up here besides the scuffed metal ones giving entry to the elevator. Luke pulls a set of keys from the pocket of his jeans and opens the door.
The apartment is open plan and huge. I’m too empty to really look around, but I do notice a lot of black furniture and more than one guitar leaning up against the walls. Luke guides me to a breakfast bar, where he gathers up pencils, pens, and stack of sheet music into a messy pile, clearing the countertop. He sits me down on a cushioned stool, then proceeds to rifle through his cupboards. After a second he produces two rocks glasses and sets them down on the counter.
“What’s your poison?”
I look at the glasses and then look up at him. “You realize I’m going to be a mess,” I say.
“I know.” He pulls a pack of cigarettes out of a drawer in the breakfast bar and ignites the gas ring on the cook top so he can stoop down and light it. “But if you need to be a mess, I’d rather you were a mess here where I can keep an eye on you. It’s just me, Avery. I’m not going to judge you. I’ll never judge you.”
He hands me the cigarette and I take it even though I don’t smoke. It burns as I pull on it and my head starts to spin again. I hand it back, fighting the urge to repeat my vomiting act from earlier.
“No?” he asks.
“No.”
“Okay.” He puts the extractor fan on and smokes the cigarette in silence before running it under the tap and tossing the stub in the bin. When he comes back to the counter, he has an unopened bottle of whiskey in his hand. He pours us both a shot and does his, but I hold mine in my hand, staring at the counter for a long moment before I put the glass to my lips and knock it back.
The burn of the alcohol is a lot better than that of the cigarette. “How many were there?” I ask. Luke remains silent while he refills our glasses. When he hands my glass back, I drink its contents immediately.
“Fifteen,” he says quietly. “All between the ages of thirteen and seventeen.”
Fifteen young girls. Five years ago, someone killed fifteen young girls and now Colby Bright is about to tell the world the man responsible was my father. Chalk that up with Colby’s brother Adam, Sam and Jeff, and Maxwell Breslin is a few weeks shy of being declared a serial killer. I bite the inside of my cheek and force myself not to cry. It’s no good, of course. I just can’t do it. I may have fooled myself into believing that I am stronger than I was back in Break, but the truth is that I’m just as brittle. Prone to breaking, myself. By the time I reach over and collect up the whiskey bottle, tears are streaming down my face, and the fragile shell that was Avery Patterson has shattered into a thousand pieces.
Three
Hangover
