by Scott, Kylie
“Right.” This makes more sense now, the lack of people in my life.
“Ah, what else?” He makes a small humming sound. A thinking noise. “Things have to be tidy; you were always picking stuff up and making sure the dishes were done. Guess you’re kind of restless like that. Let’s see, you snore after you’ve had a few drinks and even though you like violets, you’re useless at keeping the plant alive. Absolutely hopeless. Every time you’d bring another one home, I’d honestly just feel bad for the poor thing.”
“Ha,” I said, closing my eyes against the glare of daylight. “Some of that sounds like me, but not all of it.”
“So you’re saltier now and you like different things. People change.”
“Guess so,” I say. “Can I ask something about you?”
His lips thinned.
“Not about us,” I assure him. “Just about you.”
“All right.”
“When did you start drawing?”
“Can’t remember a time when I wasn’t,” he says with a smile. It takes him from attractive to rocketing into outer space. It’s just as well I’m lying down or I might actually go weak in the knees. The man is heavenly. “I always had pencils and paper. Didn’t matter, I’d put my art on anything. Eventually, Mom and Dad gave up on trying to stop me from drawing on walls, just restricted me to the ones in my bedroom. Once a year I’d repaint and start all over again.”
“Your parents sound nice.”
“They are.” His smile fades and he stands. “They liked you a lot. You should rest.”
And he’s gone.
* * *
“. . . after what you did, you’re probably the last person she needs anything to do with.”
Slowly, I sit up, woken by the noise.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Ed, voice low and angry. “And it doesn’t matter. She can make her own decisions.”
“She’s not herself.”
“So who’s going to make all the decisions for her? You, Frances?” Even from a distance, Ed’s sarcasm is palpable.
“I’m grateful you could help out today, but surely you can see that staying in contact would be emotionally confusing for her.”
He doesn’t answer.
“Whatever happened between you two, whoever was at fault . . . it doesn’t even matter anymore. Right now, she’s vulnerable. I have to protect her.”
Gordon stands in the hallway, watching the showdown in the front room. When he sees I’m awake, he starts wagging his tail. It’s gray outside now, dusk leading into night. The streetlights are on. I must have slept for hours. Long enough for the pain meds to wear off because my face and brain are not happy. Other parts of my body are lodging similar complaints. Carefully, I climb off the bed and gather my cell and the meds off the bedside table before wandering out into the living room.
“She just doesn’t know what’s best for her.” That’s my sister, and she sounds all worked up. Not so surprising.
“She’s awake,” I say, shielding my eyes from the light.
“God, Clem, are you okay? You look like hell.”
“Thanks.”
At this, Frances makes a noise in the back of her throat. “You know what I mean.”
“I’m fine. Doctor Patel isn’t overly worried.” It’s only a little lie, but it’ll save me much hovering and sibling concern in the long term. “Seizures are apparently not unheard of after an injury like this and it was only a small one. Once I rest up for a few days I’ll be as good as new.”
She doesn’t look convinced.
“Everything okay at work?” I ask.
“Same old, same old.”
Frances either can’t or won’t talk about her job. At least, nothing specific. Maybe she thinks talking about violence will give me flashbacks or something. Or maybe at the end of her shifts, she’d rather just forget all about it.
I wander toward the kitchen, bottle of painkillers in hand. Before I can start opening cupboards, Ed is there, grabbing a glass and filling it with water. Guess I should have asked first. Though I’m pretty sure he doesn’t care. He doesn’t seem the type to worry too much over niceties.
“Thank you.” I down the two pills and then finish off the water, my throat as dry as something seriously lacking in moisture. I don’t know. My brain isn’t working well enough for similes. “He came to my rescue today.”
Frances makes a pained face. “I know. I’m sorry I couldn’t get away.”
“It was fine,” says Ed. “Take the Tylenol with you, just in case.”
Nails click against the hardwood floor, Gordon pacing back and forth over by the front door.
“He’s past due for his walk.” Ed gives me a grim smile. “How you feeling?”
“I’ll live. We’ll get out of your way. Thanks again.”
“Sure.”
Frances continues to say nothing. Might be for the best.
A leash is attached to Gordon’s collar and his excitement levels soar. It’s the whole-body-wriggling thing again. When there’s too much anticipation for it to be expressed via tail wagging alone, the delight spreads. I crouch down, giving him a hug and receiving a doggy kiss in return. Ed just watches. Frances, meanwhile, is already gone.
“Thank you again,” I say, and he nods.
When we drive away, they’re walking in the opposite direction. I resist the temptation to turn and watch. Twilight in this neighborhood is nice. Cafés, restaurants, and bars are open for business, a good amount of people filling the sidewalks. There’s a studied air of casual cool to the whole scene. I bet it’s not cheap to live here.
“Is that his shirt?” she asks.
“Mine had blood on it. You really need to give him a break.”
Her lips press tight together.
“We’re not getting back together. There’s nothing to worry about.”
Car lights cast shadows on her face. “I don’t want to see you get hurt again.”
“I know.”
Her scowl deepens and she sighs.
“What?”
“I didn’t tell you, but . . . I was married a few years ago.” Her gaze stays fixed to the road. “He cheated on me, so I guess it’s a hot-button topic.”
“Shit. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not something I like to talk about. My own stupid fault really, I knew better than to marry a cop,” she says. “The job can mess with you, leave its mark on you in different ways.”
“Well, I’m glad you told me. What an asshole.”
“You know, you didn’t used to swear so much.”
I snort. “No? I wore pastels and spoke nicely, huh?”
At this, she laughs.
“I enjoy swearing. I find the words to be eloquent and expressive.”
“Great. Whatever makes you happy.” She smiles, but it soon fades. “But you were never a doormat. Don’t think that. You just used to be more polite about how you told people to go fuck themselves. And I am glad he was there for you today, that he’s being helpful. Just be careful. There are different degrees of assholishness, and Ed might not be as bad as some. But, Clem, you were gaga about him. You wouldn’t have left unless you were a hundred percent certain that he’d screwed you over.”
“Understood.”
For a moment, she’s silent. “Guess I’m mad at myself for thinking he was a good guy. My radar is usually better than that.”
“Hmm.”
“Like I said, it was great that he could help out in an emergency,” she says. “But hopefully that won’t happen again. Pizza and TV?”
“You read my mind.”
We turn onto the highway, heading toward the suburbs. Bit by bit, the painkillers kick in, easing the tension inside my head. The aching in my face. It might not have been the best of days. I definitely wouldn’t recommend having a seizure as a good time. But with Frances getting a little more real with me, talking some more to Ed . . . things were achieved. I feel like I might be getting somewhere. Not
that I have any real idea where that somewhere might be.
As for staying away from the man, I just don’t see that happening. There are bound to be questions about me only he can answer. And after all, it’s not as if he can hurt me when I have no real feelings for him. A little lust doesn’t mean anything.
Chapter Three
Swelling from the bruises alters the shape of my face. I study it in the bathroom mirror, taking in all of the differences. The scar looks to be about the same, a heavy red line cutting across my forehead. Best hidden away beneath my bangs. Most people have a lifetime of seeing their own reflection. Of knowing what they look like and making peace with themselves. Not me. If not for the way the pain of my bruises matched up with the marks on my reflection, I could be staring into the face of a stranger. Mostly, I think I’m about average looking. I’m okay.
I pick up the scissors and start hacking into my ponytail. Warmer weather is coming and I hate the feeling of all the hair sitting heavy against the back of my neck. Giving myself bangs wasn’t so hard, but this is trickier. No way will I be able to get it straight. I settle instead for cutting out some layers. An edgy look, maybe. Or maybe it will just look like I stuck my head in a blender. Oh well.
It’s cathartic, changing my appearance.
One of the things I admire about Ed is how at ease he seems with himself. How comfortable he seems in his own skin. Then again, I like a lot of things about the man. His scent and his voice and his strong, solid presence. And why wouldn’t I? I’d fallen for him once already. Frances has a point about me needing to be careful. Given everything, the last thing my mess of a life requires would be a love interest. I have to sort things out on my own.
Time to put down the scissors before I make things worse. Actually, the result isn’t that bad. Similar to a short, sort-of-fucked-up bob. It certainly feels better. I grab a garbage bag and broom and clean up the bathroom. First job done.
Next, with more bags in tow, I start cleaning out my closet. Gone are the pastels. Blue jeans are fine, along with a couple of pairs of black slacks and shorts. But the happy-happy joy-joy colors have to go. A therapist would probably say something along the lines of me feeling the need to reinvent my wardrobe in an attempt to distinguish myself from my former identity. To control my outside appearance since I can’t control the inside of my head. At least, that’s what the internet tells me. And it’s right on both counts. Clear as can be, I draw a line between now and then. Me and her.
Out go the floral dresses and pretty vintage-style tops with shiny buttons. Gone are the baby pink, violet, and soft sunshine yellow. One thing I have learned in the last few weeks of life, I can only do what I feel to be right. And asserting my own identity, starting over from scratch, feels good.
“What are you doing?” asks Frances, appearing at the bedroom door. Her gaze takes in my new hairdo, but nothing is said. Same goes for Ed’s T-shirt, which I’m still wearing for some reason. I haven’t even washed it because that would get rid of his smell.
“Get off work early?”
“I don’t like leaving you on your own.”
I frown. “You’ve already had to use up some of your vacation time because of me.”
“Not a big deal,” she says. “Want to answer the first question?”
“I’m having a clean out.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” Arms crossed, she leans against the doorframe. “Why don’t I put it all in storage for now? In case you change your mind . . .”
I just shrug.
“You’re not throwing out the books, are you?” Her voice sounds vaguely horrified. The colored clothes lay in a heap beside the boxes from the basement. “They were your favorites.”
“No. Not without reading them, at least.”
“Good.” Her shoulders slump in relief. Can’t blame her for being worried. From a distance, self-destruction and reinvention probably look a lot alike. “Clem, how’s your head?”
“Still there. A little sore, but nothing too bad.”
“Did you take the pain meds?”
“Yeah, earlier.” And it’s not a lie. I’m a few hours overdue for the latest dose of Tylenol, but she doesn’t need to know. The idea of popping pills all the time doesn’t sit well with me. Life is full of so many crutches. Props to hold us up and help define who we are. Shit to lean on to get us through the day. My attempt at growth, or at least understanding, has me stripping all of the detritus away in a bid to get to the heart of matters. To gain some understanding of myself. It might not be possible, but I’m going to try.
“Since you’re here, feel like going on a shopping trip?” I ask.
A line appears between her brows for a moment. Then she smiles. “After a purge like that, you’re probably going to need it.”
I smile back at her.
“Are you sure you’re up to going out?”
“Absolutely.”
* * *
Ed: How you doing?
Clem: Fine. It’s Friday night. Shouldn’t you be busy with friends?
Ed: I’m out. Just waiting on someone. Thought I’d check on you. No more seizures? Falls?
Clem: Someone—not plural? Are you on a date?
Clem: Sorry. None of my business. Thank you for checking on me. Bruising is pretty spectacular but head is otherwise intact.
Clem: Would I be able to visit Gordon sometime? Take him for a walk, maybe?
Ed: He’d like that. Sunday afternoon? Say around five?
Clem: See you then.
* * *
“I didn’t bring your shirt,” I say, climbing out of the Uber outside his building. And it’s not a lie. If I’d said I’d forgotten to bring his shirt, then my immortal soul would be in trouble.
“Another time.”
“Sorry.” Okay. Maybe that one’s a lie.
Ed stands on the sidewalk, one hand stuffed in his jeans pocket and the other holding Gordon’s leash. At the sight of me, the dog just kind of vibrates with excitement. I’m happy to see him too. Ed’s in his usual T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. All of it looks good. Too good. Because it’s like my hands have some phantom itch. The urge to touch his skin, trace my fingers over the muscles in his arms, the line of his jaw. My body’s attraction to him is distracting, to say the least.
Meanwhile, I’m trying out one of my new navy V-neck distressed T-shirts, boyfriend jeans, and sandals. Simpler and less girly than my previous style. I place my copy of Pride and Prejudice in the cotton sack I found in Frances’s kitchen cupboard. It contains my bank card, thirty dollars in bills, my cell, mace spray, and lip balm. All of the basics.
Now for the important stuff. I go down on one knee, giving Gordon lots of scratches and pats. “Hello, beautiful boy. How are you? Did you have a good week?”
“He can’t actually speak,” says Ed.
“Ha-ha.”
“You cut your hair.”
I shove my hand through the shorter threads self-consciously. “Yes, I did it myself. What do you think?”
“Very punk rock.”
“Is that code for crap?”
“No. It’s just different.”
“I can live with that.”
The dour expression seems embedded on his face. Gaze slightly pained and/or uncomfortable, forehead a little lined. Still handsome as fuck. Being around him would be easier if my heart didn’t beat faster at the sight of him. Perhaps my body really does still remember the feel of his hands, what it was like to have his mouth on me.
Being someone’s ex is strange, all of the history such a title involves. It’s hard to be the villain of the story when I don’t even remember why I left him and apparently broke both our hearts. If he did mess around on me, his behavior now makes no sense. At least, not to me.
“Not sure green and yellow really suit you, though,” he says, inspecting my face.
“Me neither. I’ll be glad when the bruising fades and the weird looks stop. Pretty sure the Uber driver wanted to stage an intervention, bless her.
”
“Here you go.” He hands me the leash, nodding in a northwesterly direction. “Park is a couple of blocks that way. Do you know where you’re going?”
“No. Guess I’ll figure it out.”
“Are you even supposed to be wandering around on your own?”
I frown. “Now you sound like Frances.”
“That’s just harsh.” He almost smiles. It’s a close thing. “Mind some company?”
“It’s fine, but don’t feel that you have to. I’m not a child.”
“Aware of that.” He slips sunglasses over his eyes and starts walking. “Still worried about being indebted to me?”
“Mostly I think I’m waiting for you to decide I’m too much trouble and you’re better off dropping back out of my life.”
He lifts his chin, saying nothing for a moment. “This about me not responding when you gave me shit for going on a date?”
“It’s about everything, really.” So he was on a date after all. Not sure how I feel about that. Nothing good, I don’t think. On the other hand, the man might have been on a date, but he’d been thinking about me. How interesting. “And I wasn’t giving you shit. I was just . . .”
“You were just, what?”
I sigh. “Honestly, it’s hard to think of an answer that won’t piss you off.”
His lips roll in, pressed together as if he’s holding in laughter. With the sunglasses on, I can’t see his eyes to confirm this, however.
“Why were you texting me when you were out with someone else anyway?” I ask. “Shouldn’t I be the last person you’d be thinking about under the circumstances?”
The man just grunts. Any mirth is now long gone.
“Not that I was surprised you were out with someone. I mean, you’re very attractive. Like, jaw-droppingly so. I’ve never even remotely seen anyone as . . .” I just shrug. There are no sufficient words to describe his innate hotness. His raw masculine appeal. Where is a thesaurus when you need one?
“Clem,” he grits out.
“Yes?”
