Rage

by Michelle Pace

him. Her voice cracked, and she seemed to choke out the words.

  “Stay a little longer.”

  He nodded without hesitation. She reached out, took his

  hand and led him to the bed. Climbing under the blankets, she

  beckoned him to do the same. He followed her onto the bed,

  coaching himself not to become aroused. He’d often imagined

  ending up between the sheets again with her, but this was far

  from the flavor he’d pictured. There was a sense of finality, of pomp and circumstance. He took a deep breath as he settled in

  next to her. This was the last time he’d ever touch her, and he

  wanted to remember every moment of it, to commit every inch

  of her to memory. The smell of peppermint, her velvety skin, her soft, warm body alongside his.

  He placed his arm around her and she cuddled into him, and

  in moments she was shaking with sobs and grasping him as if her

  life depended on it. All this powerful emotion from Stephanie

  Brier? His mind reeled, and his chest felt weighty, making it take extra effort to breathe. Why now? Why couldn’t they have been

  so honest and naked with their feelings before? It wasn’t fair. It made him despondent and more than a little angry. He wanted to

  hit someone, to break something, to take her away from every-

  one. But his hands were tied, and she’d laced the knots. As al-

  ways with Stephanie, he had no choice but to simply ride the

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  wave.

  He felt her leg slide up and over his as she curled in close.

  He wrapped both arms around her tightly and kissed her fore-

  head. “Shhh…, love. Please don’t cry.”

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  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Steph knew that she was dreaming the moment she spied

  the little gold ponytail poking out from between the slats of the rocking chair. She realized she was in the cottage, but it was not Phillip’s restored version she dreamt of. This one hadn’t been

  restored, so the windows were partially boarded, and the interior had reverted to its previous dilapidated state. All of the furniture was draped in white sheets except the rocking chair that Phillip had used for firewood the night they’d spent stranded here so

  long ago. The rocking chair was currently occupied.

  A heavy layer of dust caked the neglected windows and

  muted the bright morning sun. There was just enough light for

  Steph to see a girl clutching a teddy bear perched on the rocker.

  Her eyes never left the ponytail as she slowly circled the chair, recognizing Jonquil in her signature violet dress and patent

  leather Mary Jane’s. She was almost in full view of the child’s

  face when the sound of a camera shutter clattering caused her to whirl in the direction of the broken mirror in the corner. Her

  mother smiled at her as she advanced the film.

  Steph rolled her eyes. “For the love of god, Ma. Time to go

  digital already!”

  Her mom simply continued to smile in her tolerant way and

  walked right past Steph. She was so vivid and real, Steph had to suppress the urge to reach out and touch her. When she turned to look after her, she saw her old tea set spread out on the floor.

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  RAGE

  Stephanie’s mom started singing a lullaby she’d often sung to

  Steph. It was actually “Dreams,” a Fleetwood Mac song, but as

  with most experiences in Steph’s childhood, her parents danced

  to the beat of a different drum. Steph broke out in gooseflesh as she watched the little blonde girl sway back and forth to the melody of the song as she and Steph’s mom and the teddy bear had a

  little tea party in the spot where she and Phillip had first been intimate.

  In the part of her mind that knew she was dreaming, Steph

  was freaking out at the horror-movie-like quality of it all. An

  avid Stephen King reader, she was scared shitless.

  Jesus. Mary, and Joseph! If I see a balloon or a clown, I’m

  outa here!

  And yet Steph found herself joining them, crossing her legs Indian style. She realized she was wearing her red cowboy boots.

  They were in pristine condition, like they were when she wan-

  dered around Greenwich Village breaking them in back in col-

  lege.

  Is this heaven?

  Jonquil turned to her and handed her a sugar cube, a very

  Phillip-esque frown marring her youthful face.

  “Dada?” Her big blue-green eyes were full of concern, and

  Steph blinked at her in surprise.

  Her mother stopped humming and turned to her as she

  raised her pinky while miming taking a drink from the tiny cup

  with yellow roses. “Yes, Stephanie. Where is Phillip?”

  Steph bolted awake. She sat straight up in bed, and she

  groaned, shielding her eyes as the morning sun blinded her.

  “That’s what I get for not drinking? Screw sobriety!” She mumbled as she shoved her long crimson hair out of her face.

  She tried to sit up and realized she had her robe all twisted

  around herself and fumbled awkwardly to get out of the bed.

  When her bare feet hit the cool floor, she remembered the night

  before with perfect clarity. She had fallen asleep cuddled up to 173

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  Phillip. He held her, stroked her hair, and even sang softly to her as she fell asleep. She remembered him leaving the bed once, to

  bring her a box of tissues. Most likely he was tired to listening to her sniffling or was afraid he’d end up covered in snot. But she was sure he’d been there singing her to sleep when she passed

  out from the exhaustive force of her weeping. The restroom door

  stood wide open, and his clothes were gone. The robe he’d been

  wearing lay on a nearby chair.

  “Yes, Stephanie. Where is Phillip?”

  Is that your version of Redrum, Ma? Quit being creepy.

  Steph found herself replaying the conversation she’d had

  with Phillip the night before. Finally they were communicating

  like adults and instead of a sense of closure or relief she felt more like she’d lost a limb. Yet no more tears came. She was

  pretty sure she’d shed every possible molecule of water her body possessed and felt dehydrated and hung over. A powerful and

  unrelenting sense of want bowled her over.

  She sighed deeply, feeling the loss of him rattle deep into

  her bone marrow, and shook her head. “Phillip.”

  Suddenly, someone tapped the familiar rhythm of “shave

  and a haircut” on the door. Elated, a joyful smile overtook her

  and she practically bounded to the door. Phillip was back! And

  maybe—just maybe—he brought her coffee.

  She flung open the door and inhaled sharply when she saw

  Christopher standing right in front of her. His expensive French cologne wafted into her nostrils and assaulted her morning Zen.

  So he’d hopped a plane. To Fernando de Noronha. Judging

  by the length of her trip, he must have done this shortly after the

  “I love you” call.

  Shit.

  For having been on planes for the better part of two days, he

  looked immaculate, and pulled together as always. He wore a

  crisp blue shirt. Christopher was always clean shaven, and even

  after traveling, his short blonde hair was perfectly groomed. He 174

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  handed her one of the coffees, undoubtedly prepared exactly the

  way she liked it. Sunglasses were perched on his nose, and he


  pulled him off, smiling casually as if he’d hopped a cab to come see her rather than traveling halfway around the world. Enrique

  stood behind him, his hand resting on a luggage cart. She was

  uncomfortable with the way the porter/chauffer’s eyebrow

  twitched at her disapprovingly, so Steph immediately snapped

  her eyes back to Christopher.

  “Chris?” His name came out in a whisper as she accepted

  the coffee and stepped back to allow him entrance.

  “Morning, beautiful!” He leaned in and planted a kiss her

  on her lips, then nearly tripped over her ruined boots and dress which still lay where she ditched them in an ugly pile. Steph

  kicked the clothes awkwardly out of the way, and Christopher

  and Enrique entered her room. “Miss me?”

  Steph realized she was twirling a finger in her hair as her

  eyes shot from his luggage to Enrique then back to him. “Yes.”

  She nodded shyly, an afterthought, but she was in total

  shock. Chris’s blue eyes swept the accommodations. He whistled

  at the view.

  “This place is posh,” he murmured, and turning back to her,

  his intense eyes roamed to her exposed collar bone and cleavage

  in a needy manner. Feeling surprisingly shy, she clasped her la-

  pels to secure her robe more tightly around her.

  With pursed lips, Enrique swiftly unloaded Christopher’s

  suitcase, garment bag, and carry-on, and Chris artfully shook his hand, slipping him a wad of cash while simultaneously sipping

  his coffee. Many things could be said about her agent, but one

  fact was undeniable: he was one smooth cat.

  Enrique slammed the door as he left, and Steph nearly had

  to peel herself off the ceiling.

  “Chris…I can’t believe you came all this way. I’m only

  here for three more days.”

  “Actually, I reserved one of the bungalows for afterward. I

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  was hoping you’d change the dates of your flight home since you

  don’t have a job till the week after. You can show me around.”

  Christopher reached out and smoothed her presumably insane

  bedhead. He moved in for another kiss, and she flinched involun-

  tarily. His baby blue eyes narrowed.

  “You don’t want to do that. I have morning breath. Let me

  freshen up.” She giggled nervously, batting her eyelashes. He

  nodded and picked up his coffee cup, moving toward the balco-

  ny. Steph zipped into the bathroom and locked the door, her

  mind racing. She felt like she couldn’t breathe, and she leaned

  over the sink wishing for the first time in her life she had a paper bag to breathe into. Her temple throbbed slightly, and she immediately yanked out her migraine medicine. What the hell? Was

  this just nerves? She’d just made it clear to Phillip the night before that she was with Christopher. Now he was her in front of

  her, and she felt like a nervous school girl. She was glad to see him—relieved actually. She’d been ready to sleep with him

  when she left London less than a week ago. But somehow when

  she looked at him, it was like looking at a stranger.

  She thought about her mom singing “Dreams,” her vibrato

  sounding like a musical theater version of Stevie Nicks. The

  haunting melody echoed in her ears. She couldn’t remember the

  words, but the song was full of dark weather imagery. Storms

  always made her think of Phillip, and that was something she

  knew would be true on her deathbed. She thought hard about the

  song’s lyrics. She remembered it said something about having

  and losing something.

  Or someone.

  Steph tossed cool water on her face. Loss was one horrific

  theme in Steph’s life, but she knew this wasn’t just something

  that happened to her. More times than not, she played an active

  role in “losing people.” She knew she pushed them away. She

  had predictably and systematically sabotaged all of her relationships. Hell, she used to even refer to herself as sociopathic, like 176

  RAGE

  the term was some sort of gold star to proudly display on her

  chest.

  One of the things she’d really grown to understand about

  herself since she’d started dating Christopher was that she had a pattern of acting out with anyone who cared about her and

  pushed their boundaries with her. She’d done it with her own

  family, most painfully with her own mom. Guilt about that was

  the reason she’d continued to work for her dad at The Sound

  Wave far longer than she should have. Then of course there was Pace, her college frenemy with benefits. He’d made a valiant

  attempt to get close to her, and he’d never stood a chance. And

  Kevin Wiley, but that had been a mistake in the first place…she

  should never have let her guard down with a hipster social

  climber like him. Last, but most soul-wrenching, was Phillip.

  Even thinking his name actually stung. She felt anxiety

  creeping back in that he’d been gone this morning when she’d

  awakened. He’d stayed with her until she slept and then walked

  away. At her request. She popped open her bottle of Xanax and spilled it on the floor. She wanted to scream and break the mirror in front of her. She’d asked him to leave her alone. She’d told

  him it was over forever. He’d simply bent to her will. Her fuck-

  ing obnoxious, megalomaniacal will.

  And now here was Christopher, and she could feel herself

  starting down the familiar path away from his affections. He re-

  ally was perfect on paper—a fusion of masculine virility and a

  thoughtful, challenging presence Cedric usually provided for her.

  He balanced her…tempered her. And what the fuck was she try-

  ing to do? Shove him away because of what?

  Everything felt different since she’d talked to Phillip. But

  what had changed, really? Phillip now knew about the baby. So

  what? He knew she hadn’t slept with Clive. And? She was glad

  they’d resolved these issues, but the fundamental discord be-

  tween them was still there, like the pregnant elephant in the

  room.

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  TAMMY COONS & MICHELLE PACE

  She shook her head with fierce determination. She had more

  than an element of control over this relationship with Christo-

  pher and it was a really decent relationship with a very good man.

  She looked at her reflection, her own resemblance to her

  mother squeezing her heart. Steph knew her cold feet made

  sense. Logically speaking, so much had happened in the past few

  days that it was hard not to feel like a war-torn refugee. Things were finally out in the open after ripping old wounds asunder

  and she had some long overdue closure with Phillip. It made

  sense that all the wedding drama had stirred up hurt feelings and grief. Her responses were oddly appropriate. Poor Cedric had

  finally cracked after all this time, and his chastising her now had put Mom on her mind. That was cathartic and sure to be healthy.

  But Christopher was a separate issue from all of that. He was the right guy. She needed to relax and let things play out the way

  they were meant to.

  She swore as she struggled to get the tangles out of their

  hair. Sand continued to appear around her like raindrops. After a few minutes
of trying to get a brush through her hair, she jumped back in the shower. She told herself she and Christopher would

  go out into the sunny weather, eat a huge breakfast, and forge

  boldly ahead.

  Phillip paced back and forth near the tiny Chapel of St. Pe-

  ter. It wasn’t the first time since he’d been on the island that he’d had the urge to smoke. His binge after Steph’s hospitalization

  ended up being just that. He’d quit right away when he’d re-

  turned to London. His breath control had been all over the place once he was back in the studio, and his throat had felt so raw it could bleed. He’d decided that he needed to quit for himself, but 178

  RAGE

  he missed the comfort of nicotine sometimes.

  As he listened to the bridesmaids complain about how ugly

  their dresses were and watched Yara’s clockwork meltdown, he

  could understand why Stephanie didn’t believe in weddings. He

  couldn’t even imagine her in the role of blushing bride. It was

  hysterical to try.

  It isn’t weddings she doesn’t believe in, it’s marriage.

  Trying to shake her from his thoughts, he focused on his

  fellow wedding party members. Nathan and Saffron were having

  a merry old time fondling each other and once again drinking

  mimosas, and Bret (still in his clothes from the night before) was passed out in a nearby chair. His long hair fell in a black snarled cloud around his shoulders. He had his sunglasses on, so either

  Yara hadn’t noticed he was sleeping, or she had simply grown

  accustomed to having no social expectations of him whatsoever.

  They were all waiting for the priest, and Phillip glanced

  down at his Rolex. He hadn’t seen Stephanie yet, and he was

  growing concerned that she might be sick from being doused

  cold water the night before. She’d felt slightly feverish in bed the night before, or maybe that had been him.

  He’d had to leave her bed. Once she’d fallen into a fitful

  sleep, her robe kept slipping open and as she pressed her soft

  warmth against him it had been too much for his dwindling self-

  control. He had no doubt she would have succumbed to sex if

  he’d initiated it, but it would have only made their parting more painful, and they’d both been through enough.

  He glumly observed as Cheyenne and Scot came out of the

  chapel giggling like a couple of school kids. Scot was fastening his belt and grinning that cheesy smile that sold a million teen magazines. He had a huge hickey on the side of his neck and