by Gemma Weir
When the plane finally starts to descend, I begin to relax. Home. Archer’s Creek is my home and right now I need my bike and my family. All I really want to do is turn around and fly straight back to Rosebud, but I can’t, so instead I need my tribe. The people who get me and love me and will either talk me off a ledge or get me so drunk that when I fall, the crash landing won’t hurt quite so much.
Grabbing my bag, I make my way through the airport, shuffling behind the hordes of people all clambering for the exit and a taste of warm, balmy Texas air. My cell is burning a hole in my pocket, but I don’t pull it out and power it up. Fear keeps me ignorant and for right now, ignorant is better than rejected.
I’d gotten a cab here, but I’m not surprised when I spot Smoke’s pretty face leaning against my flashy red car in the drop-off lane. He smiles when he sees me, and I can’t help smiling back at him and chuckling as I see a cop skirting the car, obviously intimidated by the huge dude in a biker cut.
“Lucky Charms,” Smoke calls when I reach him.
“Pretty boy,” I say, taking his outstretched hand and letting him pull me in for a man hug.
Smoke claps me on the back then releases me and steps back. “Where’s Rosie?” he asks, searching behind me.
“In LA.”
“When’s she getting in?”
“She’s not,” I say, letting my eyes fall to the sidewalk beneath my feet.
“Fuck,” Smoke says, his expression turning sad.
“Let’s get out of here. I need a fucking drink,” I say, turning away from him and opening the trunk to throw my bag in.
I don’t protest when Smoke climbs into the driver’s seat. This may be my car, but he knows I hate the flashy fucking thing. I don’t argue when he takes the turning that will take us to the club and not to my apartment. I don’t want to be alone right now. All I want is to have a drink with my family and try to figure out how badly I fucked everything up with her and if I can somehow fix it all.
The club is quiet. There’s no party tonight, just my brothers here in groups, drinking, shooting the shit and playing pool. I follow Smoke when he grabs a bottle of Jack from the bar and then leads us to a group of sofas at the back. He drops two shot glasses to the table and fills them both, then slides one toward me and keeps the other for himself.
“So, what happened?”
I sigh wearily, lifting the glass to my lips and swallowing the liquid back before I look at him. “I think I fucked everything up.”
Smoke shakes his head. “Nah, that girl’s as crazy for you as you are for her. What could you have possibly done to have fucked it up?”
“She just wants to be friends.”
“Bullshit.”
“I wish it was, brother. We made out a little on Friday night and in the morning, she told me she didn’t want to ruin our friendship by changing things.”
Smoke hisses between his teeth.
“Then last night, she told me she wanted me in her bed. We got a little carried away. She was into it, then by the time I woke up she’d gone. Found her out in the living room drinking coffee and acting like nothing had happened.”
“What you gonna do?” Smoke asks, refilling our glasses and pushing mine toward me again.
I throw back the second shot, barely even tasting the Jack as it coats my throat. Taking the bottle from his hand, I fill my glass again and throw back a third shot before looking up at him. “I have no fucking clue.”
He hasn’t called. Why hasn’t he called?
I know his flight landed nearly three hours ago, so even after getting through the airport and waiting for a cab, or a ride, or whatever, he should have been home at least an hour ago. So why hasn’t he called?
I miss him already. My apartment feels cold and lifeless and the only person I want to speak to is him. This weekend changed things and as much as I loved his touch and his kisses, if we were just friends he would have called by now.
I didn’t handle this morning well. We should have talked about what happens now, what it all meant, but instead we said nothing, and both just pretended like it hadn’t happened. I wish I had Smoke or Nikki’s number. At least then I could call them and make sure he’s okay. But I don’t, because they’re not my friends; they’re just people I met once. His friends. His world.
Lifting my cell up, I dial Taylor’s number before I even realize what I’m doing.
“Hello.”
“Taylor,” I say, not expecting her to answer and unsure what to say.
“Yeah, it’s me.” Her voice is quiet and unsure.
“Are you okay? Where are you?” I say, my voice cracking slightly as I speak.
“Errm, I’m assuming my mom told you I was at a spa or something.”
“Yeah, she did.”
“I’m at an inpatient facility in Aruba. It’s pretty nice and I’ve been working on myself. The doctors are really good.” Taylor says, her voice small and childlike.
“Taytay,” I croak, a single tear escaping from my eye and rolling down my cheek.
“It’s fine. I’m fine, or at least I hope I will be.”
“When are you coming home?”
She clears her throat and when she speaks her voice is stronger. “I don’t know. I think I might travel for a while, see some of the world, or something.”
“What about the wedding? Is Derek going to go with you?”
She laughs and the sound is bitter and tired. “The wedding’s off. Apparently Derek doesn’t want to tie himself to someone with a mental health issue.”
“That fucker,” I shout.
Taylor laughs again, only this time it’s a real laugh. “Yeah well, it wouldn’t have worked anyway. I don’t love him. I’m not sure that I ever have.”
“But you’ve been together for years.”
“Rosie, I think I’ve proved with recent events, that I have some major daddy issues. Derek was rich like my daddy and an asshole like my biological father. I don’t want to become my mom. I don’t ever want to take my child armed with a DNA test to some rich guy’s house, to try to make him believe he or she is his kid. I need a fresh start. Park was right. I need to sort my shit out and living with my parents and marrying Derek isn’t going to help me deal with my issues. It’s just giving me a fantasy world to live in while I pretend I’m okay.”
My mouth is dry. My best friend of ten years was just honest with me, for maybe the first time since we met. This is the real, raw Taylor and I’m proud of her. “I think you’re right.”
I hear her inhale of breath. “You do?”
“Yeah, sweetie, I do. I’m so proud of you for accepting this help and working on yourself.”
“Thank you,” she gasps, her words broken by a sob.
“What about Park?” I ask, wishing I wasn’t asking for selfish reasons.
“I think I’ve done enough damage to him. I’ve ruined any chance we had to have a normal sibling, or half-sibling relationship. It’s not fair for me to fuck him up any more than I have already.”
“So you’re not going to try to contact him again?”
“No,” she says decisively.
We end the call a few moments later with a sense of finality. She doesn’t have any plans to return to LA anytime soon, and with everything that’s happened and everything I now know about her, I don’t think our friendship will ever be the same.
Silent tears track down my cheeks. Taylor and I have been friends for a long time and I’m sad that it feels like our friendship is now over. But did I ever really know the real her? Right now, it doesn’t feel like it.
More alone than ever, I change into pajamas and crawl beneath the sheets of my bed. Park’s scent clings to the cotton, and a wave of longing crashes into me. Grabbing my cell from the nightstand, I pull up his number, my thumb hovering over the call button. I’m sad, alone, and missing him, and just the sound of him breathing would make me feel better right now. But if I call him, am I being as selfish with him as Taylor was?
I can’t ignore the fact that I want more than just friendship and if that’s not what he wants, am I being unfair to him by using him as an emotional crutch? I click off the call screen and move to the text message app instead and quickly type out a message.
Rosie: I miss you already. Did you get home safe?
I read and reread the words a hundred times before clicking send, then flop back against my pillow, staring at my cell waiting for a reply.
The sun’s blaring through my blinds when my alarm bursts to life, waking me up. Groaning loudly, I stretch like a cat, cracking all of my tired, bleary muscles and forcing them into movement.
Reaching for my cell, I turn off my alarm then check my messages. Nothing. No new texts or voicemails, nothing.
Rolling out of bed, I shower quickly, then pull on a short, pale-blue Bardot dress and pair it with tall navy-blue slingback pumps. It’s not my usual office wear, but the idea of wearing a suit is abhorrent today, so, well, fuck it. No-one cares what I wear at the office and as I don’t have any interviews today, this dress is perfectly okay for sitting behind my desk all day.
Manny, who’s served me coffee every work day for the last six months, blinks in surprise when I walk in for my usual latte on the way to work. “Rosie, err you look nice today,” he stutters.
“Oh, thanks, Manny. Can I have my usual please?”
He nods and quickly fills a cup, sliding it across the counter. “Thank you,” I say, offering him the bill in my hand.
“It’s on me today,” he says with a bright smile.
Tilting my head to the side, I furrow my brow. “Err, thanks, Manny,” I say, then drop the bill into the tip jar and turn to leave. With my free coffee in my hand, I cross the street and a few minutes later climb the stairs to my office building. The small offices that line the corridor on either side are mostly full and a few people call hello to me as I pass. When I reach my own office, I flick on the overhead light, drop my purse into my desk drawer and slide into the seat behind my desk.
Post-its and scraps of paper litter the old wooden desktop, but despite how much of a sanctuary I used to find this space a few weeks ago, today it feels small and stifling. The mock-up of the new edition of the paper is taped to my walls, just like it is for every copy that I’ve contributed to since I was given this office a few years back. When this edition hits the newsstand, I’ll rip them all down and replace them with the next batch of articles, advertisements, and stories. Week in, week out, the same routine, the same paper.
Exhaling, I lean back in my chair and stare at the walls. My office doesn’t have any windows. It’s a twelve by twelve box, and until a few days ago, I thought it was the pinnacle of everything I’d achieved in life so far. But now, today, it feels more like a cage, keeping me locked here, in this life.
My hand drifts to the top drawer in my desk and I open it, pulling out the letter offering me an open-ended job offer at ‘As We Know It’, the lifestyle magazine who like my stuff so much they’re prepared to take me whenever I’m ready to take the leap.
With the letter gripped in my palm, I glance down to my desk. The notes for my Archer’s Creek article are scattered haphazardly across it, but taped to the corner of the wooden desk is the list of other contributions I make for every edition.
Parking notices and neighborhood watch updates, and the ever fun responsibility for the obituaries, paying respect to those who have passed on. For the last few years I’ve written all these things full of pride and smugness that I was doing my perfect job. But now all I feel is wistfulness.
I’m not sure if it was watching the pure joy on Park’s face when he was working, or just getting a glimpse of someone who truly loves what they do, that’s left me with this melancholic sense of dissatisfaction. Perhaps if I’d never gone to Texas; perhaps if Taylor hadn’t had her meltdown. Perhaps if I’d never met Park, I wouldn’t have realized that maybe I’m not content with contentment.
Pushing away from my desk, I stand up and walk toward my door. I need another coffee. Caffeine always squashes my bouts of depression and disillusionment. In a few strides, I leave my office and make my way to the staff kitchen just a few doors down. The bleak, tiny kitchenette, boasts chipped Formica worktops and a single cabinet with the door hanging ajar. Lifting a thankfully clean mug out, I turn to the coffee pot only to find it empty and cold. Fan-freaking-tastic. I know I only just finished a cup, but I need coffee. I need something to make this crisis of faith I’m having less daunting. I search the tiny room for coffee for the machine, but all I find are empty packets. What the hell is wrong with these people? Who puts an empty packet back into the cupboard?
Angry and frustrated with my cup empty of coffee, I walk back into my office, slamming the door behind me. Pacing the length of the room and back again, I try to figure out what’s wrong with me today. This is my life, this is who I am, and I don’t understand why today, more than ever, it just doesn’t seem enough.
My cell beeps and I practically sprint across the room, scrambling to pull it free from the confines of my purse. I’ve managed not to check my messages again until now, but the beep is a message and it could be him. I want it to be him.
It isn’t.
Mom: Hi, sweetie. Robert has been asking after you. Did you arrange a date with him? He seems like such a steady, successful man. Just your type. His mother and I are so excited about the two of you. Call me. Your father and I would love to see you again this week.
I read her message twice and groan. I don’t care about Robert. He might be my type, but he’s not what I want. I want more than steady; I want freedom and peace and happiness. I want Park. Scanning my desk, I find the letter and search for the contact number for the magazine.
My hands shake as I type the number into my cell. Can I do this? Can I make this leap, change my status quo so dramatically? Lifting the cell to my ear I listen to it ring, my heart pounding erratically beneath my ribs.
“Good morning, you’ve reached The Sullivan Group. How many I direct your call?” A bright female voice answers.
“Oh hi. Could I speak to Erica Daniels please?”
“One moment and I’ll connect you. Who may I say is calling?”
“It’s Rosie Dalby,” I reply shakily.
Cheerful elevator music fills my ears and I sink down into my desk chair. Am I doing this? What the hell am I going to say to this woman? Before I have a chance to decide, the music stops and Erica’s distinctive bright southern accent bursts to life.
“Tell me you’re calling to take me up on that job offer,” she says in her sing-song voice.
“Oh, err. I was hoping that maybe we could have a conversation about it,” I say, my voice shaking almost as much as my arms, as I clutch my phone to my ear with both hands.
“I’m actually gonna be out in Vegas this weekend. I get in on Friday afternoon. I don’t have any plans until Saturday, so maybe we could have some dinner; something a little less formal?”
“I can definitely do that. I mean, I’d love to do that.”
Erica laughs. “Perfect. I’m staying at the Waldorf Astoria. I’ll get my P.A. to arrange flights and a room and I’ll email you over the details.”
“Oh there’s no need. I can just fly in and back out.”
“Nonsense. This way we can hopefully go out and celebrate after our dinner,” Erica says brightly. “I’m so sorry, but I have a meeting in a few minutes. Looking forward to seeing you.”
“Thank you, Erica. I’ll see you on Friday.” She ends the call and for a moment I just lower the cell to my lap and stare at it. I think I’m actually doing this. I’m flying to Vegas and I’m going to take this job. It’s a risk. It’s new and different; but even though I’m scared, I’m excited too. Taking this job would mean writing for a completely different audience. The magazine is new, up and coming, with a readership so incredibly different than the local townsfolk who read the paper I work for now.
But it’s part of a large, well established publishing gr
oup, and the fact that they’re prepared to fly me out to meet with Erica says that they have a strong budget behind them. I already know all of this. I researched the magazine before I met with them last time and I was impressed. The only reason I didn’t take the job was because at the time I hadn’t wanted to relocate to a new state.
Taylor had lost her mind when I’d told her about the opportunity, and at the time, different was scary and unknown. Now different seems exciting. It feels like an adventure, and with Taylor gone and Eric travelling for at least seven to eight months of the year, what’s really keeping me here?
Exhaling, I lift my still shaking hands and dial Park’s number. I want to talk to him, to tell him about the job, about the fact that I need to relocate and that the offices are in Texas. But if I can’t do that, I’ll be content to just listen to the silence with him.
“Hey,” he says quietly, when he finally answers after several rings.
“Hey.”
Neither of us speaks and I can hear the muffled noises of people in the background. “Are you at the shop?” I ask.
“Yeah, I’m just setting up for my first client.”
“You didn’t text me back,” I say.
He exhales loudly and I can almost visualize the way he’s probably slumped back in the chair in his studio. “I’m sorry.”
“What for?” I ask carefully, not sure that I want to know the answer. If he tells me he’s sorry for what happened between us this weekend I’m not sure what I’ll do.
“For not texting back. That was shitty of me. I don’t really have an excuse. Smoke came and picked me up from the airport and we spent the rest of the night with several bottles of liquor. It was a mess.
I swallow the lump that’s formed in my throat. I want to ask if their drunken night included any girls, but it’s really none of my business. Park’s not my boyfriend. He’s not mine and he can do what he likes with whoever he likes. “Oh,” I say, forcing the single word from my lips.
