Taming Georgia (The Flawed Heart Series)

by Ellie Wade

  “Yes! Exactly.” Paige nods. “You should text a pic to Loïc. He needs to see you in this outfit.”

  We down the rest of our drinks before I pull out my phone to request an Uber.

  “Are you sure this isn’t too revealing?” London asks me quietly.

  “O-M-G, it’s fine,” Paige answers. “Come on, old maid. Our ride’s here.”

  “You look amazing,” I tell her as we exit the house.

  “I need to sit down!” I yell over the music. “My feet are killing me!”

  I hobble over to an open table, followed by Paige and London. We give our drink orders to the server, and I take off my heels, rubbing my feet.

  “Heels are the devil,” I groan.

  “They really are,” London agrees.

  “That’s why I wore black flip-flops,” Paige says.

  “How is it that you are the fashion police when it comes to my shirt, but you’re wearing flip-flops?”

  “A: because you were wearing a freaking turtleneck, and B: because if you’re dancing all night, you can’t be wearing heels. It’s common sense.”

  “I hate you,” London tells Paige.

  “I love you, too,” Paige says as she blows London a kiss.

  “Here comes another one,” I say under my breath as a dude approaches our table.

  “I got this.” London stands.

  “Hey, boobs. Why do you think they’re all for you?” Paige asks her.

  London meets the guy halfway, and we watch as the two of them chat. London looks surprisingly content as she jokes with the guy.

  “I don’t trust her,” Paige says. “Why is she so happy?”

  “I don’t know. It’s weird,” I agree.

  London takes the guy’s phone and starts typing away on the screen. As she gives it back to him, she says something that makes his eyes bulge. He nods, gives her a sly smile, and walks off.

  She comes prancing back to our table.

  “Did you give him your number?” I ask, confused.

  “I gave him a number.” She smirks.

  “What did you do?” Paige narrows her eyes.

  “Same thing I did with all the guys who asked me for my number tonight. Or should I say, asked my boobs for their number. Why is it so hard for a guy to look you in the eyes? Seriously.” London takes a sip of her drink.

  “You’d better spill the details,” Paige says.

  London shrugs. “I gave them your number, Paigey Poo. I told this last one that there’s bonus points in it for him if he sends me a picture of what’s under his pants.”

  “You did not!” Paige shrieks.

  “I did!” London is laughing so hard that tears are falling from her eyes.

  “O-M-G.” I laugh. “Dick pics are so gross!”

  “Ew! Ew! Ew!” Paige cries. “I do not deserve that!” She laughs. “There is nothing wrong with showing some cleavage. Hey, at least I didn’t make you wear that.” She nods toward the dance floor.

  We turn to see a girl dancing on the stage. Her outfit—and I use that term lightly because it’s more like a piece of fabric—doesn’t leave much to the imagination.

  “I honestly don’t know how that’s not against dress code. You can almost see everything,” I say.

  “Her nipples are covered. I think that’s all this place cares about. Plus, I don’t think they have a dress code,” Paige says.

  “Well, society does—an implied one at least.” I give an exaggerated shudder.

  “I bet she would appreciate some dick pics. You should share them when they come, Paige,” London jokes.

  “You know, there will be retribution if I open a message containing a penis. I’m just letting you know.” She gives London a look that says she’s serious.

  London holds up her hands in surrender. “Hey, I’m a married woman. I had to give these guys something.”

  “I have to go pee,” I whine.

  “Then, go to the restroom,” my sister tells me.

  “That requires putting on my shoes,” I say with a fake cry. “I can’t do it. They hurt so bad.” I nod toward my feet.

  London nods in understanding. “Suck it up, buttercup. You definitely don’t want to be walking through the bathroom without shoes.”

  “Definitely not,” I agree.

  I stand, and holding one hand against the table for leverage, I lift my foot to put my heel on. I opt to leave it unfastened to give my foot more room to breathe. But when I complete the same motion for the other foot, the unsecured heel wobbles beneath my foot, and I feel myself falling toward the floor.

  I close my eyes and brace for impact, but the impact doesn’t come. Two strong arms wrap around me, pulling me into a tight chest.

  I hope my knight in shining armor is cute because he feels and smells heavenly. My dream is crushed the second he speaks.

  “Try laying off the booze,” he says in a tight voice.

  I push against him in order to steady myself on my heels. “It was my shoe,” I snap back at him.

  “And you’re welcome,” Wyatt says before turning to walk off.

  I kick off my shoes and chase after him.

  I grab his arm, and he stops. “What are you doing here?”

  “Last time I checked, I don’t need to tell you anything.” He glares down to me.

  “I’m not drunk. I lost my balance because of my heels.” I don’t know why I feel the need to explain myself to him, but the explanation comes out anyway.

  “I don’t fucking care what you do, Peaches.”

  “Don’t call me that!”

  “No? You seemed to love it when I called you that before.”

  I scowl. “You don’t know anything.”

  I’m not sure what that response means, but it’s what comes out. The truth is, I did love when he called me that. Hearing it now makes me think back to that time in my life when I was alive with hope for a new love. There was a brief moment when I thought that true love was possible, but Wyatt was there to show me that it wasn’t.

  I’ve met a lot of jerks in my life, but Wyatt’s the only one who holds permanent residence in my thoughts. He cut me so much deeper than the rest that it’s never fully healed.

  “I know enough. Now, are we done here?” He looks down to my hand that’s still holding on to his arm.

  He’s right in that I am a little tipsy. Alcohol for me is like a truth serum. It makes me want to scream everything I’m feeling at him.

  Why didn’t you love me?

  Why did you kiss me?

  Why did you hurt me?

  Why do you hate me?

  Why did you make me hate you?

  Yet I’m not so tipsy that I don’t have self-control, so I don’t say anything else. Instead, I loosen my grasp and let go of his arm. He rolls his eyes and disappears into the crowd on the dance floor.

  I’m also sober enough to realize that I’m pining over a relationship that I lost when I was seventeen. Nothing’s real at that age. Of course he was never meant to be the love of my life. I was a junior in high school. I couldn’t be trusted to vote, let alone make sound decisions about love.

  I never loved him, and he never loved me. The kiss was just a kiss, not a declaration.

  Why can’t I let it go?

  I’m met by curious stares from London and Paige when I get back to the table.

  “Who was that?” Paige asks.

  “Wyatt,” I tell them, his name rolling off my tongue like a regret.

  “Your jerky boss?” London questions.

  “The very one.”

  “You didn’t tell us he was so hot.” Paige makes a spectacle of fanning herself.

  “Well, when you subtract the asshole qualities from his looks, he’s ugly.”

  “If you say so,” Paige says. “Though, from where I was sitting, asshole or not, he was fine as hell.”

  “Oh my God, look!” London says to us as she motions toward the dance floor.

  Wyatt is up on the dance floor stage, talking to t
he woman wearing the piece of fabric that barely covers her nipples.

  My mouth falls open as I watch him grab her hand. He lifts her off the stage and then proceeds to leave with her in tow.

  “Well, well, well…I guess hottie boss likes his ladies a little on the hooker side.” Paige smirks.

  She and London begin chatting incessantly, but I can’t hear what they’re saying.

  All I can focus on is the fact that Wyatt just took that woman home. There’s an unease in the pit of my stomach that’s registering somewhere between jealousy and sadness—neither of which make sense.

  I can’t possibly be jealous of that woman. I couldn’t care less who Wyatt screws in his free time. I definitely can’t be sad over Wyatt.

  I hate him.

  The despondent cloak of gloominess that’s covering me can’t have anything to do with him. Why would it?

  These emotions don’t line up with the way I feel toward Wyatt. It’s all so confusing. Yet I’m feeling them just the same.

  7

  “Drugs have a way of robbing someone of the things they love. It’s a hell on earth that I wouldn’t wish on anyone.” —Wyatt Gates

  “French fries,” I say aloud. “Number one answer.”

  Cooper cracks open one eye from my lap as if to tell me to keep it down.

  The woman playing for Fast Money on the game show Family Feud says, “Onion rings.”

  “Idiot, the number one thing people eat with a hamburger is French fries.”

  Cooper grumbles.

  “She just lost her family twenty thousand dollars, man,” I tell him, though Cooper doesn’t seem to be at all interested in marathoning Family Feud with me. “I know, dude…but there’s literally nothing else on.”

  As soon as Carrie wakes up, I can take her into rehab. I don’t want to leave her here alone. I felt sick when I got the call from her last night, as she was clearly fucked out of her mind.

  Carrie grew up in an apartment down the hall from me. She was an amazing soccer player and got a full ride scholarship to Eastern Michigan University because of it. The full ride was her ticket out of the poverty that had plagued her family for generations. Freshman year of college, she injured her knee and was prescribed pain pills. Unfortunately, that led to an addiction that she’s still fighting today.

  She lost everything—her scholarship, her friends, her family. Drugs have a way of robbing someone of the things they love. It’s a hell on earth that I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

  I know from experience that an addict won’t get clean unless they want it, and she does. Before last night, she’d been sober for over six months. I’ll never understand how someone can be clean for so long and then use again when they know what drugs will do to them. But I’ve never been an addict, so I’ve never felt the hold drugs can have on a person.

  I’ve seen it too many times. Though I wish I hadn’t.

  The host says, “Name a place you visit where you aren’t allowed to touch anything.”

  “Museum,” I say out loud. Number one answer.

  “Hi.” Carrie enters the living room. “Thanks for the shirt.” Her voice is rough and scratchy.

  “You’re welcome. Thought it’d be more comfortable than what you had on. How are you feeling?” I pat the couch beside me.

  She sits down.

  “Tired, sad, embarrassed, antsy…you name it. All the usual suspects are up in there.” She circles her finger around her head.

  “How long?”

  She sighs, “A couple of weeks.”

  “Why didn’t you call me earlier?”

  She smiles sadly. “It’s not your job to save me, Wyatt. I can’t keep pulling you down with me.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I can take care of myself. You’re not pulling me anywhere. If I can help you, I want to.” I tap her knee.

  “Why are you here? What about your work?”

  “It’s fine. Ethel opened up for me. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  “Tell her that I’m sorry.”

  I wave my hand in front of me. “Are you kidding? She loves going in early on a Saturday.”

  “Wyatt, I’m serious. I can’t keep doing this to you. It’s not fair.” She pulls at the edges of the shirt she’s wearing.

  “Carrie, I’m here for you. I mean that. Okay?”

  She nods.

  “Someday, you won’t need me anymore, and I’ll be cool with that, too. You’re going to beat this.”

  “Yeah,” she says very unconvincingly.

  “Can I take you to rehab? I already called. They’re expecting you.”

  She falls against the back of the couch. “I hate it,” she says with a sigh. “I don’t want to go back.” Her voice shakes, her eyes shining with tears waiting to spill.

  “I know, but you need help. You want to live? You want to fight? Right?”

  A tear rolls down her cheek. “Yeah,” she whispers.

  “Then, you know what you have to do. Let’s swing by your place for your things, and then we’ll get you checked in.”

  She bobs her head in agreement. “Okay,” she says with more resolve. “I can do this.”

  “Hell yeah, you can.”

  I feel like shit, leaving Carrie at the rehabilitation facility, but I know it’s the right thing for her. She needs more help than I can give her. That place always gives me the creeps. It’s the faces more than anything. I’ve seen them all before. The hopeful, believing that this time they’ll beat their demons. Then, there’s the haunted ones who are dying for their next hit. The broken, vacant eyes of the ones who have been there enough to know they’ll never beat it. Those are the ones that get to me the most.

  I barely remember a time when my mom didn’t have a vacant quality to her expression. She gave up long before I understood the gravity of it all.

  I didn’t always live in the projects as a child. Once upon a time, I lived in a nice suburb. I had the American dream—happy parents, a loving home, and endless possibilities for my future. My dad was a doctor, and my mom was a nurse. I didn’t have grandparents, as they had all passed before I was born. Both of my parents were only children, so I also didn’t have aunts or uncles. Yet I had the best parents in the world, and that was all I needed.

  I don’t recall a lot from before my dad’s death, but I do remember happiness. I was six when he was shot and killed at a gas station by a junkie who wanted his watch. I was too young to notice the downward spiral of my mom at the time. But Ethel told me how it’d all happened. She and my mom worked together as nurses.

  According to Ethel, it started when my mom fell at work and broke her wrist shortly after my dad’s passing. She liked the way the pain pills made her feel numb, as she was still hurting and grieving for my dad. When she wasn’t prescribed pain meds anymore, she’d steal them from the medicine cart at work. For a while, she was a functioning pill addict. Until her body became tolerant of the pills, and she needed to up her dosage.

  She was eventually caught stealing and was fired. From there, she slowly used all of the money we had to feed her addiction.

  I don’t have many memories of my mom off of drugs. I really wish I did. Ethel said she was kind, smart, and funny. She was obsessed with game shows, and she and my dad would host big game parties at our house. She loved Halloween and Christmas and went all out for both. Ethel said that my mom would deck our house out with Christmas decorations on the first weekend of November because she wanted as much time as possible to enjoy the twinkling lights of the tree.

  I have vague recollections of decorating Christmas sugar cookies and building a gingerbread house with my mom. I have a handful of hazy recollections with my parents. Yet I have hundreds of crystal-clear memories of my mom that I wish I didn’t. Why can’t my brain hold on to the good ones? Why are the ones that plague me always the most vibrant?

  The passenger window of the truck is down despite the frigid temperature outside. Cooper needs to feel the wind on his fur and let his t
ongue hang in the breeze while I drive. It’s his favorite thing.

  Every few minutes, he’ll bring his head inside, shiver, sneeze, and then put it back out. It’s comical, and I love how happy he is. He’s always been so happy, even when he had no reason to be.

  I stand outside in the parking lot, watching as the paramedics roll a gurney covered with a white sheet toward the ambulance. Despite the cover, I see her anyway. I’ll never stop seeing her lifeless body with a needle still in her arm. No sheet, coffin, or amount of time will erase my last vision of her from my mind—though I wish they would.

  I don’t even know what to feel. Truthfully, I just feel numb. I always knew that this reality was looming somewhere in my future, but despite knowing this would be my fate, one can never be prepared for finding their mom dead.

  I’ve been mad at her my whole life. I’ve wanted her to get help for as long as I can remember, but she never would. I’ve never understood why I wasn’t enough to make her want to be sober. I’ve spent so long being sad and angry that I’m just a void. I have nothing to give her death right now.

  At least I’m eighteen, and I graduated, so I don’t have to deal with foster parents. I guess that’s one gift she gave me. Happy fucking graduation to me. I should be able to keep the apartment with my current jobs. Not much has changed. I’ll just be coming home to an empty apartment instead of a junkie-filled one.

  A movement off to the side of the building catches my eye.

  “Good-bye, Mom,” I say to the ambulance as it drives off.

  I head over to the side of the building.

  I cringe when I see him. He’s young, probably just a year old. He has hundreds of maggots eating away at his wounds.

  I hold my stomach, afraid I’m going to hurl.

  “Oh my God.” I swallow back the bile that rises in my throat.

  I inch closer, holding my hand to my nose because the smell is nauseating. I can see the puncture wounds all over his body.

  “Oh, boy. Who did this to you?”

  He looks up at me with the sweetest amber eyes, begging me to help. I bend at my knees and extend my hand toward his muzzle. He licks it.

  I shake my head.