“It’s fitting, don’t you think?” He’s looking at me, his lips curved into a frown.
“How so?”
“I was never an asshole until I fell under a particular leadership. The more I’m around it, the more my behavior mimics it until, eventually, I’m of the same mindset.” His voice softens. “And the people I want on my side, run scared. You the hunted, I the hunter. Bringing you here is my sacrifice. Praying for a divine intervention. This won’t end in anyone’s death, though. The only pain will be of my heart, but that’s repairable overtime.”
The weight of the world hangs heavy on my shoulders. His analogy is acutely accurate and forces me to make impossible decisions. Decisions I’m not capable of making without talking to Oliver first. It shouldn’t matter, speaking to Oliver, but it does. I don’t owe him anything, especially after he left me the way he did. How do you confess loving someone since the moment you’ve met, promise to love them every day until the end of time, and then vanish into thin air without as much as a fuck you? Knowing the reasoning now still doesn’t ease the pain, the bitterness still evident. But two wrongs don’t make a right. Me walking away from him to stand alongside Fletcher was a slap in the face. One Oliver didn’t deserve. And I may regret it forever, which makes this decision that much more important to contemplate with a clear head and a cleansed conscience.
It’s as if my body has been split in two. Equal parts of love but for two separate entities. Oliver is an extension of me, a bond like no other. I could spend my days hating every inch of him, but the love has always trampled the childish drama we exchange. What we have is true and consistent regardless of the content. That love can withstand the test of time, I’m sure of it.
And Fletcher. We had a rough patch, as any normal couple. Was it conventional? I’m not sure, but it doesn’t change the fact that I do love him. Yeah, I really do. Even through all the bullshit and nastiness, I forgive him. As much as I tried to fight my fluttering heart this week, when the old Fletcher showed himself to me, all those feelings from the good days resurfaced, reminding me why we were together to begin with.
No one is perfect. We are all flawed and damaged. And I have no clue what I’m going to do.
Twenty Five
Oliver
A godawful wail echoes around the tiny bathroom. It takes my body being slammed with the back of the door to realize it is me who is sobbing. I’m pushed out of the way by the door and, after a small struggle, I’m being dragged out of the bathroom into the cabin of the tour bus.
“What the fuck is wrong with you!” Nash rips the rubber strip from my arm. My blubbering cries are smothered by the fabric of his shirt as he yanks me into a hug. I grip the cotton material with my fingers as he holds me.
Luna steps around us, leaning over the sink to fill a cup under the tap and holds it out to me like the answer to all world problems is inside a glass of tepid, fluoride-filled water.
Nash grabs the sides of my face, pinching my cheeks with his palms. “Did you? Why, why? How could you?” He’s yelling at me, and tears are streaming down his face. He’s scared.
I scared him. I scared myself.
“I—I—didn’t.”
Nash falls back on his feet and chokes on a gasp, covering his mouth with his arm. He tugs at my wrist, exposing the crook of my arm, and inspects my veins closely. “You didn’t,” he repeats, relieved.
“I—I—chickened out.”
“Thank fuck.” The words are barely out of Nash’s mouth when he slugs me hard in the shoulder. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
My head hangs and I take in a shaky breath. The defeat in the curve of my bones is enough for a thousand words. Nash knows what’s wrong with me. So does Luna. She kneels down with us, a circle of arms snaking around me, and we embrace each other until a shadow casts over us.
The fridge slams shut and a can cracks open on a fizz. “Dude.” Hamlin takes large gulps of the Dr. Pepper, grunting an, “Ahhh,” while scratching the crotch of his boxers with his free hand in front of our faces. “Thanks for the invite to the orgy, assholes.”
Leave it to Hamlin to break the heaviness in the air with his straight-faced jokes. He never once cracks a smile, nor does he say anything else. He downs the rest of the soda, tosses the empty can into the sink, and spins, locking himself in the bathroom. It’s not but a half second before the door opens and Hamlin emerges with a handful of my drugs and paraphernalia. He opens the window above the kitchen sink and tosses the items out into the great unknown without as much as a puff of breath then disappears back into the bathroom.
We sit looking at the empty space where Hamlin just stood. I’m the first to bust up laughing, followed by Nash and then Luna. Nash stands and holds both hands out to help Luna and me up on to our feet. The back of his hand smacks my bare chest. “Well that’s one way of getting rid of it. I was just going to flush ‘em down the toilet.”
“Dumbass probably woulda siphoned the sewer tank to get to his stash,” Hamlin calmly says over his shoulder as he exits the bathroom and disappears again into his bunk.
“For real, man?” I shout after him, but he slides the bunk door closed. “I draw the line somewhere, asshole.”
“Do you?” Nash questions, one brow perking up.
I flip Nash off. “I didn’t take any.”
Luna wraps her arms around my waist. She’s taller than Piper by a foot, but she’s still short against my long torso. “And we’re so glad you didn’t.”
“Me too.” I kiss the top of Luna’s head. I need to calm the adrenaline and there is only one way of doing that. “I could really go for a burger.”
“I’m down.” Nash pulls Luna from my arms, guarding her like he’s forgotten we’ve been childhood friends and the kiss to her head was nothing but a friendly, thanks-for-the-hug-I-really-needed-it, peck. “Rico, detour. Burgers!”
“Aye aye.” Rico salutes. “I know just the place.”
Showers are an afterthought when bellies are grumbling. None of us care we’re overly ripe. When food is involved, nothing else matters, even personal hygiene. I’m rubbing my hands together as we enter Burger Bar. The first initial smell of food has me salivating for the juicy burger I’m about to put in my stomach.
I notice, along with the rest of my group, that our waitress is hot, but my attention is on the menu and the absence of a certain redhead. I ignore Nash when he kicks me under the table, and I most certainly ignore the waitress’s side boob brushing my arm as she leans over to set down our waters. Nash must be an idiot. He clears his throat to get my attention, but I keep my focus on the pictures of food in front of me. The dipshit should know I’m not interested in anyone other than Piper. From the corner of my eye, I can see Luna sneaking a glance from over the top of her menu, her eyes slyly shifting from the waitress to me.
When the waitress comes back, she nervously asks for my order first, biting at her lower lip in attempt to draw my gaze to her pouty mouth. I look, of course, but all it does is make me want to tell her to stop trying so hard. I’m not interested. And after she gathers our menus and walks away, sashaying her hips to the point of dislocating some bones, Nash is all up my ass.
“Why you gotta be a dick, bruh?”
“I’m not being a dick.”
Nash looks at Luna, who shrugs, then looks at Hamlin, who’s passive, before looking back at me. “You’re being a dick.”
“How am I being a dick? I’m here to eat burgers not pussy.”
Luna snorts, choking on her water. She sets down the glass and wipes her mouth with her napkin.
“You could at least be polite,” Nash argues.
“I was. She asked what I wanted to eat and I politely asked for the Durango Burger. I answered every question she asked with a smile and a response. I was a gentleman.”
Luna pats my forearm with her hand. “Yes, you were.” She shoots Nash a look that makes him huff in defeat.
Ah, the power of woman.
My burger is fan
-fucking-tastic and I enjoy every single bite without breathing a word. I give hand signals whenever I’m spoken to. Thumbs up to the waitress when she asks if we’re enjoying our meals. And two middle fingers when Nash keeps calling me a dick every time the waitress comes to check on us, which is a lot, by the way. But I don’t let it ruin my brunch. I enjoy the food I’m eating and the company that I keep. The teasing, it’s all out of love, which is something I need right about now. To be surrounded by the people I care about and who care about me.
It’s not until we’re on the bus, back on the road, that the silence turns to an isolated loneliness. Everyone on this bus has someone or something. Hamlin is giving Rico a hard time about his driving and Nash and Luna are camped out in his bunk doing lord knows what. And I’m back in my room, laying on the bed listening to “In My Blood” on repeat. It’s not healthy. But I can’t stop.
By the twelfth replay, Shawn Mendes’ words finally sink in. I’m in desperate need of someone. I need help. Being alone only agitates my addiction. It intensifies the cravings, and I can’t succumb. I won’t. So, I grab my guitar and exit my room in search of Hamlin and Nash.
My boys are always there when I need them. Without questions, without judgment. When they see my face, the lack of enthusiasm for life, and my guitar in hand, they follow me to the table and we sit down in a half circle with Luna watching from the loveseat. Like with everything else, they let me spill my guts onto paper and into our music, knowing it’s the best therapy.
The heartache pours out of me. The release is cathartic. The song, epic. There’s no better way to heal than to put it into words, and these words will either be a nail in my coffin or will bring Piper back to me.
Twenty six
Piper
Sleep is an asshole, but I guess I can’t expect to rest when my brain won’t stop thinking about whether or not to put on the dress. After our reading session and some light dinner, spending the night with Fletcher in the hammock under the stars was the best way to end this trip. The bottled up resentment towards him has successfully been extinguished. It’s only taken a year and a half, but we’re finally on the same page. Still friends and still in love. Is it the same kind of love? I haven’t figured that out yet.
That is the nagging question, the one that kept me awake all night long. And now I sit here, staring at a wedding dress I did not pick out, wondering if I’m going to slip it on and meet Fletcher on the beach. My heart flutters a pitter-patter beat while my stomach twists into knots. With one phone call, a decision can be made. I shouldn’t put the weight on Oliver, but if I’ve gone and mucked everything up with him, then I know it’s a sign to follow the path of the sand to Fletcher.
When we came back to the bungalow this morning, I waited for Fletcher to go shower before I grabbed my phone. It’s been cradled in my palm for the last fifteen minutes. I’ve powered it up, saw how many messages and texts are waiting for a response, and have yet to bring myself to read or listen to any of them. I scroll through the text messages, reading my parents’ first then Luna’s. Hers start off snarky and full of attitude like I was intentionally trying to be a bitch and ditch them all, but by the last text, she is genuinely concerned, begging me to call her. To call someone. Her voice messages play out the same way.
“You are so rude, Piper. I can’t believe you, the way you left like that. To run to that fucker who treated you like shit. I never thought you could be so heartless.”
“You could have the decency to call and let one of us know you’re all right. God, you’re so inconsiderate.”
“Wow, you really are a bitch. You know what? You don’t deserve Oliver.”
“Piper? I’m really starting to worry. Are you okay? All right, well, call me.”
“Look, I’m sorry I said all those mean things. Where are you? Please call me.”
“I’m calling the cops, Piper. If that asshole hurt you… Fuck, Piper. Please, just call me. I need to know you’re all right.”
My eyes are watering. Luna’s last message sounded like she was crying. Through blurred vision, I scroll through Oliver’s texts, skimming them until I can no longer see through the tears. I give up and start listening to his voicemails.
I’m on the floor crying when one message is of him singing me “Little Bird.” I can’t bear to listen to it, being forced to remember him singing it to only me at his concert. The next message he’s singing “Just a Man.” By the third song, “In My Blood,” his voice is shaky and cracking when he hits the chorus. He’s pleading for someone to help him. I want to help him. But I can’t. I’m the reason he’s in pain. And I can’t get to him. I can’t comfort him.
Every message is a ramble. It’s painful to listen to, until Oliver begins talking about the carnival. His memories bring a small smile to my face. The tulips he brought me came from my mother’s garden. I don’t think she ever forgave him for pulling her spring flowers. His brother’s Buick had a hole through the floorboard. A piece of cardboard under the mat was the only thing between my feet and the asphalt passing by at eighty. The only safe place to put my feet was the lip of the door. I remember the sunset. I had never seen the clouds so puffy and the sky so pink. It was as if Rainbow Brite rode a unicorn through the sky. It was magnificent. And I did throw a little bit of a fit about going on the Ferris wheel. I’m not a fan of heights, like, terrified of them. He somehow convinced me, and I’m so glad he did. I still hate the Ferris wheel, but Oliver made me feel safe, like I could do anything with him by my side.
My heart crumbles into tiny pieces as his messages continue. Had I known of the kind of monster his dad was, I could have helped him. How did I never see a single sign of abuse? Why did he keep that from me? Had he told me, we could have talked through it. I would have assured him he is nothing like his father. Nothing at all. Oliver has always had a big heart. Pranks or not, Oliver is a good egg. He was the first one to stand up to anyone picking on me. The one to help me up when I fell. He always made sure I was safe. He’s devoted, committed and cares about me and other human beings. He is nothing like his father. He has to know that.
It’s true, he promised me the world. And I wanted it, with him. I still do. If I close my eyes, it is Oliver standing on the beach waiting for me. It is Oliver I marry and have a family with.
The phone slips from my fingers and I cover my face with my hands, sobbing as it hits me all at once. I need to get home. I need to get to Oliver.
But from the floor, I can hear his voice growing through the phone. His soft spoken words evolve into incoherent slurs. One message is angry, the next begging. I pick up the phone and hear him say he blames me for spilling his beer. Says he’s miserable. I put it up to my ear in time to hear him say, “Hey, dream killer, Game of Thrones called, they need another dwarf to play wench to Tyrion Lannister. Hope you don’t mind, but I gave them your number. You’re the perfect midget to play one of his whores.”
Instantly, my tears dry and I hang up the phone, tossing it to the bed. Every inch of my skin is numb. Words are sharp as knives, and Oliver’s make it clear his memories are just that…memories. As quick as it came, the need to get to him disappears and I find myself in a daze, walking towards the closet.
I feel nothing but the fabric of the lace as I carefully slip it over my head. Fletcher has always known what I like; this dress proves that. I may not have picked it out, but I might as well have.
Thin spaghetti straps connect to a rose pink ribbon, crossing over my back that wraps around my waist. The backless vintage lace is a delicate beige and plummets between my breasts and flows at the bottom. It’s elegant and rustic with pearl accents. The hem hits the tops of my feet, making it the perfect length for being on the beach.
My hair is wild from all the tossing and turning. I tame it with only a brush and loosely tie it back into a ponytail near the nape of my neck. Makeup is pointless in this heat, so I moisturize my face and line my lips with the soft pink lipstick I found at the bottom of my bag. Rubbing my ring finger
with the lipstick, I dab the color onto my cheeks. And I don’t bother with shoes; barefoot is the only way to get married by the ocean.
Sitting on the bed, I take a moment for myself and breathe. The fish are happily swimming beneath my feet. I watch them for the longest time, just me and the fish, thinking about nothing. Thinking about everything. At some point, it becomes overthinking, and when I overthink, the anxiety starts to creep in. I push it aside, ignoring the tightness in my chest. And when I find a bundle of plumerias on the counter, bright white with pale yellow centers, all the nervous energy around me fades.
I see Fletcher before he sees me. He looks sexy as hell in a crisp white button-up shirt, beige slacks, and navy blue suspenders. His hands are safe in his pockets and he’s turned toward the water. Fletcher tweaks his arm and glances at his watch before tilting his head back to sun his face. I give him the moment of reverie and pluck a single plumeria from the bundle in my hands, weaving it through my hair to the side of my ponytail.
Fletcher shifts and his head turns, as if he can feel me watching him. His eyes find mine. We gaze at each other until his lips part into a beautiful smile. My cheeks rise and I begin my walk to him using the ocean as my music.
There was once a time Fletcher and I talked about a big, lavish wedding with a six-tiered cake and hundreds of guests. We’d serve them filet mignons and the finest champagne. We would skimp on nothing, elaborating every fine detail so that our day was perfection. It seems ridiculous now. This, this right here, is perfection. I have everything I need right in front of me. A man I love, the water, sand beneath my feet…it’s heaven.
“Worried I wasn’t coming?” I ask, standing in front of Fletcher.
His smile is confident, but his eyes are relieved. “Maybe a little.” He takes one of my hands and holds it between his palms. “You’re absolutely stunning, Piper.”
Carnival Page 14
