Changing Fate (Endgame #5)

by Leigh Ann Lunsford

  “Chill. You aren’t their dictator. Maybe it was an accident.” He defends.

  I laugh. “You don’t know Emberlee. Nothing that girl does is an accident— except getting pregnant. If you knew her love affair with coffee you’d understand. I wonder what the fuck they’re playing at.”

  “Call.” He shrugs.

  “It isn’t time.” He rolls his eyes and it makes me miss Emberlee. And Breck. “I’ll call Breck.” She isn’t in the same city and I don’t have a schedule with her like I do with them. Creating a distance from him is my defense mechanism but with Breck it’s different.

  “Good idea.” He makes it sound simple.

  “I was wondering something.” I bite my lip. “How would you feel having a roommate for a few months?” I don’t want to go home. I have nothing here to do but I have nothing at home.

  “Avery. You can’t run.” Damn him. “Besides, Eva has a modeling contract and has to be in New York in three weeks. I’m giving up the apartment and going with her. We got our visas today.” I shouldn’t be disappointed. He has no allegiance to me . . .

  “Okay.” I blink back the tears. Going home fills me with consternation.

  “But I’m gonna come see you in Kansas. Figured you could show me your town. Leaving here doesn’t end our friendship.”

  “Okay.” It’s the single word I can manage.

  “Is that what you thought?” He takes my hand.

  “I guess. When you didn’t mention going to the States, I figured our time expired. Outta sight outta mind.” I can’t stop the flow this time. That phrase— why the hell did I use it.

  “Aves.” He holds me in his arms and lets me sob. Purge the emotions of the last few days. The drawing. The prep. Seeing the photo of Caden. It’s all too much and escaping through my tears. “He didn’t forget you because you aren’t important. He didn’t forget you because he didn’t love you. He forgot because he was hit with a bat.”

  “I know. But it still makes me feel forgettable. Insignificant. I thought our love was transcendent. One for the history books. I didn’t think we were forgettable.” I admit and it makes me feel a bit better.

  “You don’t know this is permanent.” He reminds me.

  “But it feels that way.” I shrug. “I’m gonna call Breck.”

  “I’ll give you privacy.” He stands.

  “And your cigarettes.” I wink.

  “Tomorrow you start that gum.” I roll my eyes and ignore him.

  Grabbing my cell I hit Breck’s contact and wait for her to answer. “Hey!” She sounds so happy. “I was fixin’ to call you.”

  I chuckle. “Great minds. How are things in New York?”

  “Good. Crazy. I have some news. But I need to know when you get home.”

  “Twenty days. June 21st. That’s what I was calling to discuss. I think I’m just gonna come there.” I bite my lip hoping I’m not overstepping.

  “To New York?” She’s shocked.

  “Yeah. Lukas and Eva are heading there— and I don’t wanna go home.” Admitting that makes me feel sick. I’d never thought I’d be running from him.

  “Shit.” She breathes.

  “I don’t have to stay with y’all. I don’t even have to hang with y’all. I’ll give you space.” I’m desperate and grasping at straws.

  “No. Stop. That isn’t it. Mason isn’t gonna get a break but something in his contract gave him the first week of July off— rehab the first year or some shit for his shoulder. We’re getting married. . . and I wanted my bachelorette party when you get home.” Holy fuck. I can’t let my issues interfere with her happiness.

  “I’ll be there. I know Saylor and Lee Lee can’t travel without sitters and stuff. What did you have in mind?” My stomach fills with dread. “Separate parties?” I hate this.

  “Yeah.” She whispers. “Honey, I wish I could fix this. But after, if you’re serious about moving here we have room. This fucking apartment is obnoxious.” She giggles.

  “So is your fiancé.” I joke.

  “Touché. So, the 21st is a Wednesday. I’ll fly in the 22nd and we’ll stay in that night . . . bake and shit.” She’s jotting shit in her calendar— organized to a tee.

  “Bake? Are we Suzy Homemaker?” Where the fuck is this coming from?

  “Nah. But I figure since the rest of the weekend will be alcohol, bad choices, and vomiting, I can carb load with sweets.” She’s thinking ahead.

  “Brilliant. Have you cleared it with the other girls?”

  “Yeah. The kids will hang with us Thursday night— I need my fix.” I’m in agreement.

  “Me, too. I need to ask you— do you know why in the fuck your brother’s baby momma would send me a picture of him holding Darby?” I release those words with a strangled sob.

  “You mean your friend?”

  “That’s debatable. I asked one fucking thing, Breck.” I don’t bother to hide my frustration.

  “I know. It wasn’t with maliciousness. I got the same picture so she probably used the wrong group text. Breathe.” She soothes me and I know it wasn’t manipulative on Lee Lee’s part.

  “Is it wrong I was jealous— hell, still am— of Darby? To the point I had to remind myself she’s two and I was ready to throw down.” I’m not even exaggerating.

  Her laugh echoes and she can’t answer for a minute. “That’s classic, Aves. I miss your crazy ass.”

  “Remember that when I’m a free loader in your obnoxious apartment.” I half-kid.

  “As long as you don’t masturbate to me and Mason getting freaky, it’s all good.” Holy fuck. No boundaries.

  “On that note, I’m gonna go empty my stomach.”

  “Okay. Love you. See you in three weeks. Oh, and quit smoking.” She ends the call before I can reply.

  Trifling ho— that’s fucking one guy.

  I’ve ignored Lukas for days. I’ve ignored food— and cigarettes for days. The sole thing I’m doing is painting. I can’t stop. Even when it’s dark.

  When dusk hit the second day, lights appeared that lit up the wall I was creating. I think I stop somewhere near exhaustion, someone— I’m sure Lukas— I hope— takes me back to my bed. I collapse for a few hours and start over again.

  It’s like a Pandora’s box. Once I stopped running from my fear, I can’t stop portraying it in colors.

  Dark browns, bright yellows, muted oranges, dull whites . . . and red. The color of blood that’s pouring from me. Deciding I’d do one tree and make the orange blossoms explode from each branch, filter down and litter the bottom edges has driven me. I can’t stop. It feels like when I stop painting, I stop feeling and this hurt— this rage— fuels me. I don’t need food, sleep, or nicotine. I just need him and in this mural I’m creating us, reclaiming the wonderful love we shared, but as the blossoms fall from the tree, I’m ending us just as that bat did.

  “Jesus.” Pasta whispers, awe in his voice and I climb from the ladder where I’d just ‘tagged’ my work and join him in the street to admire the entire piece.

  Looking at my life fully displayed, I sink to my ass and stare. The top begins with bright white petals, perfect in symmetry, thick in width— as Caden and I were. They’re blooming wide and full in perfect clusters. The tree is thick, dark in browns— strong branches support the perfect blooms. As the branches lower to the base of the tree, they begin to thin, become brittle and the colors dull to an ochre. These flowers’ sepals form the cup at the base of the blossom and drip the palest of blue— tears flowing from its holder.

  Mid-way, one of the branches forms a bat shape and above it ‘Love’ is in script with the brightest mixture of red I could create— a replica of his closet wall. I made it dimensional so your eye is drawn to that and follows the drips of red I allowed to flow to the bottom of the tree trunk. ‘Forgets’ is formed in some of the discarded petals, floating and taking the hue of being dirty— as if they’ve been plucked from its stem and become dingy, no longer shining and healthy.

  Spla
shes of mandarin orange highlight the top portion, making it pop and feel alive— full of my best work. As the mural dips, the colors mute. “I can smell the fragrance.” Pasta bends at the waist. “I can feel the love.”

  Orange Blossoms in Czech— my love is true. And it is. It’s overflowing. It’s ceased to flourish. It’s stagnant. It’s dying to live.

  “Yeah. I could, too . . . at one time.” I confirm his unanswered question. Three weeks I painted— each stroke, each dip of paint, each brush was a plea.

  For him to remember.

  For him to still love me.

  For him to appear.

  None of those happened . . . and I have to concede. The end. The last stroke was completed as I finished signing my name— that was the deadline I gave myself. The target I gave him. The limit I gave our relationship.

  “Our flight leaves in a few hours.” Lukas holds his hand out to help me up.

  “Yeah.” We’ll part ways in Charlotte, North Carolina . . . he and Eva will continue to New York and I’ll go home. Without a purpose. Without a reason. Without a relationship.

  Ten weeks. Seventy days. Those time frames seem insignificant when you calculate how much time we put into it. A lifetime. And in the span of minutes, it was ruined.

  “Avery, anytime you want to come back you have a spot with my team.” Pasta still hasn’t taken his eyes from the building.

  I can’t resist. “Told you I was good.”

  “Understatement. And I told you that you weren’t blocked. Seems we were both correct.”

  “Even in regards to you being a dickless wonder?” I smile.

  “I think my offer will be negotiated with the clause you have to wear a muzzle.” He quips.

  “Kinky. It’s always the assholes.” I shake my head and let Lukas help me up. Standing in front of Pasta, I extend my hand. “Thank you. For everything. If you hadn’t pushed me I think I’d still have hope. And hope is for suckers.”

  “You may have lost hope but you still have love.” He sweeps his hand in the direction of my work. “And as long as you don’t lose love, you don’t lose what’s important. So, I believe hope is still in there— somewhere. And I’m serious. Anytime you want, you have a place.” He returns to staring. “And be prepared to have this piece highlighted on every blog, in every magazine . . . all the exposure I can get, I’ll feature it.”

  I feel sick. “Why?”

  “This is art. This is what many search for . . . and never create. I’m unmoved by most because the work is trite. There isn’t meaning in it. Someone finds a pretty picture, or an idea comes to their mind and they paint it. That’s all they do— paint. You created. You have a story here— highs, lows, and everything in the middle. It’s unforgiving. It’s beautiful. It’s your story and you weren’t afraid to share it. This, what you bled all over this building is convoluted and precise. It’s perfection. The ugly truth of life begins with love. Unrequited. Everlasting. Joyful. Painful. It’s all here— in your work.” His praise shocks me. His words true— this is my truth. The unpleasant and the splendor.

  “Thank you.” I whisper and I’m not sure if it’s audible.

  “You’re welcome. Go catch your flight and don’t hesitate to reach out if you need anything.” I turn to leave but he stops me. “And don’t recreate this on a canvas. Don’t cheapen it for mass production. Instead, paint the next stage in your story. But do it for you. For him— whoever he is. Keep building on the foundation that created this and you’ll have something untouchable. Something many seek and never find.”

  I pause and spill the truth. “That word at the bottom. It’s the only truth that matters. Love did forget in this case. So, I don’t have anything to build off of because he doesn’t remember me.”

  He flinches with my reality, as if I physically struck him. “No.” It’s the word I’ve uttered many times.

  “Yes.” He reaches for me but I turn and walk away from him. From my truth. From my creation. Because looking at it hurts. Seeing the beginning when Caden and I forged a bond, a love that was strong, full of new growth and experiences and seeing it dwindle to remnants was too much.

  Disembarking the plane takes all my strength. Putting one foot in front of the other is the hardest thing to do. I’m leaving my escape and entering into my hell. My parents are waiting at the end of security and seeing them lessens my burden. “Hey beautiful.” My dad envelops me in his arms and I huddle closer, absorbing his strength. My mom’s hands go to my hair and she strokes to relax me.

  “Missed you.” I tell them. I dread telling them I’m thinking of moving to New York or considering Pasta’s offer. One way or another— I won’t be staying here for long.

  “Let’s go get your bags.” My dad half supports me as we trudge through the airport. Most of my stuff was being sent back through the internship, so we only have to wait for two suitcases.

  My dad stacks and carries my luggage and walking outside to the humid air is like a slap in the face. I’m so tired and jet lagged I think I’ll sleep until Breck arrives tomorrow. I pause and grab my cigarettes and lighter— that I purchased in Charlotte because Lukas is an ass and wouldn’t support my habit— putting the stick in my mouth, I inhale the succulent nicotine my body has been craving for hours.

  “What the fuck?” My dad snarls and snatches the lit cigarette from my mouth and tosses it down with a disgusted look. “No ma’am.” He grabs my hand like I’m a toddler and can’t be trusted around moving vehicles. His stride is long, his steps loud from his stomping. With this tantrum he’s throwing, I’m questioning who is the toddler . . .

  My mom is biting her lips trying hard to hide her amusement. I don’t have that problem— because I am not amused. “What is your problem?” I dig my feet into the cement and he’s forced to stop.

  “You don’t smoke.” He informs me.

  “But, I do. And I will.” I correct his assumptions. Or whatever.

  “You don’t. I don’t want to hear otherwise.” He tugs me and I refuse to budge.

  “Okay. You don’t have to hear anything. Smoking is rather silent. You may hear the occasional inhale or exhale but it isn’t loud. You’ll see it. Probably smell it. But don’t worry, I don’t smoke inside.” My rational, non-sarcastic explanation forces my mom’s hand. Or laughter.

  “Don’t be a smart ass. Prague turned you into a brat.” My mouth drops. Insanity is a disease in this town. Every fucking person I encounter has been afflicted with this illness.

  “Prague didn’t do that, Brian. You did.” My mom winks at me and continues in front of us. I wrench my hand from my dad and follow her. I hear him grumbling, asking what he did to deserve this and how I should respect him. I roll my eyes— please, I love this man with all I have but he’s my father, not my keeper and I’m an adult. Just to prove that point, I light another cigarette and play chase with him as I dart in between cars in the parking garage so he can’t discard another one of my precious calming sticks.

  He’s trying hard. Discarding my suitcases he chases. Pursues. But I’m a tad quicker and I have motivation. Nicotine. Although, it isn’t very relaxing as I’m jogging uphill and searching for hiding spots as I’m taking a drag. “Avery Michaels.” His voice booms and travels through the cemented structure.

  “Here.” I call. “I can’t raise my hand but don’t mark me absent.” I finish my cigarette and emerge from the two large SUV’s where I was hiding.

  “You’re grounded.” He fumes as he stalks over and takes my hand, leading me to the car.

  “Okay.” I nod. Great— can’t leave the house, no dealing with the party this weekend.

  “And I’m cancelling your credit cards. How are you gonna buy those fucking things now?” He is too smug.

  “I know where the mad money stash is. You don’t. Mom hides it. And you’re drawing attention and being an ass so she isn’t gonna share that information with you.” I look to my mom to see her wink. We’ve always played off one another besting him. Today is no d
ifferent.

  “I should have spanked you more as a child.” He glares.

  “Or once would’ve been nice. You delegated that part of child rearing to me. That’s why she likes me more.” I giggle at my mom.

  “Abigail— not helping.” He shoots her a look and drags me to the car.

  “You forgot her suitcases genius.” He shuts the back door— after buckling me in— and stomps to retrieve my luggage. The entire time my mom and I in a fit of giggles. “Avery Michaels, I want you stop smoking.” She sobers me in the blink of an eye.

  “Yes ma’am.” I comply with her request— demand. But, I need this weekend. “Give me three days.” I see the understanding in her eyes.

  “Done.” She complies. My dad enters the car and she turns to him. “Dear, I told Avery to stop smoking and she gave me a deadline of three days. I find that acceptable. See what happens when you’re reasonable.” I bite my lip as my dad’s face turns a nice shade of purple.

  “You just told her?” He questions.

  “Yes. Isn’t that right, Avery.” She glances back to me.

  “Yes. She said ‘Avery Michaels, I want you to quit smoking.’ I asked for three days and she relented.” I gloat.

  “It was that easy?” He’s suspicious.

  “Yes, honey. If you don’t act like an overinflated baboon’s ass it’s rather easy to deal with people.” She pats his cheek and turns to me. “Tell us all about your trip.” It takes me a few minutes to get myself under control but on the ride home I tell them everything.

  Chapter Eight

  Her flight landed a few minutes ago. I’m waiting for her mom to call and let me know she’s safe. I can’t say she’s home because her home is in Tennessee— with me. I’ve spent the last week here getting the house ready and the final touches done. Her stuff from Prague will arrive tomorrow and I’ll set that up for her and all that will be needed to be shipped is what she wants from the house in Kansas and her clothes. It was a must that I drive so we’ll have a car here at first but my mom was beside herself. An eleven hour trip took two fucking days between having to stop and sleep in a hotel and answering all her calls. I should have relented and allowed her to come with me.