by Jean Haus
Paige
I let out a breath and turn around.
Bret stares at me. “Everything still okay?”
“Ah…yeah. Just give me a few more minutes.”
In the marble bathroom, I wash my face, wipe on some moisturizer—the heavy makeup really does dry out a person’s skin—brush on some mascara, and throw my hair in a ponytail. The jeans and plain fitted top I wore this morning will be fine. I just need to grab a hoodie because of the night chill here. I was surprised at first how most actors dress like bums on location. It probably has something to do with the two hours of makeup and dressing each morning. I know it does for me.
The thought reminds me of the comment I made to Zach while he was in a coma about eating cheeseburgers and ice cream and looking like a bum. I clench the counter as tears well back up. Everything’s okay. He won’t leave you for her. Staring at my reflection, I keep the chant in my head and will the tears away.
When I walk back into the room, Bret stands. “You know, you look just as good without makeup.” He laughs when my cheeks warm. “Hate to say it, but that’s not true for all the actresses I work with. Sometimes it’s shocking what they look like without some help.”
“Come on,” I say, rushing past him and the couch. “Since we’re early, I can do a little window shopping.” Ugh. I so do not like compliments, especially ones that put down other people.
Well, I do like compliments from one person who is seriously on my shitlist right now. And though I planned on looking for something for him and Emily, Emily’s the only one I’m going to be shopping for tonight.
~10~
Zach
When Paige didn’t call around one—she always calls on the dot—I checked my email and was stunned. For almost three weeks neither of us missed a scheduled call. So now I can’t help wondering if she’s playing games with me. She admitted she was distressed about the Amanda thing. Would she purposely make plans as an excuse not to call? I’d never expect such a thing from Paige. Now I’m not sure.
“Bro,” Drake says, peeking his head through the door. A Santa hat jiggles on his head.
Like I need to hear his shit right now. “Will you learn how to fucking knock? Do I have to start locking the door?”
“Dude, your dad is here.”
Startled at his words, I slowly move the computer to my dresser. My father has never come to my apartment. “Be right out,” I say slower than I moved the computer.
Holding a cardboard box, my dad waits in the middle of the apartment. Tall with gray streaked brown hair my dad looks like an older version of me. The scent of Italian spices waft around him. “Your mom sent over dinner.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Spaghetti and meatballs,” he says, setting the box on the counter between the living room and kitchen.
“Awesome,” Drake says, racing to the box. “A homemade meal.” He juggles a pan in his hand. “Whoa this stuff is still hot. Your mom really is the shizit.”
I move toward the kitchen and pass my dad who just stands there. “She’s got book club tonight right?”
He nods.
My mom is the sh—best. But I can see her set up from a mile away. Since I don’t want to disappoint her, I give in to her manipulations. “Have you eaten yet?”
My dad shakes his head.
I reach in the cupboard. Luckily, there are at least three clean dishes. “Then let me grab you a plate too.”
He doesn’t say yes, but he doesn’t decline.
Drake already has everything laid out on the counter. Yeah, spaghetti, meatballs, salad, and garlic bread beat more Taco Bell by miles. Drake plops down a two-liter and three plastic cups before rubbing his hands together. We fill our plates then sit on the couch. We haven’t got around to getting a table. Drake keeps trying to talk me into a foosball table instead.
I sit in the middle and even though Drake turned on Sports Center on the flat screen, I feel the need to fill the silence. “What’s with the Christmas hat?” I ask my idiot roommate dressed in nothing but shorts and the red hat.
He sucks in noodles. “Christmas in July.”
“It’s June.”
He shrugs. “Close enough.” He stuffs in an entire meatball. “Man, your mom can cook.” The words come out a garbled mess, but I’m used to deciphering him through a mouth full of food.
I glance at my dad still in his tie and dress shirt from work. “How’s the job going?”
“Same as always but good.” He cuts his noodles with his fork. “How’s your new job?”
Salad catches in my throat. My dad hasn’t shown any interest in my life since I told him I wasn’t taking a football scholarship. I wash the lettuce down with grape pop. “I like it. Running people through a workout is easy. I just have to be patient and chat with them a bit. I wouldn’t want to do it forever.” I shrug. “But it pays the bills.”
My dad nods but his composed expression doesn’t show his thoughts, which has me fearing he’s thinking I could be conditioning for a new season of college football. My dad has always dreamed of me going to college and then pro. And I fear his dream will always be a wedge between us.
“Holy shit,” Drake says past another mouthful of food. “You guys gotta watch the replay on that basket. He was almost at the half court line.”
The three of us continuing eating, watching Sports Center, and talking sports until a knock sounds on the door. Drake’s up in seconds. Two of his buddies come in towing a case of beer.
My dad gives me a look.
I shrug. “He likes to party.”
My dad gives me another look.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t party in college.”
“Well yeah, but I lived on campus…”
My face flushes with anger at the idea it would be okay to party if I lived on a college campus. Why does everything always go back to the fact I didn’t want a football scholarship with him? Never mind after the whole coma and head injury thing no one would probably take me anyway. He just can’t let it go.
He clears his throat. “What I mean is it’s kind of expected there. I just don’t want you getting in trouble. I don’t want your neighbors calling the cops or something.”
My anger deflates a tad. “I usually keep Drake from getting too wild.”
“Yeah, you’re probably a lot more mature than I was at eighteen.” He grins. “Unfortunately, I was probably more like your roommate.”
Thinking of my dad like Drake, I grin back. “Mom settle you down?”
He nods. “Eventually. Speaking of your mother, she wants you to come over for dinner on Sunday.”
“I have to work at three.”
He stands. “Then I’ll tell her one?”
I stand and grab his empty plate. “Sure.”
He glances at Drake and his friends, swigging beer in the kitchen. “Looks like the festivities are under way so I should get going.”
I smirk. “Sure you don’t want a beer?”
“Ah no. I have my own at home.” He moves to the door. “See you Sunday,” he says before stepping out.
I stare at the door. That was the most comfortable my father and I have been in a long, long time. Before my accident and coma we couldn’t stand to be around each other. After he just looked relived and somewhat guilty. Today gives me hope we can get back to a normal father and son existence. Even though my dad’s visit puts me in a better mood, Paige’s email and missed call still weigh heavily on my mind.
“Bro, lighten up. Your dad’s gone.” Drake tosses a beer at me as I walk into the kitchen. I catch the can with one hand while holding the plates in the other. He laughs. “No wonder you were a receiver. Great hands.”
I go to the sink and rinse dishes. “No wonder you stood on the sidelines. You were too busy worrying about the stickers on your helmet.”
His friends’ laughter doesn’t faze him. “That reminds me I need to hang the mistletoe.”
Ah, I knew there was a reason behind the Santa hat. At
least there is a motive behind his hat madness for once. I open my beer and talk to Drake’s friends—I suppose they’re mine too now—while he hangs the mistletoe. More people arrive with beer and booze. Some people congregate in the kitchen. Others play video games. I open another beer just as someone turns up the music.
I’m having an okay time conversing and watching Drake try to get a kiss from any female who walks in under his hanging plastic plant—most give him a peck on the cheek then skirt around his mostly naked form—until Amanda shows up.
Shit. My beer can crunches in my hand. How did I not see this coming? I should have known Drake would invite her. Paige is really not going to like this. But I can’t leave. I’m not driving after downing three beers in a little more than an hour. I consider going for a long, long walk. A five to six hour walk does not sound appealing. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch her give Drake a peck on the cheek. Then her eyes scan the room until she finds me. I take a sip of beer and nod to whatever the guy on my left is saying. Could Paige have been right? When I look up, Drake’s handing Amanda a beer. They lean against the couch talking.
Probably not, Paige’s worries are just making me paranoid.
I’m nursing my fourth and last beer—I have school at seven in the morning—when Amanda saunters into the kitchen. She smiles at me and says hi. Luckily, the interest the other guys have in her scantily dressed form—her tight dress rides high on her legs and low across her chest—have them introducing themselves.
Continually running her hands through her dark hair, she talks to them while her constant glances at me make me nervous. There’s something there in her demeanor, perhaps the slow, deliberate way she moves, that reminds me of a snake. I’m going to have to ask permission from Paige and have a talk with Drake. Just being in the same vicinity as Amanda has me feeling guilty. So much so, I set my half-full beer down on the counter, go turn down the music, and head to my room.
In my small sanctuary, I turn on the fan in the corner to help cut the noise, grab The Great Gatsby, and fall onto my bed. After a few pages, I’m reaching for my laptop. Paige hasn’t sent another message. Great. I go back to her earlier message and get the feeling again she purposely avoided me, which pisses me off. Maybe more so after a few beers. My fingers type with irritation dripping from their tips.
Paige,
If you’re pissed, fine. Just be honest and tell me that’s your justification for not calling. Tell me you need some time to cool off. Don’t play mind games with me and leave me hanging. I know you asked me to be patient with you, but I would never expect that kind of bullshit from you.
Ever.
So tell me I’m wrong. Call me a dick for even thinking that.
Now that I have that out of my system…
I have some good news. I think. My father came over tonight. My mother sent dinner with him. Her way of forcing us together, which as you know usually doesn’t work. Yet tonight we got along for the most part. It even felt like he might be getting over the whole football thing. And maybe will come to respect my decision one day.
Or maybe that’s just me hoping.
Anyway, Drake had a party tonight. Well, they’re still partying. I’m in my room. I didn’t know until she walked through the door, but he invited Amanda. Paige you have to let me explain at least a little about your past so I can tell him not to invite her over anymore. She only said hi to me, but damn I felt guilty being in the same room with her. So yeah, please give me the go on sharing with Drake.
Suddenly my door opens. “Oh, here you are.”
My eyeballs feel like they’re going to pop out of my head. When the hell am I going to learn to lock the door? “Ah, hey Amanda, sorry but I have homework to catch up on.” I don’t want to get into it with this girl. Stirring up the past wouldn’t be good for Paige. I gesture at the computer in my lap and try to keep my voice level. “Big paper due tomorrow.”
Ignoring me, she stumbles into the room then collapses on my bed. She’s inches from my tennis shoes. I scoot up and away from her. She smiles at me. “I just wanted to talk with you some more about you know…becoming a—a trainer. Yeah, that’s it.” She turns and lays sideways across the end my bed. “Can’t we talk for just a little bit?”
I shake my head and keep my expression relaxed. “I need an A on this assignment.”
“Hmm…I just wanted to tell you what a great trainer you are.” She flips her hair back slowly as her dark eyes watch me. “I can see why you’re always booked solid.” She reaches out, slides her hand up my calf, and her tits practically pop out her dress.
I jump off the bed and away from her touch as horror erupts in me at the sight of her breasts on my comforter. There is only one girl I want on my bed. I rarely bring her in here because I’m afraid things will move too fast so alone. With the vision of Amanda where someone else should be, staying controlled is becoming challenging. “Sorry, I’m busy.”
Amanda rolls onto her stomach and gazes at me. Her dark lashes flutter. “Or we don’t have to talk. I know you liked touching me the other day. You can touch me again. I liked it too.”
My fingers squeeze the computer. “Get off my bed and get out of my room.” I set the laptop on the dresser before my grip crushes it. I am such an idiot. Paige was right all along.
Her long nails brush the tops of her breasts. “We can have a little fun together. No one needs to know.”
My head feels like it’s about to explode. She’s going to tell everyone. Probably fucking post it on Facebook she was in my room. With me alone. I march to the door. “Get out,” I say from behind clenched teeth. Paige will believe me—I have to believe that—but she shouldn’t have to deal with the rumors this bitch is going to spread and relive her past because of my stupidity.
She rolls over, leans back on her elbows, and raises a leg provocatively. “Are you telling me no?”
I want the sight of her on my bed gone. Now. “Get. The. Fuck. Out.”
She snaps up and says, “Fine.” Then proceeds to mess up her long hair into a nest then pinch the side of her neck.
My eyebrows about reach my hairline. This girl is not a bitch. She’s the spawn of Satan. The depths she’ll go to get back at Paige are boundless.
She glances at the dresser covered with pictures of Paige, sneers at me, and pinches the plump skin of a tit above the low cut fabric.
At the sight of her making a fake hickey, I lose it.
She wants a scene. I’ll make a scene. My hand wraps around her upper arm. Ignoring her ow noises, I drag her through the apartment, open the door, and toss her outside. After snapping the lock, I turn around to a sea of faces staring at me. All conversation has stopped. “If anyone lets that crazy, desperate ass slut in this house, I will lose it way worse than this.”
The spawn pounds on the door behind me.
Drake closes his open mouth. “What’d she do?”
I push away from the vibrating door. “Came on to me.”
“And that’s bad?” some guy asks as I pass him.
“Dude,” Drake says. “He’s in love with Paige.”
“Oh yeah, Paige is hot. Those legs are smoking h—” I whip around. He swallows. “I mean pretty. She’s a very pretty…”
Drake laughs. “Yeah Jimmy, shutting your mouth might be a wise choice at the moment.”
I turn my back on the continued stares and go to my room. This time I lock the door. At the edge of the bed, I sit with my head in my hands. This is bad. Real bad. Paige is going to flip. I lift my head and my half-written message stares at me.
A desolate laugh escapes me.
I asked her to be honest with me. I’ve always been honest with her. I reach for the laptop. It’s going to kill me, but I’m not going to stop now.
~11~
Paige
Time has stopped. My hands clench tightly in my lap. I stare at the swarm of words in Zach’s email as my world feels like it’s falling apart. I imagine her in his room, on his bed, and I want to vomi
t. Although he says he threw her out, the images won’t get out of my head. Old doubts knot in my chest. Did he really tell me everything? Did something else happen in his room? Is there more than the ugly words of his message?
His admission of idiocy doesn’t soothe me. His confirmation I was right all along doesn’t help. I feel like I’m at the end of my thread. Dangling below what my life is and slowly falling into what it used to be. Life has gone from almost perfect to suck in the span of an email message.
My hands unclench and time moves again.
Standing then pacing, I take deep breaths. I try to block the image of them together in his room with memories. Zach surprising me with a picnic for my birthday. Horseback riding at my cousin’s ranch one sunny Sunday afternoon. Him carrying Emily after a long day at the beach. The feel of his arms around me. The pressure of his hand in mine. The sensual weight of his lips. His patience with me. His honesty. His ever-present integrity. The timbre of his voice when he tells me he loves me.
Even after all of those memories, the ugly image of Amanda on his bed stays locked in my head.
I let out a sob and fall to the small couch in the middle of the room. Why couldn’t she leave me alone? Is her life meaningless to her without being able to grind me into the dirt? Does she run on bitch fuel?
Someone knocks on my door.
I ignore it.
They knock harder.
I ignore it.
“Paige?” Bret says loud enough for me to hear.
At the sound of his voice, a friend’s voice, I stumble to the door.
His brows rise at the sight of my tear stained face. “What happened?”
Another sob escapes me. “My boyfriend…”
“Oh Paige,” he says in a soft voice then steps into the room and pulls me into his arms. “Did you break up?” he asks while I continue to sob. I shake my head against his shoulder. He smells heavily of cologne. I don’t care. It just feels good not to be alone right now. He brushes hair out of my face. “Then what’s the matter?”
