Out of Focus (Chosen Paths #2)

by L. B. Simmons

  The lyrical laughter of my roommate fills my ears, and I moan again because, though I normally enjoy the sound, this morning it’s just too much. The freight train currently blaring its horn in warning, clearly having forgone its tracks for a joyride around my skull, is about all I can handle at the moment.

  “Go away, hooker,” I croak, then roll onto my stomach. Which isn’t the best idea because as it sloshes with the movement, I remember the reason I swore off tequila last night. And the night before that.

  Spencer remains rooted in place, and I’m sure her bright blue eyes are burning two gaping holes into the back of my head. I can picture her right now. Long, blonde hair in a messy bun on top of her head, hands on her hips, fingers drumming madly, and her eyes tapered at the sides, glaring. Predictable and expected.

  What’s completely unexpected is the sound of quick shuffling followed by the wet finger assault in my earhole.

  “Spencer! Ewwww!”

  The throbbing in my head increases as I repeatedly try to bat her hand away from the side of my head. Still face down, a grin somehow manages to cross my face at the sound of her shrieks with each of my misses. I try to fight it, but I’m helpless against the traitorous smile. Something about her joyfulness is just . . . contagious.

  By the time I finally manage to grab her wrist and roll over onto my back, we’re both laughing so hard there are tears, and hiccups fill the room. Her body lands beside mine, and as her head falls onto my pillow, the laughter slowly fades and our eyes scrutinize the ceiling.

  Simultaneously, we breathe in deeply.

  Spencer inhales again. “Cass . . .” She leans to sniff my hair, then brilliantly concludes, “You reek of alcohol.”

  A breath of laughter passes through my lips, and I twist to face her. “What? You don’t approve of Eau de Cassandra?” I waft the air in front of my face. “I like it. I find it rather . . . intoxicating.”

  I laugh shamelessly at my joke. Spencer grins, then adds, “Your jokes are as bad as your breath. You need to brush your teeth, Cass.”

  A snort works its way through my nose. I decide to spare her the agony of melting off her face and turn my gaze upward. She says nothing else but laces her fingers between mine. It’s in moments like these where we’re linked physically that our past reconnects with our present somehow. As if, from our stillness, our comfortable silence, sadness is allowed to blanket the air around us, and I’m again reminded that I’m not the only one who lost someone five years ago.

  The same night Rat was taken from me—shot and killed alongside his sister—the love of her life, Dalton Greer, disappeared. Mysteriously. I’ve watched her morph from frantically worried to absolutely furious over the years, until finally she worked her way through her deep-rooted fear of abandonment, said goodbye, and let him go. At least that’s what she says.

  Regardless, she’s back now, headstrong and working on her master’s in sociology. She’s fearless, primed to take on the world.

  I, however, am pitifully weak in comparison. My still-drunken state this morning is proof of that fact. I barely managed to graduate high school, then flunked out of college. And although I do have a cosmetology license, and can work magic with even the most appalling of hair mishaps, my job is far from the aspirations of my youth.

  But those dreams were stolen long before the loss of Rat. Rat was just another one of fate’s cruel reminders that I will never be whole.

  Spencer hasn’t had the easiest life. I’ve known that since the day I met her. Yet, no matter the hardships she’s had to endure, she’s always chosen to fight her fears, and time and time again has emerged the victor.

  I, however, chose to cower. I still choose to cower, drowning the voices in alcohol. I choose to have meaningless sex to prove I still have control over my body. And I choose to live with the constant, degrading chatter in my head in complete and utter silence.

  Maybe one day I’ll find the strength to choose a different path. Maybe, if I can manage to hold on to Spencer long enough, her strength will somehow trickle its way into my bloodstream and give me the courage to strip myself clean and face the world without this constant haze surrounding me.

  That’s not what you want. Not what you need.

  Besides, you’re not strong enough.

  You’re ours. You will always be ours.

  We will never let you go from the darkness.

  The voices quickly invade my mind, stifling any foolish hope conjured.

  I quickly succumb to their wisdom as it numbs me, reveling in the much-needed comfort of feeling absolutely nothing. Feeling means pain, and I’ve experienced enough agony to last me through eternity.

  As though reading my last thought, Spencer squeezes my hand and whispers, “It’s a new day, Cass.”

  Emotion clogs my throat and I nod, willing the tears that have suddenly sprung not to spill. The burn in my eyes is not bred from sadness, however. It’s a side effect from the scorch of the deep flames that constantly ravage me.

  Anger at the loss of my childhood.

  Anger at the circumstances that have become my penance in my adult life.

  Anger that I wander through my existence, not able to fully live.

  And anger that with each new day that passes, I could very well lose Spencer.

  Our joined paths will eventually fork, and while I will be forced to continue down the one obscured in darkness, she will gracefully make her exit and follow the one brightened by the promise of a happy future.

  I’m still not sure how far our bond will stretch. Will it be strong enough to maintain our friendship when this happens? Because it will happen.

  I barely survived one severed bond.

  The shredding of the second will undoubtedly kill me.

  But I don’t tell Spencer that.

  I simply squeeze her hand right back, flash her my always brilliant, carefree smile, and respond, “Well, then. Let’s get this bitch started.”

  Groaning yet again, I scrape myself out of bed while Spencer happily hops onto the floor like a fucking bunny. I fight for balance while running my fingers through my matted hair. She practically skips past me, only to stop and turn back in my direction.

  “Hey? Where’d you go last night?” Her blue eyes scrutinize my appearance, and I lower my arms slowly to display my skin-tight black leather skirt and matching bra.

  Black, not leather. Because a leather bra would be absurd.

  “Out with Jimmy, again. Like the skirt?” A sugary smile accompanies my question, covering the battle against my stomach’s urge to upchuck with the admission. I do a lot of things lately that I’m not proud of, and Jimmy Thatcher is one of them.

  Spencer shrugs her shoulders. “I guess? It’s just so short. I mean, even shorter than those Daisy Dukes you used to wear in high school.”

  As soon as the words leave her mouth, all air is sucked out of the room, and our inaudible gasps replace it.

  Dalton used to call me Daisy Mae all the time in high school, for obvious reasons. I hated the name, because I knew what he thought of me, his immediate assumption that I was a bad influence on Spencer. But in all honesty, I guarded her virtue as though it was mine. Well, mine before I so recklessly gave it away.

  Once I recognized Spencer was in love with Dalton, and that he was equally in love with her, I encouraged her to lose said virtue . . . to him. That being said, if I had known he would leave later the same night, I might have steered her in another direction. Maybe . . . but, I doubt it. Their union was pretty much inevitable, and their denial had been exasperating.

  Silence ensues and I watch her face fall along with her stare. In this moment, her sorrow equals mine. They are one and the same because it was my loss that led to hers.

  Rat and Dalton were best friends. And they’re both gone.

  That one look is all I need to know. She hasn’t ever really let go of Dalton, regardless of how hard she tries to convince herself. Both of us, for that matter. She still clings to the hope that
he will magically reappear just as quickly as he left.

  Blue eyes rise to find my dark ones, both sets lined with tears. I bite the edge of my lip and offer her my hand. “Like you said, it’s a new day, Spence.”

  She nods weakly and curls her fingers into my palm, giving me a light squeeze.

  “Then let’s get this bitch started.” Her tone may be tinged with sadness, but always the fighter, her eyes still display elements of both hope and determination. It’s that optimism that makes Spencer, well, Spencer. And I wouldn’t change her for the world.

  In fact, it was her phone call, asking if I needed a roommate that encouraged me to get my shit somewhat together. Even though I know better than to dare hope for myself, I think a part of me stubbornly clings to what her fight and resolve could do for me. Deep down, while I admit I’m a lost cause, just being around Spencer makes me feel stronger, as though maybe one day I will be finally able to silence the whispers in my mind.

  Right on cue, I’m reminded of my weakness.

  You’re pathetic.

  You will never be anything like Spencer.

  She’s pure and untainted.

  You’re dirty and disgusting.

  Your entire existence is vile.

  The phrases circle my mind. Each of their passes slice the already gaping hole in my chest, the pain they bring almost as crippling as the knowledge that they’re absolutely true.

  I swallow my tears, knowing I may have lost my chance at happily ever after, but I’m sure as hell determined to find my friend hers. As long as she holds on to her hope, then so will I. I will lose myself in it. I’ll do so selfishly so when the inevitable happens, when my strength is depleted and I’m finally overcome by the monster etching the outskirts of my mind, that it will be her hope which remains, strong enough to hold me so I’m not lost forever.

  I don’t want to be lost forever.

  She releases my hand and smiles. “Love you, Cass.”

  I can’t help the smile that crosses my face as I respond with the familiar words shared so often between us.

  “Love you, times two.”

  I HAVE GOOD DAYS, and I have bad ones. I imagine that’s normal for anyone working his or her way through a traumatic experience. Some days I’m barely able to pull myself out of bed, and others, I wake to the sun shining through my bedroom window and bask in it. I allow its warmth to wash over me, and in those few precious moments, my memories don’t define me. I’m just me.

  Those are the best days.

  And today just happened to be one of them. I was relaxed the entire day as I worked my way through mounds of hair. Coloring, cutting, waxing. I smiled the entire time, my memories dormant. I felt . . . normal.

  I’m grateful for the much-needed reprieve as I head home to my apartment.

  As soon as I hit the door and I’m inside, I toss my purse on the kitchen counter and call for Spencer.

  No answer.

  I pull a piece of bubblegum from my purse, unwrap it and pop it in my mouth. I listen for her and when I still hear nothing, I head toward her room to investigate. I’m two feet away when heavy breathing mixed with strange, somewhat obscene, grunting noises sound from behind Spencer’s slightly ajar door. I stop dead in my tracks and tilt my head to the side, ceasing the smack of my bubblegum so I can better hear.

  Another low grunt hits my ears, and I cover my mouth to mute a very mature giggle as I press my fingertips on the door. As it inches slowly open, I note how much I really like the dark grey color of my nails, then lean forward to find Spencer’s long blonde hair whipping from side to side as she hops on the balls of her bare feet.

  Standing in front of her full-length mirror, she’s dressed in black yoga pants, the white of her sports bra peeking out at me from underneath the straps of her turquoise tank top. My eyes widen at the scene playing out right in front of me.

  Exercise?

  My head jerks backward in refusal before I shake it to clear the evil word from my mind. I haven’t done a lick of exercise in years.

  Although I do definitely exert myself quite often. Last night with Ben Jackson, for example.

  I think it was Ben.

  A satisfied grin forms on my lips and I mentally applaud my heart-healthy efforts before barely poking my head into Spencer’s room. I watch her throw what is probably the worst right hook I’ve ever witnessed at her own reflection, and the grin stretches into a broad smile.

  “I pity the fool,” I shout in a low, gravelly voice as I enter the room.

  A tiny scream escapes my roommate before she stops, removes her headphones, then glares at me in the mirror as I walk up behind her. Spencer’s hands land on her waist and her brows rise, but she offers no commentary or praise regarding my excellent portrayal of Mr. T.

  My lips press to the side before I inquire, “Not a big Rocky fan, I gather?” Her blank stare is my only answer.

  Blowing a bubble while examining myself in the mirror, I finger through my dark tousled curls and adjust the straps of my cami before pulling it taut over the top my frayed jean shorts. Once satisfied with my appearance, I direct my gaze back at Spencer, who’s still staring.

  “Mr. T? You know? Rocky III, ‘I pity the fool’?” My voice drops three octaves in effort to better my impersonation, but still nothing. I think I may have even snarled.

  Releasing a defeated sigh with her lack of response, I decide it’s better to just start over. I launch myself on her bed, bounce twice, then ask, “Whatcha doin’?”

  She turns, pausing to eye me smiling back at her like a loon, then responds, “Krav Maga.”

  I nod as though I completely understand, then ask, “Krav Ma-whatthehellareyoutalkingabout?”

  She giggles and enunciates slowly. “Krav. Ma. Ga.”

  “Oh, well since you said it that way, I totally understand what the hell you’re talking about.”

  Spencer rolls her eyes, then continues. “I found a flyer on my car for this type of self-defense called Krav Maga. I looked into it and it’s pretty freaking cool. So, I enrolled myself in some classes.”

  The clear image of her sad excuse for a right hook races my mind. “Yeah, good idea. You punch like a girl.”

  Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

  I snort-laugh because it’s true. She does.

  “You do.”

  Spencer’s mouth stretches into a thin line and that ever-present determination displays itself in her tightened features.

  “Well, I am a girl,” she retorts.

  “Yeah,” I answer. “But you should never punch like one. Or throw like one, for that matter. It gives us all a bad name. You need to take that shit by the balls and own it like a man.”

  Her mouth remains open and I fight back laughter at the insulted expression on her face. Biting the inside of my cheek, I watch her find her words.

  “Like you know how to punch.” She cocks her hip for emphasis.

  Contrary to what she believes, I do know how to punch. I gave Brian Thompson a right cross to the jaw and it was perfection, if I do say so myself. I’ve never told her about that though.

  We were in first grade, and I overheard Brian Thompson calling Spencer a “skinny scarecrow” at the place where everyone who was anyone hung out, the jungle gym. I heard laughter from his entourage and made my way over because I knew exactly why Spencer was so skinny, and honestly, that shit pissed me right the hell off. I strode up to him and when he leaned on the painted bars in his designer jeans, I smiled my really sweet smile. As soon as I saw his lips curve upward and the whites of his teeth, I grinned wider, then clocked that fucker right in the nose.

  I think he fell in love with me that day, because anything with a penis just seems to be bred to be that stupid.

  And because of that fact, I fucked him years later in the school parking lot, just because I could.

  “Helloooo, Cass.” Spencer snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Where’d you go?”

  “Thinking about Booger Thompson,”
I answer honestly.

  Her mouth dips and her brows draw together. “The guy in the first grade that used to pick his nose until it bled?”

  I smile to myself, knowing those nosebleeds were most likely the result of my fist connecting with his face. “The one and only.”

  “Why?”

  I laugh out loud, then segue back into the present. “So, Krav Ma-couldntthinkofabettername. That’s what you’re doing in here?”

  She nods and I nod back. “Good. I took some self-defense classes when I moved away from home. You can never be too safe, so I say go for it.”

  Her nose crinkles in response. “You think?”

  “I do. It’s always better to be safe than sorry,” I answer immediately. The need to protect oneself is an importance often not realized until after the damage is done.

  Sad, but true.

  Spencer’s eyes light up and I know what’s coming before it even leaves her mouth. In fact, I’m already shaking my head no when she claps her hands excitedly and yells, “Come with me. It’ll be fun.”

  “Nah, I have plans. Next week?” I redirect.

  Spencer narrows her eyes, then relents and gives me a sad shrug. “Okay, next week then.”

  I smile, then rise from her bed. “See ya in the morning?”

  The sudden urge to clear the tightening of my throat tells me my good day is taking an emotional turn for the worse. I’m on a constant roller coaster of highs and lows, and I know, as a thin sheen of sweat begins to line my upper lip, I’m about to take a nosedive.

  I need a night out, an alcoholic beverage in my hand, and a warm body to help me forget.

  She watches me closely, then takes the two steps she needs to embrace me, whispering once her arms are around my neck, “I’m here if you need me, Cass.”

  Damn it all to hell if I don’t want to break down and cry, but I don’t. I close my eyes and will the threatening sadness away.

  “I’m fine,” I answer, then release her. “Just tired. Long day.”

  Her jaw tightens, and I know it kills her to let me be, but that’s how Spencer has always been. She gives the room needed to breathe. And I love her for it.