by Amy Faye
He passed a photo studio. Useless to him. What he needed, more than anything, were ideas. Ideas for how the fuck he was supposed to buy something for a girl who was way fucking smarter than he was, and knew more about just about every subject.
The short answer, he knew, was that he wasn't supposed to. He was supposed to know that there wasn't much he could do about it except move on. Since he wasn't going to do that, though…
A spooky goth-looking place was supposed to be coming in. The quarterback knew nothing about it, furthermore, if the sign were to be believed, they wouldn't open for some time. So if they were good, then he wouldn't know, but he wouldn't be able to do anything about it, even if he did.
An offshoot hall didn't help one bit, housing a video games store–a subject she'd never expressed an ounce of interest in–and a sandwich shop.
He let out a long breath. Jewelry? Laughable. There was no world in which he could spend that kind of money. An expensive clothing store, a coffee shop, and several slightly-less expensive clothing stores.
None of it was useful in the least bit. He didn't know her size, and further, how weird would it be to say, 'hey, I know how weird it was for us to go out, and how much weirder it was for me to buzz off for an hour until you left on your own, but here's a tee-shirt'?
He was on the edge of walking out and going to stand back under the rain until the bus came to take him back the other way, until he saw something that made him think that maybe there was some hope after all–Waldenbooks, across another large, open area.
In a couple of months, this would be where they had Santa giving out photo opportunities for new parents with young enough children to take photos with Santa. In September, though, it was still a long way off. In its place, they had a roped-off Ford sedan and information on how you could win it in a raffle, if you were the luckiest man alive.
He took a minute to circle around the car before heading into the store. She didn't seem to read a lot, per se. Not that he was under the impression that she avoided it, either.
He let out a long breath. That meant that, in a certain limited sense, they were on even terms. He didn't have much time to read, but on those rare occasions, he didn't mind it. Long as it had something exciting going on.
He stepped inside. A young woman smiled at him, and he smiled back, hoping that if he looked sufficiently friendly that she'd skip the greeting and he could avoid talking to her for a little bit longer. With luck, it seemed, he managed it for another few minutes. He browsed the aisles quietly.
He didn't know her taste in fiction. So he passed those by easily. There was something about the way she was always dressed that suggested buying some kind of new-age thing, but then he suspected that he'd probably regret it if he did.
She'd never, after all, shown any actual sign of interest in that kind of stuff, and frankly, he was pretty sure that it was all fake in the first place, so it wouldn't be anything more than condescending even if he thought she'd like it.
Which left him staring right at the one subject he knew she liked. Music. She'd probably know anything he showed to her. Which meant that informational books were out.
But photo books… Well, they had plenty of those.
15
Amy
Present Day
Amy settled her head back against the headrest and regretted all of her choices going back well before she'd gotten into Detroit. Coming back here was a mistake, regardless of whether or not she got to job. Prestige was one thing; having to deal with family was something entirely different.
Maybe there were people out there who would be perfectly willing to trade one for the other, but she wasn't one of them. Their family situations were a little different from hers. Nobody was ever going to have quite the mix of bad blood that she had with Helen's side of the family.
So in the first place, she shouldn't even be here. Second, she shouldn't have gone to the funeral. Just pass it up. She could have avoided so much trouble that way. But she hadn't even bothered to try.
Then there was the fact that she should have just gotten a god damn hotel room, instead of trying to ride someone's couch. That went double for someone as unreliable as Shannon
When she heard the news, she should've found literally anyone other than Brett. Because she ought to have known that she was just going to let herself start having feelings for him again.
But she'd wanted that, deep down, and so even though she knew that it couldn't end well, and it would be better if they passed each other by like ships in the night, she'd let herself get involved, and then she'd let him think that–well, that there was something there when there just wasn't.
Now she was in a hundred times too deep with him, and to be honest it was everything she'd wanted and more, but this was taking things a little too far. Dani didn't want to see her. That much was obvious. It should have been obvious to Brett, too. But he was playing it off as if there wasn't going to be any problem. Like the girls were going to get along famously.
She let her head fall forward again, back into its rightful place, and she tried to ball up all of her worries and throw them out the car window. She rolled the window down and was hit with a face-ful of crisp night air, not smelling quite as good as the air from back in Arizona.
It helped her calm down, a little, gulping down the cold night air. There was plenty to be worried about, she couldn't lie to herself about that, but even if there was plenty to worry about, she would get over it. There was a reason she was sitting in this car, after all.
Brett had promised it would be fine, and she knew that was wrong. But he'd also asked her to do it as a favor to him, and that was enough to guarantee her involvement. She wasn't going to leave him high and dry, not even if he might deserve it for suggesting a god damn dinner with Dani.
There was a good chance, for all that Amy knew, that Dani wanted her dead. Brett's recollection of events was when he was twenty-two. He'd been a grown man, and while he was a young one and no doubt he had feelings about it, Danielle was only twelve when Amy and Dad left.
That was going to leave bad blood. Twelve wasn't old enough to really know what had happened. Hell, twenty-two wasn't. Eighteen wasn't.
It was making a big leap. After all, it had been a decade. Dani was twenty-two now. She was in college–if Brett told it right, she was a film student. Apparently, Detroit was going through some kind of film boom, and there was a lot of work to be had. That was very cool, could provide a lot to talk about.
Or it could provide a lot to not talk about, when she tried like hell to avoid getting into an actual fist-fight with the girl who, once upon a time, had been her baby sister just long enough that it stung when they left.
She couldn't hold it in any longer. "Brett, I really think this is a bad idea."
"It'll be fine," he said. His voice held an edge that she hoped wasn't directed at her. Maybe he was more nervous than he let on. "You'll see. Dani's… well, she'll have gotten over it. Trust me."
Amy put her best 'if you say so' face on, and tried to relax herself as they pulled into the parking lot of an Italian place that she hadn't been to before. It put her on-edge right away. She should have gotten over it a long time ago, but she couldn't stand being places where she didn't know what was good. Brett was no help there.
He got out first and circled around, waiting dutifully by her door. There was a bit of chivalry in it, but more than that, there was an implication that he wasn't going to let her wait it out in the car. With a deep breath, Amy put on her big girl attitude and forced herself to get out of the car.
Brett went up to the waiter and gave his name. Told him they were waiting for a girl, yea high with dark hair. To Amy's surprise, he said that she'd already been seated, and started moving almost immediately into the floor.
Amy looked around and took the whole place in, suddenly feeling underdressed. She ought to have brought the dress she'd planned on using for her audition. That was sufficiently fancy. Though, it might have ma
de Brett look bad.
A violinist walked the floor, playing slow and more than a little clumsy. Most people wouldn't notice, but Amy wasn't most people when it came to the violin family.
She saw her sister–or, the woman who had been her sister, once–a moment before she realized that they were coming, and in that moment she was pleased to see how well Dani had grown up.
The funeral hadn't been a good time for Danielle, and she'd looked like a mess. She seemed to have gotten hold of herself, dressed herself up. She was very pretty–Amy put a pin in that thought, to make sure she remembered to give the compliment as soon as was convenient.
Then Dani turned and her expression soured, and every bit of Amy's worries felt like they were going to blossom into fruition at once.
It was going to be… interesting.
2003
Amy didn't voice any complaints, not that it would have mattered. They were going to do whatever they wanted, and that was exactly how she wanted it. The best case scenario for complaining would be if Dad decided to call the whole wedding off.
But was that really what Amy wanted anyways? To take away the only thing that's put a smile on Dad's face in years? What the fuck was wrong with her if she even sort-of thought that? She didn't think that, she wouldn't think that.
So instead, Amy did what she did best—she kept her mouth shut about it, she spiked her hair high enough to earn looks from anyone who she passed in the hall, and she grit her teeth together instead of letting her frustration overwhelm her, the rare occasion that it threatened to do so.
It left her feeling one thing, though, more than anything: unspeakably frustrated. Maybe she should have looked forward to seeing Brett. Maybe that would have made her feel better.
But she didn't look forward to seeing him. When she saw him, whether she liked it or not, all she would get out of it was a reminder that she had to decide between herself and Dad. She didn't have a problem making that choice. It wasn't hard. She was sixteen—he'd sacrificed so much for her already. It was her turn.
But that didn't mean that she wanted to have it rubbed in her face. She didn't want to sit there right next to a guy so hot that you could use him to light a candle, constantly reminding herself that she couldn't have him and she couldn't let herself think that she might.
The bitch squad couldn't read her expression, though, it seemed. Amy had been bowling her way through the halls. She hadn't hit anyone yet, but not because she'd been working to avoid them. It just seemed to be lucky for them that they hadn't gotten in her way yet. Until three girls stood, making a wall.
Amy's jaw tightened and she pushed hard as she passed. If they stumbled and fell, sure it would be her fault. She might even get in trouble. But it would put a smile on her face. They didn't. The one she'd put most of her weight against caught herself before she fell.
"You bitch!"
Amy's face twisted into a snarl and she balled up her fists to throw a punch that never left her jacket pocket. Someone stepped in between them first.
Nobody had ever accused Amy Harmon of caution. Some people said she had a death wish, only halfway joking. But there was a mile's difference between throwing caution to the wind and getting into fights, and trying to bowl through a 200-lb man and a teacher to boot, all so she could throw a punch.
"What happened," he said, his voice roughened by the threat of violence.
"That bitch just tried to throw me onto the ground," the one in charge cried out, apparently having decided that the best course of action was to play victim.
"Oh, if I wanted you on the ground—"
The man turned and gave her a hard look. He might not have been intimidating under normal circumstances—his long hair, even pulled back into a ponytail, did little to make him look manly and threatening. But the look he gave left very little room for argument.
"Come with me," he growled. He turned to the other girl. "You too, Carly, and I don't want to hear a single solitary word out of either of you. Am I making myself crystal clear?"
"Yes, Mr. Durham," the girl—apparently Carly—sounded terribly sweet, now. None of the dulcet bitchiness. She turned to Amy as he walked and made a face that tightened Amy's jaw up again. She kept her fist balled up just in case. Not that she could have opened it without a crow bar.
"Yes," Amy agreed. He started walking, and she started following.
She hadn't done anything, she reminded herself. But it hadn't looked good, and it would be hard to deny that she was going to start throwing punches if things had continued. If they could suspend you for thought crimes, then suspended she would be.
Amy tried to bleed off some of the anger that had welled up inside her, like letting the air out of a balloon. A deep breath in, and a deep breath out. Like she was meditating, a practice she'd never taken up seriously. But there was so much talk about how healthy it was supposed to be for you that she'd tried it.
Breathe in emptiness—breathe out emotion. Emptiness in, anger out. In, out. All Amy could feel coming in was air, and all she could feel going out was used air. The anger stayed, untouched by the entire thing. But at least she might get a chance to voice her side of the story. Maybe. If she were lucky.
If not, she'd have a good excuse not to see Brett for a few days, so maybe it was a win after all. The breathing didn't help one bit, not even when she let her eyes drift shut for a few steps as she walked. But that thought did. Maybe, just maybe, she ought to throw the punch after all. That way she could at least know for sure what was going to happen to her.
But she wasn't going to do it. She couldn't afford to be suspended right now, and she especially couldn't afford to have to lie to Dad if she was. Right now, she'd just tried to move past a dumb bimbo in the hall. It wasn't her fault that the dumb bimbo happened to be blocking her, and it sure wasn't her fault if someone was too dumb not to overreact.
Throwing punches, on the other hand… that, she'd promised to avoid. And even if it ate away at her very soul, she would avoid it. As long as she could, at least, because the way things were going, Carly was cruising for a bruising if she didn't back off.
16
Brett
Present Day
Brett's shoulders sagged a little at the weight that he could feel on his shoulders, though he'd already stripped his jacket off. He got a storage unit so that he didn't have to worry about the things in it.
Eventually, he'd die or forget to pay the bill, and then someone else would come–then they'd have to worry about storage.
But now he was here, and now it was his problem, a room thick with things that he hadn't bothered to move past the nearest convenient place.
Maybe if he were smarter, or he were more committed, he could have found the motivation to put everything in a place–a place where it went. That way, when the time came, he had a way to find anything he needed.
That was the whole idea, though, he teased himself. If he could find it, then he might have to actually think about it. He might have to go in and find any of it. Instead, he had this big, convenient garbage can that never quite got emptied.
Now there was more to throw into the round file–the blueprints were filed with city hall, and he had a copy for his portfolio. That only left him with several working blueprints, of course, and any one of those could be useful. Too useful to throw away.
So instead, he'd store them here. He had them wrapped up tight in a round cardboard shipping tube and leaned under the crook of one arm, and when he set them down, the weight on his shoulders just got heavier, surveying the room.
It smelled musty, like the part of a library where nobody went. The heat, which had picked up all of a sudden today, as if the summer was giving one last dying gasp a month too late, only made it worse.
There was a whole pile of these shipping tubes, he knew. Somewhere. He tried to think back. It had been a few months, but not so long that he couldn't recall where they were. He tried to think harder.
If he was right–and he knew that he
couldn't be mistaken–then it was in the back corner. The corners of the architect's mouth pulled back into a grimace. That wasn't what he wanted. He ought to have put them right by the front, so that he could just drop the tube right there.
But when he bought the space, there had been a moment, however brief, where he was certain that he would be able to keep the place tidy. That there was going to be a system. The system had lasted exactly as long as it took to pile up his tubes.
Then everything else had stepped in. Every time he finished a job, he stood there, grimacing, remembering exactly where he'd decided that the perfect place would be. Every time, he told himself that he'd clean the thing out, that he'd move the pile of working plans, clear out the old ones, and get the entire shed in working order.
This time was no different. With just a little work–
With just a little work, he could get the place in shape. Now he just had to do it. Brett summoned up all the energy and motivation he could muster. That would be the only way, if there was any hope, that he could get any of it done.
Instead, he stepped lightly through the pile and towards the back. A pair of skis had fallen down, blocking his way. There was no reason for owning them, but he'd paid more than he wanted to lose a second time. Any chance that he might go skiing again, then, meant he wasn't getting rid of the skis.
He crouched down and set his shoulder under the fallen skis and stood up underneath them, his breath going out as he did, and then he slipped past, catching himself before his lost balance could send him headfirst into the wall and trampling all over his work.
He dropped the tube on top of the others, forming up into something almost like a stack. He looked down at it and looked around. He'd be here all day, if he wanted to get the whole place clean. He didn't have time for all that. He had to get back.
