Character Flaws

by Sierra Hill

  I reach for her hand and pull her into me, our toes touching in front of my doorway.

  “I’m sorry for my behavior tonight. I guess seeing Alyssa like that just weirded me out. I didn’t mean what I said about her. I don’t love her anymore. It’s been over a long time.”

  Joey dips her chin down to the floor, but I bring it back up so we are eye-to-eye. Her emerald eyes are riddled with worry and I feel like a complete ass for putting that there.

  “I get it. The first time seeing an ex is always uncomfortable.”

  I snicker. “Ya think? My God, I was a bumbling fool. But you…damn. You gave her the smackdown. That was impressive.”

  And it was.

  Joey spoke her mind, made sure Alyssa knew the score (because I certainly wasn’t in the right frame of mind to do it). And I believe there was even a hint of possessiveness behind her words, which I enjoyed hearing. Just like how I reacted when seeing her with Marlon a few weeks back, she too experienced the same flash of jealousy.

  That means something, right?

  But Alyssa’s behavior confused the hell out of me. Why after all these months did she act like she wanted me back? She practically threw my ass out without so much as a backwards glance or a “hey, I just need some space” speech.

  Yet the minute she sees me with a new woman, she wants me back in her life as if I’m the one that got away. Already in the last hour, she’s sent me two texts, neither of which I’ve yet to reply to.

  Joey blushes, the pink in her cheeks illuminating the freckles there and the low light of the hallway casts shadows across her forehead. Shadows to display her uncertainty over us.

  “I’m really sorry for acting like a jealous girlfriend back there,” she whispers, her eyes pleading in apology. “I just didn’t like the way she behaved. Like she was some queen that lorded over us…well, you, in particular. Treating you like some subject of hers. Or a toy she lost.”

  A moment of clarity sweeps through me. Maybe that’s exactly how she always treated me when we were together and I was an idiot to allow it to continue for so long.

  “Do you want to come in?” I ask, nodding my head toward my door.

  She glances resignedly in that direction and then back to me, her green orbs filled with remorse.

  “I don’t think so. Not tonight. I think maybe we should…”

  I tighten my arms around her waist. “No, don’t say it. Don’t say we need a break.”

  The silence between us is unbearable. It spells impending doom.

  “Theo, come on. Your response should tell you something about where you’re at with your feelings toward Alyssa. And me. You obviously have unresolved feelings toward her – whether good or bad, that’s not the point. But if you’re trying to forget them or bury them by being with me that will only complicate things in the long run. I don’t know what we have here” – she points between us – “but it feels like something good. But we jumped in fast and we’ve spent a lot of time together recently. Maybe we should focus on the play, get through the final production, and then see how we feel then. Okay?”

  Fuck, I know she’s right.

  But I want to fight it. Buck against her logic. Deny that my headspace isn’t clearly cluttered with unresolved feelings or insecurities caused by Alyssa. This whole thing has fucked me up and turned me inside out.

  Instead, I play dumb. “I don’t want to.”

  She shrugs one shoulder. “You don’t have a choice. I like you too much and you need some time to figure things out.”

  Joey pulls out of my grasp, places a quick kiss on my cheek and steps toward her door, fitting her key in the lock and opening it up before I can get out another word.

  “Goodnight, Theo. Thanks for taking me tonight to my first Shakespeare play. I enjoyed it…well, most of it,” she lets out a brief laugh. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

  Her lips turn up into a slight smile before she walks in and closes the door behind her.

  My first reaction is to follow her through and not take no for an answer.

  To be an alpha male and take what I want. Scoop her up over my shoulder - caveman style – drag her in the bedroom and fuck her til she can’t see straight. Until she realizes a break isn’t what we need. She just needs me.

  That’s right, man-the-fuck-up.

  Yet here I stand like a chump, fingertips tracing where her pink, wet lips just kissed me, my feet glued to the ground and my head full of contradictions.

  Joey’s right about one thing.

  I need to get my head screwed on straight, otherwise I can kiss my career – and the girl – goodbye.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Joey

  A mother always knows

  “Good morning, mom,” I answer with as much enthusiasm as I can muster.

  Although I’m sure she’ll be able to decipher my shitty mood with her always tuned in mom-radar.

  Because really, what good would it do to sound as down and pitiful as I feel? My mom would only consider it yet another reason why I should uproot myself from Chicago and move back to South Bend. Reason number one-hundred and seventy-five, to be exact.

  But I won’t let that happen, regardless of how hard she pushes or how low I go. Even if I’m no longer with my temporary-not-gay-co-lead-actor-director-neighbor slash maybe or maybe not boyfriend.

  No sense wallowing in pity when at least I’ve had some really good sex and a lot of fun before things fell apart this weekend.

  Maybe I need to bury my feelings in a huge vat of margaritas. That always flips things on its head. Or at the very least, turns things upside down from the tequila.

  Despite my inner voice consoling me in my depressive state, the voice of my mother just adds another layer of pitiful to my already downward spiral.

  “How’s my Joey girl? I thought you might have been kidnapped since I haven’t heard from you in four days this time.”

  And there it is…mother guilt trip. Better than an ingrown toe-nail for causing aggravating pain and annoyance. My mother should really write a book on the subject. Ten Easy Steps to Guilting Your Children.

  “Mother, you know I’ve been busy with rehearsals for the play I’m starring in.”

  I hear a long, drawn out sigh across the line.

  “Darling, shouldn’t you be concentrating on your lesson plans in preparation for the coming school year? Or maybe getting online to those dating websites I told you about?”

  Oh yes, that’s right. My mother, after her weekly pinnacle group one day, thought I should “get with the times” and find a man to “hook-up” with. I kid you not. That’s what she told me.

  When I gave her a hearty laugh and broke the news to her on what hooking up was code for, she about had a coronary.

  That night I received an email from Christian-Match.com. Because no church-going, God-fearing man on a Christian dating site would want to get in my pants, right?

  I groan. “I’m doing just fine in the dating department, thanks.”

  Lie, lie, big little lie.

  And shit, I just opened the flood gates.

  “What? Do you have a man in your life that you haven’t mentioned to me yet, Josephine? Is it serious? When do I get to meet him?”

  The next fifteen minutes are spent trying to back her down from the beginning stages of wedding planning and booking the reception hall.

  I’ve finally gotten a word in edgewise and have diverted our conversation to safer topics.

  “Back to the play…would you be interested in coming to see one of my performances?”

  There’s a pause on the line and I know exactly what my mother is thinking. In about a second, she’s going to throw out that Chicago is so far to drive; the city is so dirty; she can’t leave her pinnacle group; what about Boomerang?

  Boomerang is her orange tabby cat. Scratch that – it’s her oversized, orange-colored demon from hell. Ever since my dad died and she adopted Boomer, she’s doted on him like he was king of the house. And s
ince I was either away in college and not living in my mother’s home, whenever I come to visit, Boomer feels it necessary to show me who’s boss.

  I am not a cat person. And Boomer knows it.

  “Oh honey, you know I can’t leave my ladies in a lurch. And who would take care of my baby? And that drive would do horrible things to my sciatica. I don’t know. I’d really have to put some thought into the trip.”

  Sigh. Just as I expected.

  “That’s okay, mom. I understand. But if you decide to, it’s next weekend. We have four performances. One on Friday evening, one on Saturday and two on Sunday. You could bring a friend. I have two free tickets. Of course, you can stay here in my bedroom. I can stay over at -”

  I’m about to say Patrick’s apartment, but then it dawns on me that maybe that’s no longer an option. I have no clue what to make of what happened between Theo and me yesterday.

  Are we over for good? Are we even friends? Is he going to cut me from the play and use my understudy instead?

  All these questions fill my sleep-deprived head as my mother continues to blather on about traffic in the city and the humidity and wind from the lake.

  It’s times like these that I wonder if I was adopted, because my mother and I can’t be any more different. All my life I was my dad’s pride and joy, while I could never stack up to my mother’s standards.

  I tried. I really did.

  But we are like oil and water. She still believes in the old-fashioned family values, where women should be nurses, teachers or stay-at-home mothers. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with any of those professions. They make our world go round. And that’s why I became a teacher. To appease her and get her to stop yammering about my life.

  But she never lets go.

  There is plenty of accolades that I could bestow on Theo, but one of them is the lesson he taught me about myself and my ambitions. He made me come to grips with the fact that I never derived joy out of teaching.

  In fact, it gave me an ulcer. It zapped me of all my energy. I think I cried myself to sleep most nights because I couldn’t cope with the hopelessness I felt knowing what some of my students go through in life and there was nothing I could do to reach them.

  This summer has taught me that I don’t have to do that anymore. I’ve found a different outlet that makes me happy. Brings me out of my shell and allows me to live my life out loud.

  And I owe that to Theo.

  I haven’t mentioned this to him, but I also started jotting down some ideas and plots for a play. Or maybe even a screenplay.

  I’ve even been thinking about going back to school to take some classes in screenwriting. I mean, I did minor in English and Creative Writing. Why can’t I make a go of this thing if that’s what I want?

  My mother continues to give excuse after excuse when I hear my text notification. Placing her on speaker, I pull the phone away to see who it’s from, hoping a little too desperately that it’s from Theo.

  It’s not. It’s from April asking me if I’m still on for brunch today. Instead of a traditional bachelorette party, she opted for something a little more upscale and a less likely chance of debauchery.

  Her wedding is in two weeks and I’d already sent in my Plus One RSVP.

  Ugh. Just what every single girl wants to do. Attend the wedding of a friend and having to either one, find a date, or two, sit at the singles table. Neither are great options. I had hoped I’d be going with Theo, but now that’s unclear.

  “Hey mom, I’ve got to get going. I’m having brunch today with my friend April.”

  Mom titters in hopefulness. “Oh, that sweet woman you work with who’s getting married soon? She’s, what? Thirty-five? See, you’re never too old to find love, honey.”

  I think I’m going to vomit. My mother always finds a way to turn things back to my lack of marriage options.

  Instead, I agree because it’s easier.

  “I know, mom. You’re right. I’ve still got time, so maybe we should table that discussion from now on,” I groan, flicking the blanket off my legs and walking toward my bathroom. “I gotta go jump in the shower now. But I’ll send you an email with the tickets if you want to come up next weekend. Love you.”

  “We’ll see, darling. But I can’t commit to anything. Love you, too, honey.”

  It’s probably best she doesn’t come. Too many things for her to pick at; my lack of love life being at the top of her list.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Theo

  Whisky is not my friend

  It’s so cliché, but I got drunk last night to wallow in my grief and stupidity after Joey left me with my proverbial dick in my hands.

  Now it’s past eleven a.m. and I’m hungover and still unshowered.

  Slowly moving through the apartment, careful not to make any sudden moves or loud noises, I slip on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, grabbing Woody’s leash and heading out the door. I’m hoping the fresh air will do me some good.

  As soon as I step into the hallway, Woody goes nuts, yipping his loud, obnoxious high-pitched bark. I shut the door and hold my head with my free hand, willing the headache away.

  “Shh, Woods. Give a guy a break,” I mutter and when I turn I’m confronted with the cause of Woody’s over-exuberance.

  Joey is at the top of the stairwell about to head down the stairs. She looks absolutely ravishing. Her strawberry blonde curls are tied back into some swirly bun low on her neck, a few strands loosely hanging around her face.

  She takes my breath away and I have to hold myself back from reaching for her.

  She’s dressed in a floral summer sundress, strappy sandals adorning her feet and a cute fedora sitting askew on top of her head.

  She flashes me the briefest of smiles, but I can see the strain and the tightness of her grip on the stair banister.

  “Good morning. You look beautiful,” I lamely acknowledge.

  Joey tips her head, as if she has no idea how truly gorgeous she is. She acknowledges with a shrug.

  “Heading to brunch with some friends.”

  I nod, but a wave of jealousy sweeps through me. She should be going to brunch with me had I not fucked it up so royally last night.

  Instead of apologizing or asking if she has time later to get together like I should, I simply clam up.

  She gives me a terse gaze. “You don’t look so good. Are you okay?”

  Rubbing my hand over my temples, I feel the stickiness of sweat dotting my forehead and the clamminess of my hands, all the whisky seeping out of my pores. The headache sits behind my eyes from the after-effects of the whisky. I close my eyes and tell her the truth.

  “Honestly, I drank a little too much last night.”

  “By yourself?” she says, and then seems to catch herself, as if she’s revealed too much. “I mean, did you go out after we, uh…after I left?”

  It dawns on me then that she might think I went running back to Alyssa. That I’m such a fucking asshole that I’d leave her and go out with my ex-girlfriend to try and rekindle things.

  My feet push me in her direction, closing the gap of space between us. I want to take her face in my hands, pull her into me and bury myself in her breezy, floral scent.

  Instead, I simply cover her hand with mine, relishing in the warmth radiating from her dewy-fresh skin.

  “I finished off Pat’s Irish whisky by myself. I guess I’ll have to replenish his stash before he returns home otherwise he might stage an intervention.”

  This gets her to crack a small smile but not enough to reassure me she’s okay.

  Woody whines at my feet and I know I don’t have much time before he pees all over the hallway floor.

  “I gotta get him outside. Can I walk you outside?”

  “Sure.”

  When we hit the bottom step, I blurt, “Can I see you when you get back later?”

  Her eyes dart away, toward the outer door, before turning her gaze back to me. I drink in her features, hoping to see a
trace of the fun-loving girl I’ve gotten to know over the last few weeks.

  “Maybe,” she suggests, her voice brittle with the lie that passes through her lips.

  We head out the front door. The cool morning has already passed us by and the humidity in the air clings to our skin as soon as we hit the sidewalk.

  Woody yanks at the leash with his long, wiry-haired body and my arm flies out jerking me toward the patch of grass where he squats and pees. Joey remains immobile for a moment, sliding on a pair of oversized sunglasses and adjusting her purse.

  The air between us crackles with uncertainty, remorse and the possibility of redemption. I don’t want to let her walk away without having a chance to explain myself, but I can’t seem to find the words that would make any sense to her.

  Looking back at my relationship with Alyssa, she was like this anchor around my neck. If you’re a boat, an anchor serves the purpose of keeping you in place so you don’t drift off into the wide-open water. An anchor on a human is an impediment that can choke you, drag you down and drown you.

  Joey has been my buoy. My life-preserver. The oxygen I’ve needed to take that breath after being held down underwater for so long now.

  She’s resuscitated me and filled me with life again. But somehow, I can’t spit the words out. And I’m afraid I’ll never have the chance again. That if she walks away, the time we’ve shared this summer will evaporate just like the humidity on my skin.

  “Bye, Theo. Bye Woody.” She squats down and rubs behind Mr. Woodcock’s ears, and his little butt wiggles with his reciprocated love.

  My heart wiggles a little, too.

  “Have a good time today. Talk to you later.”

  I can’t see her eyes behind the glasses, but she stares for a moment before she walks off, waving behind her. My gaze doesn’t leave her as I watch her dress sway in the wind, her hips sashaying in a sexy taunt, calling my name.

  One stupid moment last night has lead me to the place where I’m now watching the girl I have fallen for walk away without a backwards glance.

  And I need to figure out a way to win her back.