by BK Rivers
“You said no, right?” She flips around on the couch so we’re facing each other, and I’m thrust back into high school when we’d have sleepovers and stay up all night talking about boys. Or in my case, Jordan.
“Of course I said no. What kind of girl do you take me for?” I slap her thigh and lean forward until my face falls into the pillow on my lap. “But, Stace, he looked so good.”
“The guy is a loser, despite being a rock star.” Stacey hasn’t always felt this way about Jordan and, in a way, I suppose it’s deserved. When his band started touring, it was obvious the fame and money allowed him whatever he wanted, and what he wanted was alcohol and drugs. I’m not sure what made him want to get clean, but I’m impressed and proud of him if he’s telling the truth. He deserves more than a life full of regrets.
“He’s sober now,” I say, trying to drive the point home that he’s really not a loser. “And he really, really looks good.”
Stacey rolls her eyes and swipes my pillow. “We’ve established that he looks so good you’d like to lick an ice cream sundae off his chest. But come on. How long has it been since you last saw him?”
Not counting the one and only concert I went to four years ago, I haven’t seen him since high school graduation, nine years ago, when I urged him to go live his dream. We were eighteen, and his aspirations were so big even the gymnasium couldn’t contain them. He and the guys wanted a life I didn’t, and I still don’t. So when we parted ways it broke my heart, even though I’m the one who pushed him into going after what he wanted most. My plans, however, took a left turn, and now I’m working two jobs and living with my best friend and haven’t dated since. I’m the picture of what every twenty-six-year-old woman should be. Yeah right.
Shaking myself out of my self-induced pity party, I say, “Whatever. The point is he looks fine, and only tonight did I realize how pathetic I am.”
Stacey hits me square in the face with the pillow, and my head jerks back against the cushions.
“What the hell?”
“Quit playing the ‘poor me’ card. You’re smoking hot, a hard worker, and the best mom I know. I’m sure Jordan left Eggceptional thinking of nothing but you.” Stacey’s little pep talk makes my cheeks flush, and we both giggle until I can’t keep my eyes open any longer. Raising a kid and working two jobs isn’t for the weary; add to that my average of four hours of sleep a night and I’m wiped.
As I lie in bed, thoughts of me and Jordan in high school flash in my head like a movie. Sophomore year, while I was searching through my locker for a notebook, he came up from behind me, all limbs and smiles. I was still fairly new to the school, as my family had moved to Phoenix a couple months prior. When he asked me what I was looking for, I sighed and described the notebook I needed. He then reached to the top shelf and pulled it out. I wanted to die of embarrassment, but instead I melted in the way his light brown eyes stared at me like there was no one else around.
We were inseparable after that. School dances, dates every Friday night, and making out behind the football bleachers.
Heat blossoms on my chest as I recall our first kiss and how our teeth collided and we both laughed. But then his tongue ran across my bottom lip, and I just about died. I could’ve bet I’d burst into flames from the sheer heat raging through my body. Of course, we got better at kissing later on. A whole lot better.
Closing my eyes now only adds fuel to the desire to know if he still kisses the same. If his lips are still as soft as they used to be, or if after almost nine years he’s gained more skills in that department. What would his scruffy beard feel like against my lips? Or trailing down my…okay, this is not going to help me sleep. Not one bit.
I’m hit with a heavy dose of reality as Micah stumbles into my room, rubbing the sleep from his big brown eyes. He crawls into bed with me, nuzzles his head under my chin, and promptly falls asleep.
That right there will snuff out any Jordan-inspired fantasies.
Chapter 3
Jordan
I’ve been back in Phoenix for four days now, staying at a hotel with Jeremy. Which is fine if you’re looking for someone to nag you about keeping your room clean. He’s a freak when it comes to cleanliness. It’s great on the bus, but when we’re supposed to be taking some time to relax before we start recording again, it’s like a splinter in the fleshy part of your palm—annoying.
Not only is he a clean freak, but he’s also really pushing for me to reconcile with my parents. Whenever we come back to town, he’s always urging me to call them or at the very least send a freaking postcard to let them know I’m in town. I mean, I know they listen to the radio, and they know the name of my band. I’m sure they’re very aware when I’m in Phoenix. They could reach out if they wanted to see me too.
He’s convinced that, because we’re here for four months, I should really try to make it work with them. It’s not like I didn’t try when we first went on the road, but all I got from my old man was disappointment and bitterness. Then he had the nerve to tell me what a screw up I’ve always been. I got pissed, he got even more pissed, and now after everything I haven’t spoken to him or Mom in nine years. I imagine if I were to call out of the blue, one of them would keel over, and then I’d have a funeral to go to. Not that I would go, necessarily.
None of that has anything to do with the fact that I’m pacing the floor of the hotel room, cell phone in hand, finger hovering over the Home contact. I really have no freaking clue as to why I’m even considering calling them. Or why when I bring the phone up to my ear it’s ringing.
Shit. Did I just dial them?
“Hello?” My mother’s voice hits me like a semi, and I collapse on the end of the bed. She sounds older, tired. “Hello?”
Shit. I haven’t said anything. I take a deep breath when I hear my father in the background asking her who is on the line. She answers, saying there’s no one there. A scratching noise vibrates in my ear, and then my hand grips the phone as my father gets on the phone.
“Whoever the hell you are better stop calling at this time of night,” he says as I glance at the clock on the nightstand. Shit. It’s after nine, and my parents always said it was rude to call after eight.
I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and say, “Hey, Dad. It’s me.”
Silence.
Followed by more silence.
I pull the phone away from my ear to check if I somehow dropped the call, but it seems we’re still connected. “Hello?” I say as a knot forms in my stomach, and my heart begins to pound out an unsteady rhythm.
“You have some nerve calling us at this time of night,” he growls. “Scaring your mother like that.” Mom gasps in the background and then says my name, and damn, a tear slips down my cheek. I swipe away the unwanted moisture beading on my cheek and begin to apologize for calling at this hour, but I don’t have a chance—my father cuts off the words forming on my lips.
“You’re a piece of work, you know? After nine years of pissing yourself away, and now you think you can call us to come bail you out of the mess you’ve created?”
“Dad, I—”
“Not to mention all the times we’ve had reporters and those damn paparazzi show up on our doorstep. Never once did you think of what this would do to your mother. You’re a selfish son of a—”
I hang up the phone before he finishes, and I’m seething. I throw the phone on the bed, feeling nowhere near satisfied. The familiar clench in my stomach returns, the one that beckons me to just down one shot, or do a line of blow. I thought I could handle being sober, I thought the urges were gone. But my addiction is so hungry I can feel my body tensing and calling for the release I’m craving.
I step over to the mini fridge and take stock of the sample-size bottles of alcohol sitting in a neat line on one of the shelves and lick my lips. Some of my best friends are sitting there waiting for me: Jack, José, and Captain Morgan. I pull a bottle of Jack from the fridge, hold the chilled glass in my hand, and take several deep br
eaths.
Shit.
I can’t call Jeremy because he’s home with his parents for the night, and the clinic in Warner is closed for the night; though I probably could call one of the counselors. My fist grips the bottle harder, and I grab my phone off the bed and dial the only other person who has ever been able to talk me down from this ugly place.
“Hello? Jordan?” I release the breath I was holding at the sound of her voice. It’s been a long time since we’ve spoken, and I’ve missed her.
“Hey,” I sigh, and then squeeze the small bottle of Jack even tighter. Maybe if I keep squeezing, it will burst in my hand and solve the problem for me.
“Are you okay?” Jemma’s voice is riddled with nervousness, and she has every right to be. I haven’t spoken to her in a few months, and she’s probably thinking I’m drunk dialing. She wouldn’t be too far from the truth.
I shake my head, close my eyes, and let the tears fall freely. God, I’m a mess, and I’m so close to screwing everything up again.
“I don’t think I am,” I admit, and slip down to the floor at the foot of the bed. I pull my knees to my chest and lay my head on my arms.
“What can I do? Jordan, tell me how to help you.”
“I’ve got a travel-size bottle of Jack Daniels in my hand, and there are several others in this hotel fridge.”
She gasps on the other end and then breathes out calmly. “Have you opened the bottle?”
I shake my head and then realize she can’t see me. “No. But I want to. So bad.”
“Why, Jordan? Why do you want to drink?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. I want to hear how you’re doing. How’s Vic?”
I can practically hear the smile that fills her face as she tells me all about how they went to Seattle to get married and how they’re going to have a baby in April. I tell her how happy I am for her and Vic, but inside, pieces of my heart crumble just a little bit. It doesn’t seem all that long ago I thought I was in love with Jemma. But in reality, I think it was only the idea that someone could love me. That maybe I’m capable of loving someone, and I want to love someone.
“Jordan, I think you should find a counselor in Phoenix to talk to,” she says quietly. “You can call me any time you need to; I’ll always be here for you. I just think you need someone nearby as well.”
Her words ring true and I realize she’s right. Even though I thought I could handle my addiction on my own, I wasn’t able to without the help from the rehab clinic in Warner and the counselors there.
“Thanks, Jemma. I’ll call someone first thing in the morning.”
“Sure,” she says. “Jordan, will you do something for me?”
“Anything,” I answer, knowing I truly would.
“Open all of those bottles and pour them down the drain.”
We share a nervous laugh, and she remains on the line while I pour every last drop of the seven bottles of alcohol down the drain. When I hang up, I pull up the Internet browser on my phone and search for drug addiction counselors in Phoenix. This is one call that may just save my life.
Chapter 4
Reggie
This is my Saturday to bring Micah to Mom and Dad’s house so they can spend time with him—and berate me. I’m not sure why I keep putting up with their criticism other than the fact that Micah should spend time with his grandparents and, as much as I can’t stand their constant questions, it gives me a little reprieve from parenting.
We moved to Phoenix when I was fifteen because my dad got a new job working as a school principal. Thank goodness it wasn’t in the district where I went to high school, otherwise I don’t think I would’ve been able to get away with half the stuff I used to do. Last year he decided to retire, and he and Mom moved up north to Flagstaff so they could enjoy the weather from all four seasons. Personally, I can’t stand the snow, and my little Toyota Corolla isn’t equipped for icy roads. Thankfully, Flagstaff hasn’t seen any snow for two weeks, which is somewhat abnormal for January.
Hefting two small suitcases into the trunk, I check that Micah is safely buckled in the backseat and hug Stacey goodbye. We pull away from the apartment complex, and I hear the familiar music of Micah’s iPad and the games he likes to play on the drive.
It’s roughly a three-hour drive from Phoenix to Flagstaff, and I feel guilty that I have the radio playing and Micah is on his iPad the whole drive, but at least he doesn’t ask me if we’re there yet every five minutes.
My parents’ house is a little brown A-frame that sits on the edge of a wooded hill, their nearest neighbor about three hundred feet away. They exchanged the close-knit neighborhood of our Phoenix home for the country life and are very content. Mom gardens and raises chickens; Dad works in the shop at the rear of the property. Puffy white smoke rises from the stone chimney, and Mom meets us at the red front door when we pull up and park. Her cheeks are flushed, and her hair is neatly styled in a perfect black bob that accentuates her cheekbones.
Micah leaps out of the car, iPad forgotten, and runs to my mom, who kneels down and pulls him into a warm embrace. A sad sigh is pulled from my chest when remembering what those embraces used to feel like. I haven’t been on the receiving end of one of her genuine hugs since I told her I was pregnant with Micah. Not that I can really blame her. I was young and unmarried, and the father was out of the picture. But the lack of affection still stings, though I’m glad she freely gives it to Micah.
“Sweetheart, I was beginning to think you had forgotten us,” she says as she pats Micah’s head and gently pushes him inside the house.
“Of course I didn’t forget, Mom. I had to stop a couple times for Micah to use the bathroom.” And to grab something made of chocolate for me, but I don’t tell her that. Though sometimes I think she’s psychic or can read minds because she says, “You really should lay off the sweets, dear,” as her finger brushes of a stray bit of candy bar from the corner of my lip. Damn chocolate. You have to go and betray me too?
“So what do you guys have planned for us this weekend?” I ask, steering the conversation away from my addiction to sweets.
“Oh, the usual.” Mom sweeps us inside, calls for Dad to grab our suitcases, and ushers Micah and me into the spare bedroom at the top of the stairs. They bought this house from another retired couple who decided they wanted to cash in their equity for a large RV and travel the states. In some regard, I guess I could see the allure of traveling wherever you want, but I’m happy in Phoenix. I’m happy staying in one place and putting down roots.
Micah finds the heavy winter jacket Mom keeps for him in the closet, shoves on a pair of thick gloves, and runs down the stairs and out the backdoor before I have time to take a breath. He loves Mom’s chickens and, more often than not, I need only look in the coop and he’s got one or two of them on his lap, petting them and talking sweetly.
That boy really needs a dog.
“Where do you want these?” Dad asks from the bedroom door. He’s brought up both suitcases and no doubt is ready to return to his news show or maybe his woodshop. I point to the same corner by the closet where I have him place them every time we come to visit. He nods, lifts them with a grunt, and places them where I pointed.
“Thanks, Dad.” He nods again and practically races out of the room. I plop on one of the two twin beds in the room and lie flat on my back. I never thought I’d end up being a single mom, working two jobs just to make ends meet. But then again, I wouldn’t trade a minute with Micah. He’s a bright light in my life that keeps me going on tough days and makes me smile with his crazy antics.
After dinner, I help Mom clean up the kitchen while Dad and Micah play a game of Sorry! I love the way my little boy laughs, the sound so innocent it melts my heart. The four of us play another round when the kitchen is clean, and then I go through our bedtime routine and bring Micah upstairs to put him to bed.
“I love coming to see Grammy and Gramps,” he says with a drowsy smile. “Why can’t we come every weekend?”
“You know why,” I say, kissing his little button nose. “I have to work and only have one weekend off a month.”
“Julietta pecked my finger today.” Mom’s head hen is known to be a little territorial.
“Oh yeah? Did it hurt?”
He shakes his head and stares up at me with wide, brown eyes. “I was brave, like a superhero. They don’t cry when a chicken pecks their finger.”
I pinch his cheek and smile at his logic. “No, I suppose they wouldn’t cry. I love you, my sweet little boy. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?” He nods and his lids lower, his long lashes fanning across his pink cheeks. Man, I love this boy.
I find Mom and Dad sitting on the couch sipping their chamomile tea and notice the room is silent except for the ticking of the clock hanging on the wall. Before I have time to turn around and escape their inquisition, Dad calls for me to join them. I swallow the lump in my throat and prepare myself for whatever lecture they have in store for me this time.
I leap onto the overstuffed armchair like a teenager, and fold my legs under me. Almost in unison, both my parents take another sip of tea and set it back on matching end tables they bought at Costco.
Dad clears his throat and glances at Mom, raising his eyes at her. He’s never the one to do the talking—it’s always her and very little me.
“We think it’s time you and Micah move up here,” she says point blank. We’ve had this discussion many times, and I always tell her the same thing: I’m happy where I am and don’t want to move or take Micah away from the school he’s in. As I open my mouth to argue my point like I always do, she waves a hand, dismissing me.
“We’ve found a nice place near an elementary school that we’ve put a deposit down to hold it. You can start moving in as soon as Monday, and Micah can start school as well. You can go and pack up your apartment tomorrow and start bringing stuff up right away. Micah can stay with us until you get settled, that way he can get acquainted with Mrs. Richardson, his teacher, and meet some friends.”
