Once Upon A

by Charlotte E Hart

  I might be a bit blotto by the time Bree arrives and dumps her bag down on the floor, phone still attached to her ear and a shit eating grin spread across her face for some reason.

  “What?” I spit out, unamused by her happy face and already signalling the waiter for more wine before he leaves. Apparently I’ve entered morose enthralment, choosing to deliberate the entirety of my ineffective existence rather than deal with changing it in any way. She flaps a hand at me, her nonplussed expression focused on her conversation with someone other than me.

  “Really?” she says, her body slowly lowering to the booth seating as she drags out her laptop and starts setting up. I don’t know why she’s bothering. I’ve written zero words in the last hour or so while I waited for her, choosing rather to stare blankly at the world and imagine Blaine staring back at me with his dirty mouth ready for use. “That’s phenomenal.” The word sparks my interest a little. Nothing has ever been phenomenal in Bree’s world, irrespective of the fact she makes a fortune. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever heard her use the word. “Yes. Okay.” She listens some more, now smiling and writing something down on her notepad. “Okay, I’ll see you then.” She hangs up the phone, her body leaning back as she chucks the pen on the pad and keeps smiling at me.

  “What’s phenom…” I can’t get the word out, so try again having swigged another gulp of wine and inched myself more upright. “Phonimal…” Oh, balls to it. What’s the point? I give up, choosing to carry on with the wine drinking until she expands rather than attempting speech.

  “Drunk, are we?” I blow a raspberry at her, unsure whether it’s the effect I’m after or whether I’ve given up on speech altogether. The latter’s probably better given the mood I’m in. “The fuck’s up with you?” Life. Life is what’s wrong with me, and the lack of Blaine Jacobs in it. Which is ludicrous. I’ve known him all of five fucking minutes and now I can’t exist, think, or do anything without him? It’s tragic. I’m a tragedy. My hands are trembling as I hold this fucking glass and I feel like Shakespeare is about to spout forth, listing some ode to missing hearts that beat only for the function of love. Perhaps I should leap from a balcony, hoping someone will catch me and make the hole in my heart stitch back together.

  “Fuffing.” I’m assuming that meant ‘nothing’, but I can’t be bothered to change it, and she’ll get the point anyway. All I want is this alcohol and some sleep, maybe mixed with some Blaine fingering for enlightenment of some kind. I could balance on his finger. It’d be nice, spinny. A snort leaves my nose, followed by some wine that must have still been in my mouth.

  “The fuck, Lana?” Bree exclaims loudly. I look up to find her brushing the front of her cream sweater off, blobs of red dotting the surface of it. Whatever.

  She looks at me for a while, not really saying anything other than what her eyes are attempting to communicate. I don’t know what that is. I’m still too busy trying to say the word phenomenal in my head, occasionally attempting to mouth it. She might as well just get drunk with me and then we can all go to hell together, soulless and friendless, certainly loveless and weeping for things we shied away from rather than embraced as new and fulfilling. Oh god, why do I miss him so much?

  “Well, did you at least get everything you needed?” she says, “’Cause it’s clearly fucked you up, whatever it is.” Fucked me up? No. This fucks me up. This unending noise that comes at me, this pressure and constant want for more from me. I haven’t got any more. I can’t do it anymore. It’s all too much. There’s not enough me time. There’s no time for me or my life.

  I nod at her anyway, thinking of all the things he has shown me and wanting nothing more than more of it.

  “Did he hurt you?” Yes. No. Absolutely and irreversibly. He’s changed me with pain, and his fucking eyes, and that mouth of his. I’m all changed with no ability to contain what I was anymore, or real enthusiasm to do so anyway. I’m a mess of confusions. Unfortunately, it’s not something I can convey, though. I can’t even speak, let alone tell her any of this at the moment.

  “Come on,” she says, closing the laptop she’s only just opened and closing mine, too. I gaze at the move, agreeing with it entirely. Yes, close them all down. Stop the noise and just be. We should both just do that. We could sit in a bar somewhere, here even, for at least three days. I might need a bit more energy for that, though. The thought makes me reach for my happy pills, my body pitching as I try to aim for my bag and delve inside it. Two more should do, not that I know how many I’ve already had, but fuck it. What does it matter? I’ve got no one waiting for me anyway. I’ll sleep it off eventually. Perhaps we could go dancing and sweat these shakes out of me. It’s not like I can finish this fucking story anymore, is it?

  The lid pops unpredictably, sending my pills sprawling across the floor as I stare at their spread, terrified at the thought of losing them. Before I know it I’m down on the floor, the wine glass launched and my hands picking at the little white things as they roll about, desperate to get them back in their container.

  “Help me, Bree,” I cry out, my fingers trying to reach each and every one of them. My pills, I need them all. They’re mine. They help me contain it all. They keep me focused. I can’t do this without them, and they’re everywhere. People are here, covering them, possibly stealing them. Nothing happens but me still scrabbling about, banging a man’s foot out of the way in case he’s standing on one. It’s just me and the floor, a sea of little white tablets scattered out in front of me as I crawl around between people’s feet. Where have all these shoes come from? I can’t see my pills. I need to. “Get out the fucking way,” I snap out, slapping out at a pair of red Manolo’s and growling when they don’t get out of the damn way. I’ll bloody throw up on them in a minute if she doesn’t move. I swear I will. I glare up at her, my body pushing itself upright as I scoop another handful and try to steady myself. “Can’t you move?” I snap, wondering if she’s a mannequin or simply dense. She slowly turns, a look of utter disgust directed at me. I don’t know why. Bloody woman. “My pills?” I say, pointing at the floor.

  “Lana?” What? I swivel to see Bree, all our bags loaded onto her arm as she starts to walk out. “Time to go.” I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got to get my pills. I’m straight down to the floor again, my chin colliding with the floor as I search under the chairs, finally finding another one, reaching for it and then crawling off towards another one before it gets trodden on. Something tugs my jeans, making me shoot backwards and bash my head on the table as I scuttle to get out. “You’re making a fool of yourself,” Bree hisses, her hand still attached to my belt and her voice as harsh a whisper as I’ve ever heard. What? I look around, scanning the crowd that seems to be looking directly at me.

  “But my pills, Bree,” I reply, slurring slightly but still not moving from all fours as I look around again. “I need them. You understand, don’t you?” She doesn’t answer, but she does. She takes them as much as me. We have to in order to keep going. I can’t do it without them. It’ll all fall apart if I don’t get them inside me. They’re the only reason I can keep going through the night. The schedule will collapse without them to help and I won’t be able to keep up with the pressure. There are too many words needed. And too many people to be nice to. And too many stories to keep dreaming up. There are contracts and calendars. Timings. Distribution dates. Functions. Signings. Meetings and edits. The constant emails, the noise. It’s all so fucking noisy. I need my pills for it all. I do.

  “Lana, come on,” Bree says again, her hand touching my shoulder. I shrug her off, irritated with her lack of help because no. I won’t ‘come on’. I need my pills. She should know. She should.

  My hand slaps out at another leg as my head spins, moving it so that I can get to another shiny tablet that gleams from across the room at me. I must have nearly all of them now, some stuffed in my pockets, others being scooped into the little pot, my fingers trembling each time I try to keep them inside. They keep falling out. They
keep dropping, tipping out again and making me scoop them up again. It’s hard keeping them all contained, and the constant crawl round, all the time bashing people and trying to reach another one, keeps making me drop them all again. But I’ve got them all now, I think. They’re all back with me. I’ll be okay when I get the last one. My eyes scan the floor again, frantically searching the wood for any other pill that I’ve missed. I can’t see any. There’s only a sea of shoes and that one last pill that’s rolled to the far side. The thought calms me a little, my head beginning to slow its spin as I crawl the final few feet to reach it. But before I get there, a hand picks it up from between a pair of black brogues. My knees stop crawling, annoyance and fear mingling as I watch the fingers lifting it up and away from me. Who’s taking my pills? I’ll scream. I will. They’re my pills. Mine. It makes my eyes slowly creep up the legs, ready to fight for what’s mine if necessary. The hand hovers by his side, a silver cufflink glinting in my eye line that pokes out from a blue tweed jacket. And it’s only when I take a few seconds to stare at it, my own tongue licking my lips at the thought of the pill, that I realise who it belongs to. It imprints itself faster than the pill does, my lips licking again for no other reason than the hand slowly turning the pill between finger and thumb. I’m part dumbstruck he’s here, part relieved he is here, and part infuriated he’s anywhere near me.

  And then the knees bend, his body lowering to a crouch and bringing the pill between his legs to rest in front of me. I don’t look at him. I just keep focused on the pill, for some reason unable to lift my body from the floor nor able to speak all of a sudden as lucidity begins rushing back.

  “What are they, Alana?” he says, his voice flooding me with a calm I’ve been lost without. It’s so mesmerising I’m immediately drawn back to my quiet again, my hand instantly relaxing its death grip on the pot as I remember the soundless times with him. But there aren’t any words yet, not ones that can explain my need for these pills anyway. And the very fact that he’s asked the question makes me feel ashamed of them for some reason. I look away from the tablet, my knees itching to move me away from him and it. And my head shakes, unable to think rationally about the whole situation as I snatch glances at the rest of the crowd. “Would you rather I forced it?” I still don’t look at him, and the reason I don’t is because I know what’s coming. It’s something about the way his tone lowers, grating itself rather than asking politely. It causes everything inside me to remember the way he fucks, and the way he grips, decimating what’s in his hands and opening up a truth I didn’t understand before him.

  “Lana, get the fuck up.” It’s Bree. I can hear her faintly, but it’s nothing like the continued sound of his voice in my mind. “Who the fuck are you?” The ferocity of her manner makes me look at him, my head continuing to shake in the hope that he doesn’t go back at her. I’m floored the moment I do, my arms almost giving up the desire to hold me aloft. He seems furious, his face etched with harsh contours that are entirely focused on me. We just stare at each other, my own mouth trembling around words I can’t get out as I look between his lips and eyes.

  “I suggest you follow me,” he eventually says, his knees pushing him upright as he crushes the pill in his fingers, probably amplifying the way my bones will crumble in his hold should I follow, and then lets the remnants of white dust fall to the floor.

  “Jesus, Lana. The fuck is that asshole?” Bree says, her hands trying to pick me up as I watch him leave. His legs cover the floor with little thought for the people in his way, somehow owning the building by being in it as everyone starts moving for him. I still don’t speak as he stands in the doorway, his back facing me as he holds the door open and waits. He knows I’ll follow, doesn’t he? And I don’t even know why I want to, but I do. I want to more than I want my pills, more than the need to speak to Bree, more even than the need to get up from the floor. I could easily crawl from him to him, for some reason knowing he’ll help me up when I get there.

  “Blaine.” I don’t even know why I answered Bree. It’s so quiet I doubt she even heard it. Perhaps I just wanted to say the name out loud so someone else could hear it and know who he is. His head turns slightly, barely moving really, but he heard me say it and it connects me to him again so quickly I stand without thought. Bree grabs my arm, spinning me to her so that she can get in my face.

  “That’s him?” she says, her body getting in front of me to distract me from him. I stare into her eyes for a moment, deliberating her face and wondering if I should sober up and talk this through with her rather than accept the hand he’s offering. “The fuck are you doing, Lana?” She’s right. What am I doing? He sent me away. Told me to think. I should be thinking, not flicking my eyes to him again, salivating, and craving everything he whispered at me on that roof. But it’s so quiet when he’s about. There’s no noise, no incessant needling inside my brain.

  “I’m going with him, Bree,” I reply, drawing my bag from her shoulder and taking my other things from her grasp. “He’s right. I should go with him.”

  “You’re not. You’ve done what you needed to,” she says, snatching at my laptop bag again and stopping me from walking forward. “It’s just a book, Lana. This isn’t real.” But it is real. This is more real than it’s ever been before him. This is what I need. It’s love.

  “I have to.” I do. It’s proved now. I can’t function without him, horrendous as that might sound. I know it and so does he. It’s inbuilt. Some kind of draw that only happens inside my mind, bridging something I can’t describe, no matter how much I want to explain it to my best friend.

  “But look at the state of you, Lana. He’s done this, hasn’t he?”

  She spins away from me, her feet storming across the room to him and ducking beneath his arm as she walks out onto the pavement. I don’t know why but I smile at the thought, knowing she’s about to meet someone who’ll pay little care to her mouth as it tumbles out frustrated ramblings.

  He still doesn’t move as I watch her lips begin to move, her hand waving as if she’s trying to threaten him as she stands there in the rain, not giving a damn who he is. He just stands stock still, his arm continuing to brace the door open under the shelter of the doorway until I walk through it and accept his request. And it is a request. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt about Blaine it’s that he doesn’t force anything, not until he’s given permission to do so, and he somehow knows that even if I don’t. He knows it in the way my body moves.

  I slowly walk over, slipping the bottle of pills into my pocket and readying myself for an argument with Bree. This isn’t a discussion he’ll have with her. Her opinion will mean little if anything at all to his decisions about me. She’ll be as relevant as shit on the pavement she’s standing on.

  Chapter 20

  Alana

  “ Why are you here?” I ask quietly, looking at him and walking out to join Bree as she keeps shouting about something. I can’t hear it, and nor can he. He’s uninterested in anything but me and what’s going on. He lets the door swing shut and just stares at my face, his hands lowering into his suit pockets as he steps forward two paces into the rain with me. There’s no answer, and he doesn’t seem happy, making me feel uneasy about how he’s portraying himself to Bree. But he’s angry because I lied about medication, and he has a right to be, I suppose.

  “Deal with this so we can leave,” he says sharply, probably giving me only minutes to calm Bree down, or explain it to her somehow before we leave anyway. “Or she can come, too, learn some fucking manners herself.” No, that’s not happening. Although, the thought does make me smile a little, which appears to make his eyes crinkle, showing he’s not quite as mad as I thought.

  “And I can’t fucking believe this is acceptable to you, Lana. People worry, you know? What, you’re just gonna run off again with him and fuck some more? No phone calls, emails?” Oh yes, I never did text while I was away. And, well, yes, but it’s more than that anyway, and the way the corner of his mouth lif
ts just slightly as she carries on only proves the irrelevance of fucking. “You’re not. You told me you’d got everything you needed.” I’ve got nowhere near enough from him yet. I want his heart.