“For the love of Christ. No! But what’s it matter to you if I were?”
Hadley winces, and she again picks up her default stack of papers. “I don’t want someone hurt.”
“Are you more worried about Simone or me?” My heart screeches to a stop, waiting for her to answer.
“Both. I don’t know if she’s a good match for you.” She swiftly glances at me and then back to her pointless task of paper stacking. Her sapphire and diamonds of her engagement ring glitter in the sunlight, sickening me.
“But Rhonda is?”
“I think so, yes.”
“I don’t want to date anyone. I don’t sleep around either. Is that so hard to believe?” I frown, turning to watch cars on the street. “Normally I don’t.”
“You don’t want a woman to share your life with you?”
“No.” Not anymore. I see my sullen mouth move in the glass, but the rest of my face is a blur. May as well be a mirror.
“But... I promised...”
“Eden is dead. You don’t owe her anything.” I drag in a heavy breath, feeling the pain of that. My sister’s death hits me in waves. Right now, I feel like I’m going under. She’d know how to fix every damn problem of mine. “You don’t owe me anything either.” No. I owe Hadley more than I could ever apologize for.
A quick knock at the door and we both look to see Rhonda slipping into the room, carrying a folder. She stops abruptly when she sees me. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know...”
Hadley says, “It’s okay, Rhonda. Rod was just talking about your date.” Fuck. Thanks for throwing me under a fleet of buses.
Rhonda's face brightens. “Really? I had a great time.”
I nod but don’t reply. Instead, Hadley says, “It’s Rod’s turn to ask you out now.” Bloody fucking hell.
I try to speak, but my voice cracks. So, I cough, buying time. “Uh, I’ll have to check my calendar. I have Birdy sometimes.” Having a kid does have its hidden advantages.
Rhonda eagerly nods. “Okay. I’d love to meet her.” Not an advantage. Goddamn it.
“Sure. Um, yeah. I need coffee.” Picking up my mug, I leave Hadley’s office, regretting I stopped.
I need vodka. Lots of vodka.
“A screw.”
“Not just any screw. It’s a lag bolt, a type of screw but heavy duty. They require nuts and to have a predrilled hole. Wood screws, for example, do not need either. They make their own hole as you drill. You following?” Right off a fucking cliff.
“Yeah.”
“Good. There will be a quiz.” Of course, there is. I’m surprised they don’t quiz me on how to take a piss.
An old woman, closer to living in a nursing home than Myrtle, asks her for help, which grants me a reprieve. I never thought screwing would be so boring.
I avoided Hadley at lunch by telling her I was too busy, which is too bad because I didn’t get to tell her about Shasta and Grant, or even what Amos told me. As much as I hate skipping out on her, it’s my plan until the Rhonda thing blows over. I don’t want to go out with her again. That’d definitely send the wrong message if I haven’t already. She’s a nice woman who I can be friends with, but she’s not my type. Whatever that is now.
Pulling a box from the cart Myrtle has us working on to stock shelves, a woman stops, asking if I can help her with water softener salt. That’s not even my department. I don’t even know what the hell to do in my own.
“Rod would love to help you,” Myrtle says with a rare smile. “That’s what he’s here for.”
That’s all I’m pretty much good for.
The customer follows me over to Plumbing, where as luck would finally cut me a break, I picked the right aisle for the damn salt. After loading some bags into her cart, I turn and nearly run into Nico, who doesn’t have to wear an apron or smock. What a load of shit.
He grins. “Hey. How’s everything going?”
I laugh. “You’re watching me on camera. You tell me.” When I walk around him, he follows.
“I don’t sit there and watch The Gregger Show all day. It’s kind of dull.”
“Only where it doesn’t count.”
We walk toward Hardware, and he asks, “You going to Brandon’s Halloween party?”
I shrug. “I really don’t care about it.”
“I’ll probably have to work.”
“Here?”
He shakes his head as we sidestep people. “It’s Halloween. I’m usually busy with probationers pushing the limits that night.”
“Lucky you.”
“Maybe I’ll stop by, but I have no idea what to dress up as. Any suggestions?”
“Something bloody.”
“Like a vampire?”
“A tampon.”
He makes a disgusted face as we arrive at the first aisle of Hardware. “Yeah. No, thanks.”
“A bloody douche, then.”
Nico checks his watch without actually looking at it. “Jesus. Look at the time. I guess my break’s over.”
“Roadkill. An air traffic controller who got too close to the plane. A mauled mailman.”
Nico walks away, dismissing me with a backward wave. I thought those were good ideas. I might have to use one if I go.
Sighing, I head back to Myrtle and hope times goes fast.
As I walk, I step on something, and when I stop to see what it is, Myrtle says, “A box of screws just spilled onto the floor. I need you to clean them up for me. Grab a broom.”
Motherfucker. I’ll never see the light of day again.
Shutting the door as sirens scream past the complex, I rub my hand over my face. I’ve never been so exhausted in my life. Picking up screws took an hour of crawling on the floor and sweeping under the shelves since they pose a safety hazard. Myrtle then had me loading boxes onto another cart in the Receiving area. She then had me work with Rory, another Hardware hack who works nights. He taught me how to search for shit on the computer, which isn’t as easy as it sounds. Hardware has so many fucking measurements, specifications, and metal types. I’d rather do more sweeping.
This job is killer, the fatal-stabbing kind. Working two jobs is not for the faint of heart. Also, again I’m an absentee father. Shit.
Needing a shower, I go down the hall, seeing Eden’s diary still on the floor in the corner. Trying to ignore it, I strip off my Aerosmith T-shirt as I go into my room. Grabbing boxers and another T-shirt, I tuck them under my arm as I undo my fly and cross the hall to the bathroom.
The lukewarm water floods my back. Never hot water in this scrapheap. But it’s better than cold showers, which are also a common occurrence.
Standing there, Simone is on my mind. I didn’t mean to hurt her, but I had to be proactive. I can’t get in that deep with her. Literally. Simone intimidates me. There. I said it. She notices things others don’t. I’m not ready to show off my invisible scars, especially to her. She’d laugh and think I’m a fucking crybaby like Shasta called me. Even so, with the time I spent with Simone, I almost always forgot about my pain. It felt good not to hurt or have to pretend I’m somebody I’m not, unless I am actually pretending to be someone I’m not with her. Nevertheless, it felt damn good. I miss that.
Drying off and getting dressed, I then head to my bedroom, but before I do, I pick up Eden’s diary. Some of the pages are creased and torn, but so was my sister.
Laying on my bed, I open the diary and flip to the next unread page. Inhaling, I read.
Dear Gregster,
What can I tell you that I haven’t already? You make your own mistakes, but some of them lately have been real doozies. Trust me. I know.
Let’s turn this around. The situation and this entry. You tell me what’s in that brain of yours. Tell me what’s your most urgent matter. Maybe I’m listening. I can’t guarantee I can or will do shit for you, but it may give you insight. Don’t roll your eyes. Just do it.
E
Taking the pen from my nightstand, I write my entry.
Dear E,<
br />
Something happened to me, and I’ve never told anyone. It’s my dark shame, and my fault it happened. I wanted to fit in with them. I wanted her to like me. Instead, they all broke me. They laughed while I died inside. Now, I hide behind my laugh so nobody will see the damage. But laughter isn’t enough anymore, and I’m losing it. Fast.
I’ve already lost myself. I can’t lose more. Wherever you are, Eden, fucking save me.
Greg
CHAPTER 20
Two weeks and a handful of days go by faster than free dick slicks at a hepatitis B seminar. But with constantly working every day, I barely have time to notice. Nevertheless, I can’t forget about some things.
I knock on the door and wait, hating this place more than any public restroom. The door jerks open and Shasta’s frown almost makes me turn around and get the fuck out of here. “You’re just in time. She needs a diaper change.”
“Okay.” Going into the living room, the walls already feel like they’re closing in on me. I walk over to the small playpen setup and peer into it. “Hey, Tweety. Remember me?” Birdy starts kicking hard like a frog knocked onto its back.
Shasta stands next to me, putting her fingers into my hair, and I irritably tilt my head away, pissed off two seconds here. She whines, “When are you keeping her again?”
“Soon.”
“You’re off on the weekends!”
“I’ve been busy with a case for Amos.” That lie will work for now. “But I’m not working Saturday.” Myrtle will have to man the ship on her own. She’ll be despondent over my absence for sure.
“You’re not going to Brandon’s party?”
“Probably not.” I tickle Birdy’s chest, and she kicks more. I wish she’d kick her mother’s ass.
“Well, this weekend my mom and I are taking Birdy to my aunt’s in Maryland.”
I stand, and when I tower over Shasta, she straightens more, sticking out her tits at me. “Aren’t you supposed to get my permission to take her that far?”
“Permission? We don’t have a custody arrangement. You keep forgetting that.”
I move away from the playpen and Shasta’s PVC hooters. “It’s at least courteous to let me know you’re taking my kid out of state. I took a paternity test. It stated I’m her father.”
I try to gauge her reaction and when Shasta averts her eyes to the couch, saying, “Oh. Right,” it sets me off.
“And you forgot about that?”
She swings her longer ponytail of fake hair. Probably sheepdog. “It’s hard to remember every damn thing when you’re sleep-deprived!”
“But you don’t forget to fuck Grant!”
“What in the hell?”
“You thought nobody knew? Grant blabs.” To be fair, I’m sure he has. I’m just used to ignoring most of what he says. “How long have you been screwing him?”
“It’s none of your damn business.”
“It is if it means he’s Birdy’s father.” I glance at the playpen, feeling sick at the thought of that. “So, yeah! It kind of does matter!”
“Are you jealous, thinking about me with another man?” Shasta grins, practically giddy.
“I’d rather lick an electric fence.”
She glowers back at me. “He’s not Birdy’s father.”
“And I’m supposed to believe you?” I laugh. “Hug a landmine. I’m getting a redo. Without your help.”
“Good luck trying without Birdy’s blood.”
“You really want me to get a court to force you? Just like you, I have connections too. So, how’d you do it? Get your mother to fuck with the results? Or did you have Grant’s blood and just slapped my name on it?”
“Fuck you. I didn’t do either.” She flips her horsetail, pretending to preen it. I hope not for my benefit. I’ve already seen the ass beneath the tail. Not impressed. It was like fucking the Chesapeake Bay Bridge–Tunnel.
“I bet you were already pregnant when I showed up here. And why not? I’m the perfect stooge. Grant wouldn’t have wanted to tell his wife he fathered a child with the office doorknob. Right? So, you throw it at me, hoping I’d believe it, knowing I’d step up.” Eventually.
“Believe what you want. I didn’t lie. You have five minutes to visit your daughter. And if you say shit like that to me again, you won’t see Birdy to even doubt she’s yours.”
“Regardless of the outcome, I swear to God I’ll hunt you down for my daughter or my due. Know that.”
Birdy starts to cry, and I leave Shasta to return to the playpen. I pick Birdy up, and she stops crying as I take her over to the couch, grabbing a diaper and wipes on the way. At least I’ve learned a thing or three since first taking care of her.
Shasta is remarkably quiet as I change Birdy’s diaper, which is good because I don’t know how much more I can take of her, lying or not. Either way, she’s forced me into her life, or herself into mine.
I leave Birdy with Shasta, saying, “I’m not done with her.” I go to the bathroom by the staircase to throw away the diaper, to wash my hands, and to contemplate a murder-for-hire, wondering if they have payment plans.
When I return to the living room, Shasta actually hands Birdy back to me without further comment. How refreshing.
I sit with Birdy until Shasta reluctantly brings a bottle from the kitchen. Watching Birdy’s face, she blinks back at me as she drinks her milk. I wish she had a better life than this. I wish I could do better for her. I’m trying, but I’m bombing. Famously.
When Birdy finishes her bottle in a drowsy stupor, I put her back in the playpen, where she’s asleep before she hits bottom. Without another word to Shasta, I go, not wanting to leave Birdy there, no matter whose kid she is.
The thought of her not being mine agitates me, which agitates me more.
Rubbing my hands together, I turn my head left, then right in the mirror, unsure of how to do this. Or why I’m doing this. When my hands are sticky enough, I slip them into my hair, pulling straight up from the roots. I do this to every section until my hair is standing on end. Rinsing my hands, I study what I did, kind of digging it. Taking the hairspray I bought in addition to the hair gel for this occasion, not even knowing what I was going to do with them really, I spray the shit out of my hair to ensure it doesn’t move. I spray so much that I no longer see The Killers shirt I’m wearing, and I have to leave the bathroom to breathe.
On the way back to my bedroom, I grab the cheap flannel shirt I bought at Walmart and put it on over my T-shirt, leaving it open, but rolling up the long sleeves to my elbows. I always push up long sleeves if I can anyway.
Sitting on my bed, I pull on clunky work boots, another Walmart treasure, as my knees stick out of my torn jeans. I then clip a chain to a belt loop, then to my wallet, and shove it in my ass pocket. Checking my reflection one more time, seeing my jacked-up hair, I frown at myself. I have no idea what the fuck I’m trying to accomplish, looking like a grunge reject from the 90s. But I don’t look like regular Greg Rodwell. And when I squirt fake blood onto the flannel, avoiding my T-shirt, it completes the ambiguous look I was going for. So, it all works.
When I walk out to the living room, I’m reminded why I’m doing this at all. The news promo on TV shows Wilder at the helm of the sports broadcasts tonight at 10:00 through 11:30. Well, shit. He won’t be at Brandon’s for very long. What a damn shame.
That’s the only reason I’m going to this ridiculous thing. Wilder won’t be there all night. Because of work and the Rhonda situation, it’s been weeks since I’ve spent any time with Hadley. I miss her. And maybe she misses me too.
I’m fashionably late to Brandon’s, ensuring I don’t run into Wilder. He probably dressed up as a sports anchor to not ruin his ready-for-TV face. How goddamn original.
I park behind mostly everyone else since the party has to be in full geriatric sway by now. Orange, purple, green lights are fucking everywhere, and from the trees, gauzy ghosts drift in the air along the front of his mega house. Manmade fog rolls over phony
tombstones with the softball team’s names on them. What a creepy-assed touch and noticing my name shocks me more than I thought it would. Overall, I’m kind of impressed, especially seeing Betsy’s name on one next to Shasta’s.
Going down the path on the side of the house, black lights shine, lighting up the white lettering on my shirt. Speakers blare so-called spooky sounds, but I guess it’s an effort. Probably not Brandon’s effort, but his wallet showed some determination.
People dressed in masks pass me on the walkway. This place is too crowded to be just our office and extras from the team. When I round the corner, music drowns out the sound effects as a human-sized garden gnome jumps out at me dressed in red boots, a red cap, and a long white beard. “It’s Greg Rodwell! You made it!”
“What the fuck, Amos?”
“How’d you know it’s me?”
“Unlucky guess.” Despite the gaudy face makeup and costume, it’s obvious who it is and a definite upgrade, no matter the occasion.
He studies my appearance, and his face scrunches, making his hat almost fall off his bald head. “Who’re you supposed to be?”
“A murderous sociopath or psychopath. I can’t decide.”
“From Seattle?”
“Yeah and I’m damn awesome. I bet everyone here thinks so too. And if not, I’ll change their minds with my wit and charm before I stab them with my pocketknife. I don’t give a damn if they plead for their lives. Doesn’t bother me.” I laugh at Amos’ swift worry. “Hey, what do you know? I guess I pick murderous psychopath.”
“Rod, you’re sick.”
“Up and down, all day long.”
I peer around the backyard, seeing the pool is now covered. Scattered around the yard are large pole heaters lightly blowing warm air across the yard. It feels like a summer night. Again, Brandon strives to verify his dick isn’t of the cocktail variety.
Searching for Hadley but not knowing what she’s dressed as since we haven’t talked much, especially about this damn party, I surprise myself asking, “Where’s Simone?”
“She’s not coming.” But coming was her intent with me.
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