Eight (Love by Numbers Book 6)

by E. S. Carter

  Buzzzzzzz. Tap, tap, tap.

  It’s all I can do to hold back a curse, and Arthur stops mid-crawl and turns to plonk himself on his bottom, his inquisitive eyes now locked on the front door at the other end of the hallway.

  “Come on, little man. Daddy needs a buffer.”

  I scoop up my little boy, deposit him on my hip and walk towards the front door. Without Arthur crying, I don’t feel the need to murder whoever is on the other side, but I’m still pissed off that they’ve returned. What did she say she was doing here before with a ridiculously huge teddy bear? I can’t remember because I couldn’t focus on her words for the screeching of Arthur’s cries and the pounding of blood in my ears.

  Taking a deep breath, I pull open the front door expecting a teddy bear and come face-to-face with a slim, petite, strawberry blonde with a headband of daisies in her hair, carrying what looks like a dozen grocery bags.

  “Hey,” she offers, with a nod of her head to me and a bright smile for a gurgling Arthur.

  I stare but don’t offer a greeting.

  “Okay,” she draws out in a long breath. “As much as I want to stand out here and get the silent treatment, I’ve had a long shift and I’ve yet to see my bed. So, if you can point me in the direction of where you want this lot-” she shakes the bags a little in emphasis and almost drops a few “-I’ll be on my way and out of your hair.”

  Her smile doesn’t falter, but it does become more brittle. Her brows rise in a slight challenge as if to say ‘Shut this door in my face again. I dare you’.

  “Da-da. Da-da,” Arthur exclaims excitedly trying to escape my arms. When I turn my head to see what has caught his attention, I spot the giant bear from earlier propped up against the side of the villa.

  “Maybe get Da-Da to take him inside for you, hey little fella,” the girl with the daisies in her hair offers sweetly, but I can hear the edge in her tone. “And then maybe Da-da can take all this stuff off me that I’ve forsaken my sleep to go and buy as a favour to my boss, so I can finally crawl into my bed and go to sleep.”

  I turn my head and our eyes clash. Hers are the deepest chocolate brown I’ve ever seen.

  I remain mute.

  “Huh,” she grumbles, shifting the bags around in her grip. “Maybe Da-da doesn’t need my help, and I’ll just drop these-” she releases the bags all at once, their contents spilling out onto the floor. Glass bottles clank and at least one smashes. Fruit and vegetables roll across the path at her feet, “-right here for Da-da to decide what to do with, in his own sweet, damn time of course.”

  “Da-da, Da-da,” Arthur exclaims excitedly, clapping his chubby hands together with glee at both the mess at our feet and the giant teddy who sits silently, bearing witness to his father getting his arse handed to him by a daisy-haired girl.

  “Nice meeting you, little fella,” she salutes to Arthur before turning and carefully stepping over the mess that surrounds her.

  And still, I don’t say a word.

  I watch in silence as the girl with long hair the colour of a muted sunset, with flowers in a halo around her head, walks away from the villa towards a beat-up looking VW bug. Without turning back, she starts up the rusty pale green car, places sunglasses on her face to shield her eyes from the midday sun, and drives away from us with one arm stretched out and floating on the warm air outside of her open window.

  “Da-da,” Arthur continues, dragging my stare away from the empty road before me.

  “Okay, little man. Let’s get you inside, and I’ll grab the big ted, is that a good idea?”

  “Da-da,” he answers back happily with the only words he’s yet to master, a sound that he applies to everything and anything.

  With one last look at all the groceries on the floor, and with a tired sigh, I turn, grab the giant teddy by his ear and drag him into the house behind us. Arthur bounces excitedly on my hip the entire way. Placing them both where I can see them with a clear view of the door, I return to the front of the house to collect up all the bags and escaped produce.

  Food, beer, nappies, wet wipes, fresh fruit, and vegetables. You name it, and she bought it. For us. For my kids and me. And what did I do? I slammed the door in her face the first time, and the second time I stared at her like she had two heads. At no point did I thank her, or ask her name or even smile. No, I stared. In fact, in all honesty I glared.

  I don’t care if she was asked to help by her boss as a favour to Nate and Liv. I don’t care that she went shopping instead of going home to her bed after what was likely a long shift in Nate’s club. I don’t care what her name is or that she has long tanned legs and pretty, brown eyes.

  I don’t care because I came here to get away from people. Away from their pity and their help. From their concern and compassion. But mostly from the memories of Laura that they wore on their faces.

  If Ivy said something funny, they’d get this look that said, ‘Laura would be so proud.’

  If Arthur hit his next milestone, they’d smile with watery eyes, their thoughts and feelings as plain as day. ‘If only Laura could see him.’

  I don’t want their memories haunting me. I have enough of my own – a million feelings, a thousand thoughts, and an uncountable number of memories. Ones that I seal up inside a shatterproof box during the bright sunlit days, only to drag them out, one-by-one during the endless dark of night.

  We are unable to appreciate the worth of a special moment while we live it, and its true value is only known once it becomes a memory. For most, these snapshots of special moments are precious. For me, they are torture, and like a junkie craving his next fix, I uncover my hidden stash in the dark of night when there’s no one there to stop me using them as weapons. When there’s no one around to watch as I carve each memory into my skin. When I sink into the self-flagellating pain of every day, hour, minute and second, I spent with my wife.

  Memories are my self-harm weapon of choice; who needs to cut into flesh with knives or razors when remembering one moment with her carves out my heart.

  Laura Smiles.

  What a bloody, tossing, shitting, cocking, arsehole.

  When Rachel, my best friend and floor manager at Aurora, the club where I work, asked me to do her a favour after my shift, I didn’t think I’d end up spending two hours of my valuable sleeping time shopping for an ungrateful prick.

  His little boy was cute, though.

  And he has this whole ‘tortured soul’ vibe going on.

  But he’s an arsehole.

  “He’s lost his wife,” my conscience whispers as I trudge up the three flights of stairs to the apartment I share with Rachel and Zoey, and I remember the tragedy that rocked Nate’s family last year.

  “I don’t care what he’s been through,” I mumble to myself as my weary feet tackle the last few steps. “You shouldn’t treat someone that way, especially when they busted their arse to help you out.”

  “Whose arse is busted?” Zoey’s voice calls from the open door to our apartment, and I look up the last flight of stairs to see her standing there waiting for me. Her curvy, bikini clad body glistens with oil, and her long dark locks, tied back in a messy bun, show off her striking and exotic features. Zoey’s mother was a Romany Gypsy who left her travelling community when she fell in love with a Somali refugee. Her mother’s community shunned them, so they rebuilt their lives in northern England and Zoey arrived soon after. Physically she is the perfect mix of both parents, with smooth mocha skin and a flawless bone structure. She gets more than her fair share of admirers and effortlessly refuses all advances because, for Zoey, there’s only one person that sets her heart racing.

  “Day off?” I guess when I take in the towel under her arm, and straw beach bag slung over her shoulder.

  “Hell, yes, it is,” she replies with a blinding grin of perfect teeth and plump lips. “I’ve tried to convince Rach to snooze with me in the sun, but she’s gone straight to bed.”

  And there is the person that sets Zoey’s heart af
lutter – our roommate, my best friend and our direct boss, Rachel Miles.

  “Well, she has just come off a twelve or knowing Rach, a fourteen-hour shift at the club. You can’t blame her for wanting to collapse in her cool, air conditioned bedroom.”

  Zoey bites her lip, a look of insecurity flashing across her face. This girl seriously does not know how special she is, both inside and out. The problem is, she’s pining over someone she can never have. Rachel likes guys. It’s just the way it is, but Zoey’s love for her overrides this knowledge. For Zoey, love is when you can’t stop looking at the person who holds your affections, even if they never look back.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Zoey murmurs with a shrug of her shoulder. “Are you hitting the sack too? You look beat.”

  “I am beat,” I reply while dragging myself up the last few steps and placing a quick peck on Zoey’s cheek as I pass. “It’s my night off tonight, and I think I’m gonna sleep for twenty-four hours straight.”

  We swap places, and I prop myself in the doorway while Zoey stands on the first few steps.

  “I may crawl out of my hole to grab some food, though, so if you want to bake some more of those cashew cookies you made the other week, I won’t turn them down.”

  I give Zoey my best ‘pretty please’ smile to which she replies, “You need to work on your begging face. That thing you’re doing right now-” she motions to my face with one of her aqua-tipped fingers, “-makes you look constipated.”

  My smile drops from my face, and I squint at her and all but growl, “Screw you later.”

  She laughs, and even when she’s mocking me, she looks ridiculously attractive, and then proceeds to skip down the stairway throwing me a little finger wave over her shoulder and a “You wish,” that sing-songs from her lips.

  When I hear the last of her footsteps echo off the bottom of the stairwell, I turn and drag myself into our apartment. Luckily, my room is the first on the left, and by the time I have the door open, I’ve all but stripped naked ready to crawl under my cool cotton sheets.

  “Halle, my sweet little berry. Wake up. I know you can hear me.”

  “Mmm-bugger off,” my brain mumbles, my lips hopefully voicing the same thing, as I drag my bed sheet over my head.

  “I’ll make it worth your while. Pur-lease… you don’t want to let your favourite roomie down now, do you?”

  “It’s my night off, Rach. Get Zoey to help you,” I manage to mutter while I burrow deeper into my pillows.

  “Zoey can’t sing or play guitar, and the band I booked has cancelled. I can’t have an empty stage in Aurora, and your set rocked when you filled in last time. C’mon, my fruity little friend, I’ll pay you for a double shift.”

  “It was a one-time gig. I’m not a muso. Call the agency and have them send someone over.”

  Cold air hits my naked skin when the sheet gets torn from my body, and I immediately curl up into a ball to block out what I know is coming next.

  “You can have the whole weekend off if you do one, two-hour set.”

  When I don’t move or reply she continues, her voice all soft and cajoling, “I know you want to catch that art show in the Old Town, and I also know it’s the last few days of the exhibition. So, crawl out of your pit, jump in the shower and come wow the crowds with your sweet voice tonight.”

  This girl doesn’t play fair. I really do want to see that exhibition.

  “Okay, Okay,” I growl at my pillow and hear Rachel shout a triumphant ‘Yes!’ while likely punching the air. “Give me back my sheet, and I can squeeze in another hour before I have to get ready.”

  “Nuh-uh-ahh,” she refuses teasingly, before smacking my bare arse with her palm. “I know you, my little berry. You’ll curl up and sleep the night away. So up-up and get your lily-white butt in the shower.”

  “I swear if you smack my arse once more,” I warn her and turn my head, cracking open one eye to see her just about to do that very thing.

  “You’ll what?” she taunts and steps away from the bed.

  “I’ll… I’ll… I’ll think of something once my brain has woken up. You know I don’t function well when I’ve just woken up.”

  “Why’d you think I always ask you for a favour when you’re half asleep,” she throws over her shoulder as she all but skips out of my room.

  “Witch,” I mumble as I feel around for the sheet to cover myself, my hands finding nothing.

  “Hey,” I call out to my open bedroom door. “Give me back my bloody bedding or I’ll…”

  “You’ll what?” she teases from somewhere in the apartment. “Just get up, Halle. You’ve lost… again.”

  I flop down onto my back, my naked limbs star-fishing the mattress.

  “Story of my life.”

  The last week has been testing.

  Looking after small children in a new place with hot weather and no routine, all combines to become a pressure cooker of stress.

  But, despite all that, I feel as if I can breathe here.

  I’m not saying that everything I’m struggling with has magically disappeared, but I finally feel as if I can tackle things head on and not run from them like a scared, weak little boy. Like the coward I’ve been for too long.

  I’m ashamed of the man I’ve become. I hate looking in the mirror at this face and seeing the dark rings under my eyes and the hollows in my cheeks, knowing that the cause of it is not only what life took from me, but what I almost threw away in my grief.

  I can’t take back my actions, I can’t erase the last year, but I can make a promise to myself and my kids to be present in life, be there for them, but also be there for me. I can’t be a good father, son, brother or even human if I’m constantly punishing myself.

  “Princess Ivy,” I call through the crack in the bathroom door expecting an instant reply, but I’m met with silence.

  “Ivy, can you hear me?” I say a few seconds later with my mouth closer to the gap.

  “Dad,” she groans in annoyance. “I’m having a poo. Can’t I get even five minutes of peace and quiet?”

  I can’t help the snort that leaves my mouth at the little madam using my words and throwing them back at me. I can’t count the number of times this last week where I’ve tried to use the toilet, only for one or both my kids to follow me in there or start crying, or post things under the door. It’s hard enough to have a pee during their waking hours, but God forbid that I need to have a number two.

  And, I’m using terms like ‘number two’.

  Laura will laugh her socks off when I tell her…

  My smile cracks, leaving my face with a painful ache where my grin once was. It’s these times when I forget and store up funny anecdotes to share with her that hurt the most. It’s like my subconscious can see I’m trying to live, but it doesn’t want to let me, so it reminds me in the most hurtful way that life isn’t about sharing funny stories with my wife anymore or keeping her updated on the things our kids have done that will make her laugh. I get to keep those things to myself, when all I want to do is share them with the one person who would want to know them the most. I hate that she is missing all this, even the seemingly small things. They wouldn’t be small to her.

  “Okay, Ivy,” I force through the painful lump in my throat. “Come and find me when you’re done and don’t forget to-”

  “Wash my hands. I know, Daddy,” she interrupts and I know she’s rolling her eyes at me just like her mother used to do.

  I leave her to finish and head towards Arthur’s room where he’s due to wake from his mid-morning nap. When I walk into his darkened room and draw back the curtains to let the warm sunlight filter through, he stirs. First, his eyes scrunch up against the brightness, making him look like a cute little mole. Then his plump, little lips purse in annoyance and I have to stop myself from touching his soft, wrinkled mouth with my fingertips. This grimace is followed by his limbs splaying wide, and his back arching in a full body stretch before he huffs out a cute sigh of irr
itation and rolls over to give me his back and block out the bright light. I swallow down my laugh at his stubborn refusal to wake. Arthur is one years old in a couple of weeks, and you’d swear he was a teenager when deprived of sleep.

  This, right here, is the beauty of parenthood. It’s the incredible highs that fill you from within with an inexpressible joy, and the lowest of lows that make you question everything. In the space of a few minutes, my children have both made me laugh and then made me want to weep. That is the splendour of childhood innocence, and I want them to keep it for as long as possible because adulthood arrives soon enough.

  I look down at my little boy as he fights against waking and I know I’ve done nothing to deserve the blessing of having him or Ivy, yet I’m determined to become worthy of them both.

  “C’mon, Arthur. It’s time to wake up,” I soothe as I run a hand down his back. He grumbles but turns to curl into my touch, his eyes blinking open and looking up at me. I don’t hide the smile on my face as I beam down at him. My little boy needs to know his daddy is always pleased to see him.

  “Shall we go to the beach? Whaddya think, Arty? Want to make a sandcastle with Daddy?”

  “Da-Da,” his sleep covered voice babbles out. He lifts his arms to be picked up, and my heart expands then contracts in my chest at the sound, despite him not aiming it at me.

  “Yeah, I thought you’d like that idea. C’mon, little one. Let’s go and get-”

  “You said not to call him Arty,” Ivy calls out from the doorway behind me.

  “I didn’t call him Arty,” I reply with a smile, knowing that I did indeed let the nickname fall from my lips. My teasing smile is still on my face when I turn to look at her with her little brother in my arms.

  “Yes. You did,” she says firmly, hands on her hips, head tilted to the side in a move that is all her mother.

  “Noooo,” I tease. “You misheard me.” I wink, and she opens her mouth to continue arguing with me, but I cut her off with, “Did you wash your hands?”