After The Break

by Andrea Joan

  He stills for second, then starts to stroke his fingers lightly down my back. “Let’s just sleep now, okay? We can talk about it later.” His response wasn’t what I was hoping for, but it was at least enough to help me relax so I could sleep, knowing that he was leaving the discussion open for another day.

  I WAKE WITH A jolt. It wasn’t a nightmare that got me this time. Last night I slept rather soundly, and apparently longer than six hours seeing as the clock on my nightstand is telling me it’s eight. Liam isn’t in bed, which isn’t a surprise given the time. He probably went out for his run. Thank god he didn’t wake me for that. I think I gave up on the morning runs when I stopped sleeping through the night. When I hear beeping, I realize what it was that must have interrupted my sleep. I grab my phone off the nightstand and unlock it.

  “Holy shit.” Forty-two missed calls, twenty-seven voicemails, and fourteen unopened text messages. That’s a lot for eight a.m., even for me. When I go to check my messages, the phone shuts off. Dead battery. Of course. Where the hell did I even put my charger?

  Throwing back the covers, I grab Liam’s shirt off the floor and put it on, along with a pair of shorts. I’m so going to need some coffee before I deal with the case of the missing phone charger, and definitely before I check these messages. When I step outside into the hall, I see Noah’s door wide open with a very naked Erik sprawled out on top of the covers, no doubt sleeping off a wicked hangover. I can’t believe I slept through them coming into the house. I guess rough sex plus a deep conversation equals a sleep coma. Not that I’m complaining, I needed some sleep.

  I start down the stairs, then take them two at a time the second I smell coffee. When I hit the landing, I hear Noah talking in the living room, panic in his voice. At first I think he may be talking to Liam, but I quickly realize the conversation is one-sided. He must be on the phone.

  “No. I don’t know what to do. Just this morning. It’s everywhere, Win. She is going to freak. I had no idea. He saw it.”

  Feeling a little sleazy for eavesdropping, I alert him to my presence as I walk toward the coffee maker. “Morning.”

  “Win, Skylar just walked downstairs.” Noah spares me a tentative glance. “Okay. Yeah, I will. I will. Okay, bye.”

  Okay, seriously, what the hell? “What’s up?” I ask him cautiously as I reach into the cupboard for a coffee cup. I am willing to bet this has something to do with Liam and Cass’s fight last night, and there is no way I want to rehash that without coffee first, so I don’t even give him a chance to answer. “You know, if Erik is going to sleep ass naked in your bed I would recommend closing the bedroom door so that we all don’t get a free show.” I smile at him while pouring the coffee into my mug. The smell of it hits my nose before the liquid even touches my lips, and I’m instantly awake. Now I’m ready to talk about this nonsense. But when I look at Noah, he almost looks scared. “Noah…I was just joking. Shit.” Silence and a pitying look. “Okay, Noah, what’s up? You’re starting to freak me out. And where is Liam? Is he out on his run?”

  “Skylar, honey, come sit down on the couch next to me for a second.” Noah moves to take a seat on the couch. Is he for real right now?

  “No thanks, I’d rather stand. And what is with the serious tone? Look, if this is about Cass and Liam, don’t worry, I have that handled. Wait, is this about Cass? He’s okay, right?” Dammit, I should have checked on him last night like I planned to. Maybe I should call him.

  “Skylar, stop. This isn’t about Cass and Liam. Cass is fine. I mean, he’s probably hungover as fuck and his face has seen better days, but he’s fine. Look, there’s something we need to talk about.”

  “So then just spit it out already.” He’s handling me with restraint and that has me edgy.

  “Liam and I were down here making coffee, and I turned the L.A. morning news on like I always do, ya know?”

  “Yeah, I know you love lusting after the anchor, William Elliot, more than you actually like watching the news.”

  “Skylar…shit…I don’t know how to go about this.”

  “Just say it, Noah. And where the hell is Liam?” I slam my coffee cup on the kitchen counter. This is getting ridiculous, and my patience is wearing very thin. Whatever Noah has to tell me surely doesn’t necessitate this kind of drama.

  “Listen, there’s a leaked video of you, Skylar. And it’s everywhere.”

  My heart starts to pound in my chest. Realization dawns on me that this could be why my phone was blowing up this morning.

  “What do you mean? What kind of video?”

  My mind races through all the scenarios, the most damaging one being that I blew Liam in the car last night. It was reckless and stupid and hot as hell, but still dangerous. For me. For Liam. Shit, how could I be so stupid? I fucking know better. Noah gets up from the couch and walks over to me, grabbing my hand for comfort, I’m sure.

  “Someone was filming you and Carl in the parking garage of Steve’s office the day you met to talk about Jeff Roberts.”

  My heart stops. I forget to breathe, and my whole world turns black.

  No.

  No, no, no.

  “Skylar!” Noah shakes my shoulders and I come back around.

  “Oh my god. Oh my god, Noah. Please tell me the video is not what I think it is.” I grab my hair in frustration with shaky hands, praying that the next words out of his mouth are the ones that were repeating in my head moments ago. Judging by the tears starting to pool in his eyes, I know they won’t be.

  “I’m so sorry, honey. Someone got a pretty good fucking video, complete with sound, of Carl abusing you at Steve’s office, and it’s all over the news. It’s gone viral, and it does not look good. Why didn’t you tell me that bastard started up with this shit again?” he whispers, pulling my trembling body into a hug.

  I push away from Noah, creating some much-needed distance. I don’t want to be touched right now. Not unless it’s by—oh shit. “Noah, you said Liam was in the kitchen with you.”

  “He saw it, Skylar.”

  Bile rises in my throat and I quickly run to the sink, making it just in time as I empty what little contents I had in my stomach into it. Noah holds my hair back until I’m finished, then I grab a bottle of water from the fridge so I can rinse my mouth out. The events of that day play over and over in my head. I lied to Liam, straight to his face, and now he knows. He hated Carl before because he always suspected, and now he has a front row seat, the proof that he was right all along, the proof that I’m nothing but a liar.

  “Where is he?”

  “Listen, I think you should give Liam some time to himself. We need to come up with a game plan on how to deal with the media.”

  “Dammit, Noah! Where is he?” Given everything Liam has already been through, I know he shouldn’t be alone right now. I can only pray he hasn’t gone after Carl.

  “Listen, he wanted to go after Carl, Skylar. Damn near tried to take me out when I wouldn’t tell him where he lived. He needs time to cool off. I mean, Jesus, the guy punched a hole in your drywall!” He points to the wall near my bar, and sure enough, there’s a fist-sized hole there. But I don’t care. He won’t hurt me, and I hurt him. I need to make this right.

  “Noah, don’t make me ask again.”

  Sighing, he finally relents. “He’s down in the gym.”

  I should’ve known. “Stay here,” I tell him, and I hurry down the stairs to the gym, hearing a faint “fuck” coming from Noah.

  I practically run down the steps, already knowing that I’ll see Liam hitting his bag, and I try and think of all the things I could say to make this better. What I see when I hit the last step creates a pain in my chest that I never knew was possible.

  “LIAM, STOP! Christ, what are you doing?” I bolt over to him, wrapping my hands around his waist, pulling him from the heavy bag with a strength I didn’t even know I possessed and slamming him against the wall. For as long as I live, I’ll be haunted by the vision of him beating the bag merciles
sly, with his bare, bloodied hands.

  Silent seconds suspend in a slow wave around us as I hold him against the wall, our breathing frantic as I pull his bloodied, unprotected hands into my own. How long has he been hitting the bag? And why the fuck is he doing it without gloves or tape?

  “God, Liam. Your hands. Jesus, what have you done?” Angry skin mars his knuckles, blood and open wounds visible. He doesn’t even flinch when my salty tears hit his raw skin. I finally get the courage to look into his eyes, and I wish I had remained a coward a little longer, because the eyes staring back at me now are emoting a mixture of betrayal and an animalistic rage, but they refuse to look at me.

  “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you say anything, Sky?” Liam asks, his eyes trained on the ceiling.

  “I…”

  “Fuck!” He slams his head against the back of the wall. “I let you walk out of this house with him. I fucking knew you shouldn’t leave with that son of a bitch. Every fucking instinct told me to not leave you alone with him.”

  Liam grabs the wrist of my long-ago healed hand and brings it into his line of sight. “You came back here and your hand was bleeding. You said you hit your hand on a car. He did that to you, didn’t he?” His gravelly tone sends a shiver down my spine. “And please don’t fucking lie to me again.” The pleading in his voice devastates me, and suddenly the guilt of that innocent lie starts tearing me apart. If he’s seen the video, I don’t even know why he’s asking. I feel like he just wants to torture us both by having me say it.

  “Liam. I don’t know what you want me to say.” That’s not entirely true, I do know. But I just can’t say it. Not while he’s standing there looking like a tornado of rage and guilt ready to abolish everything in his path.

  Finally, he looks at me before wrapping his trembling, bloodied hands around my upper arms, turning me so my back is now against the same wall he moments ago occupied. He’s only wearing a pair of athletic shorts, his skin is beaded with sweat, and if this were any other situation I may have found myself slightly turned on.

  “I want you to tell me the truth,” he rasps. “I want you to tell me what he did to you. I want you tell me that he slammed you against that car. That he put his fucking hand around your throat.” He rests his hand gently at the base of my throat. “I want you to tell me that he grabbed your already injured hand so hard that it opened your wound and caused you to bleed. I want…no, I need you to tell me how long this has been going on. How long has your father been abusing you, Skylar?”

  That question, the one he asks in a whisper, feels like a verbal punch to my stomach.

  “Liam, it isn’t as bad as it seems.”

  “WHAT?” he roars, releasing me from the wall. “What the hell are you saying, Skylar? He was hurting you. You had a damn panic attack and fell to your knees when he left you in that garage. How is any of that not bad? If you start making excuses for that bastard, I’m going to lose it. Shit! I’m already fucking losing it!”

  His jaw is clenched, his fists opening and closing at his side as he stares me down; he’s clearly hanging on by a very thin thread.

  “I wasn’t going to make an excuse for Carl. What he did, what he’s done, it’s inexcusable.” I step toward him cautiously, hoping that if I exude an excess of calm, Liam will soak up the vestiges.

  “How long, Sky?”

  “When I said it wasn’t as bad as it seems, I just meant that…” I can’t even say the words, the shame of it all weighing them down in my throat. “I meant that he hasn’t hurt me like that in years. My father may as well have died when my mother did. After her death he changed, especially toward me. He was angry and drinking all the time, and because she killed herself, I think he blames me. He stopped when I got cast as Mandy Mayhem because he knew bruises would show on camera and the people that had to cover them up would be asking questions. This is the first time he has done anything physically to me in years.”

  Any idea I had that this explanation would calm him down quickly dissipates when he starts practically hyperventilating, pacing back and forth in front of me.

  “I felt your fear,” he mutters, refusing yet again to look at me. Liam did not appear present in this moment; he was somewhere else, he was someone else, becoming quickly unrecognizable.

  “What?”

  “I felt your fear. When he came to pick you up, I saw the fury in his eyes and I felt your fear, and I knew you shouldn’t go with him. But you assured me he wouldn’t hurt you, so I let you walk out that door.”

  Liam shoves his hands through his hair and crouches low to the ground, mumbling words under his breath that chill me: “This is just like them.”

  Liam is blaming himself for this, comparing it to the loss of his family. To the woman he loved.

  One second he’s crouched on the ground, and the next his arms are wrapped around the heavy bag, ripping it from the ceiling. I cover my ears and head as pieces of drywall fall to the floor. When I look back up, Liam’s hands are on his legs, his head bent as he attempts to suck air into his lungs. I walk to him cautiously, my fingers itching to touch him, to comfort him, but worried he may not want to be touched right now.

  Hurried footsteps echo down the stairs. “Skylar, are you okay?” Noah is looking ready for battle, but also keeping his distance. I think he knows as well as I do that I’m safe with Liam, but he wants me to know that he’s here for me.

  My hand tentatively touches Liam’s bare shoulder, and his muscles tense under my touch. Even his scars look angry—red and raised as if they are manifesting his rage for him.

  “I need my phone, Skylar,” he says between harsh breaths.

  “What? Your phone?”

  “Pants. In your room on the floor. I need it now.”

  “I got it, Skylar,” Noah says before taking off, leaving me and Liam alone again. I fight my tears because I don’t want to make this about me right now. I just want to fix this. To make this right with Liam, but I have no idea how.

  “What can I do? Tell me what to say. Please. I can’t lose you. Please just tell me what to do.” I run my hand up his neck and into his hair, the strands soaked with sweat, but I don’t care. I’m almost fooled that my touch relaxes him and he has calmed at least a little until he quickly pulls away, lacing his own hands on top of his head. He begins pacing back and forth, saying nothing.

  “Liam, please. Will you just look at me? Say something, anything. Yell at me if you have to,” I beg.

  He looks at me, and I don’t know if it’s tears or sweat dripping down his face. His lips part slightly and I think he’s about to speak, but then Noah is in the room, phone in hand, and whatever he was about to say is forgotten.

  “I need to be alone right now,” is all Liam says.

  I just stand there like a fool, waiting, selfishly begging for something more.

  “Come on, Skylar.” Noah grabs my hand and leads me to the stairs.

  The last thing I hear before I reach the kitchen is a tortured, “Dad, I need help.”

  Day 1 Post-Liam

  I thought I would be devastated when he finally left me.

  When he sat in front of me with the same bag he arrived with and told me he couldn’t do this right now. That he needed a break.

  But no, I’m not.

  I knew my life would be too much for him.

  I predicted it.

  Fuck him.

  Fuck Carl.

  Fuck the media and the fucking tabloids.

  I feel fine. Fantastic even.

  Cass is taking me out tonight. We’ll hit the clubs like old times. I don’t need anyone.

  Day 3 Post-Liam

  I knew I could survive losing him. Maybe it’s because I’ve been able to keep myself busy.

  I don’t even have time to sleep.

  I don’t need to anyway.

  I can just party and forget. Dance and drink and have fun until the memories fade away.

  I let them take pictures of me having a good time just to pro
ve to the world I’m not what Carl says I am.

  Day 5 Post-Liam

  I hate him.

  I love him.

  I miss him.

  I miss me. The old me. I want him back. I want me back.

  I just want to stay in my bed. I want it all to go away.

  Noah brought me my favorite Chinese takeout for dinner tonight. He says I need to eat. That three days without eating isn’t healthy. Like I don’t know that already. I just didn’t realize it had been three days since I last ate because I don’t care.

  I took a bite of the orange chicken and it tasted like nothing.

  I hate it.

  I hate me for hating it. I want it to taste like how I remember.

  I throw it away.

  Then I look through all the photos of him and me just to torture myself more.

  Day 6 Post-Liam

  I actually thought about getting out of bed today.

  Noah and Winter keep demanding it.

  Maybe I’ll go for a swim.

  It’s quiet under the water. Sometimes I think about just sinking to the bottom and staying there forever.

  Day 9 Post-Liam

  Noah won’t leave me alone.

  Winter won’t leave me alone.

  Cass won’t leave me alone, all of them texting and just “dropping by” to check on me, trying to convince me they care.

  They don’t. I know it.

  My agent won’t leave me alone. She’s pissed. Worried. Threatening to drop me because I missed a campaign shoot and two table reads for an upcoming project.

  Carl won’t leave me alone. He leaves me hateful texts and voicemails, one after the other about how much of a disappointment I am. How I am destroying my career.

  And the one person I wish wouldn’t leave me alone is still radio silent. Because he finally realized what I knew all along:

  I’m not worth it.