Throbbing Hearts (Hearts Series)

by Sabrina Lacey

  My tongue catches in my throat and I gurgle something like, “Corinne… she said his name. Just forget it! That’s not the point! You forgot her name and that – THAT – is the point!”

  Brendan touches the tips of his fingers to his scrambled brain, then splays out his arms like he’s saying I love you this much. “Why am I being attacked here? I didn’t do anything she didn’t want me to do.”

  “Oh God.” I want to tell him a dream died tonight. My dream man with the horse and shining armor. Also dead is the belief that there are good guys out there. And not only that, but my friend who I trusted is the one who helped kill that dream. Corinne slept with Brendan. Her mouth was on those abs. Her fingers traced that V. Her lips touched his lips, whispered sweet nothings into his ear while he gently made love to her…

  I’m going to be sick.

  “If you don’t already get it, I can’t explain it to you.” The room is spinning, but somehow I manage to walk around him and not gnaw on his bicep.

  “Hey,” he calls after me. “Hey, what’s your name?”

  “Leave me alone,” I mutter.

  “Hang on.” Something kind in his voice turns me around. He opens the fridge, reaches in and pulls out my hidden Pellegrino bottle. Striding to me with a frown creased deeply into his forehead, he holds it out for me. “This’ll help the nausea.”

  I take it slowly and look at it. How did he know this is what I wanted? Drunk-me is wondering if he’s magic. “Thanks.”

  He smiles. “It was behind the stacked-to-Jupiter yogurt.”

  “Oh.” I gaze at him, my head tilted. Stacked-to-Jupiter – that’s something I would say. I’m looking at him and I can’t help but stare at his smile. I could just lean in and touch my lips to his. Just brush them ever so lightly against the sensual fullness of his mouth. Find out if he tastes as good as I always imagined. See if his tongue knows how to touch mine in a way that makes my toes tingle.

  “I’m not a bad guy.” He says, taking a step closer to me. “I know her name.” He stares at me. “Her name’s…uh... Shit, I had it!”

  I hit myself on the forehead. “Corinne! Her name is Corinne! Jeez, why don’t you just get out of here before she wakes up! She doesn’t deserve you forgetting her name, Brendan Clark. See, I know your name and we didn’t even have sex. So what does that make you?” I struggle to say what I don’t want to believe, “It makes you an asshole.”

  His eyes go hard. “From what I just experienced, believe me, she deserves exactly this.”

  Before I know what I’m doing, I slap him hard across the face. We’re both shocked, and we stare at each other for a few charged seconds before he turns and fumes back down the hall and into her room. I follow him in a stunned daze, thoughts spinning, the bottle of Pellegrino still firmly held in my left hand. I stare as he races back out holding his shirt, his pants and his shoes. “Fucking women. You’re all nuts.”

  I whisper-yell, “Keep your voice down!” I don’t really give a shit if he wakes her. I’m just furious in general and it was the first thing I thought.

  He pulls on his pants and hisses at me, “Yeah, we wouldn’t want to wake the she-devil. I might lose my cock entirely!” He yanks on his shirt, then goes to put on his shoes but stops. “Dammit!” He glares at me as he passes to dash back into her room. I wait. He reappears. “Forgot my socks, okay? Is that alright with you?”

  “What do I care?!” I sneer as he yanks them on.

  One shoe. “You don’t!”

  Other shoe. “No, I don’t!”

  He stands, shoelaces untied, and puts his hand on the wall, chest heaving with angry breaths. He looks at me. “I’ll ask you again. What’s your fucking name?”

  No holds barred, I yell like I’m screaming you big jerk, “It’s Annie!”

  “Annie!” he yells back. “Good! Now I know who to stay far away from!” He storms out the front door. It slams behind him.

  I run over and throw the bottle. Wet, green glass shatters as though in slow motion, a loud cracking explosion of I Love You!

  I stare at the door, hoping he’ll come back. Panting, gasping for breath, I stare.

  I hear her behind me, the one who betrayed me. “What’s going on?”

  Turning my head like one possessed, I lock eyes with Corinne, my ex-best-friend. My ex-only-friend. “You just had to do it. You just had to fuck him, didn’t you, Marilyn? I mean, come on! Couldn’t you have shot him down like all the other schmucks you discard like gum wrappers?!”

  Her eyes go big and soft with surprise. “You said you weren’t interested in him, Squid!”

  “Don’t call me that! You had to know I was lying!” I feel like I’m twelve talking to an older sister who will never understand that she’s the pretty one and I’ll never go to the prom.

  “I’m sorry… Annie… I…” Corinne trails off and she pulls the covers higher around her nakedness. She’s standing in the hallway looking at me helplessly. Her red lipstick is gone. Her sexy platinum hair is all fucked-up. Literally. Just looking at her makes it impossible not to imagine them together, and no longer able to hold it back, I vomit. All over the floor comes my bile of disgust. Disgusting bile. An oxymoron. And the moron is me.

  I shake, gasping, and exhausted. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Tell it to someone who cares.” Wiping my mouth, I trudge into the kitchen for a towel and some cleaning products. Tears jump to my eyes. She stands there biting her inner cheek in worry as I bring the floor back to its formal glory, throwing the diseased towel into a plastic bag to be tossed in the hallway until morning.

  “Annie…” she whispers.

  “Please don’t. There’s nothing you can say that will make this okay.” A sob catches in my throat and I go inside my room and lock the door.

  Tapping fingernails try their sweetest to interrupt my crying, and the soft sound is painful as she speaks through the door. “Can I come in?”

  Someone gregarious and well liked like Corinne can’t possibly understand the double whammy she dealt me tonight. Not only did she sleep with him, she made me lose my faith in her, too. I’ve never felt more alone.

  I could just forgive her and get on with my life, but I’m not made like that. I’m overly sensitive and my morals are high. I believe in integrity. It may not be easy for me to open up to a person, but when I do, I’m loyal to them to the end. I’ll do whatever they need. With this loss comes a loneliness I don’t want to think about, but can do nothing to avoid. I won’t lower my standards. I can’t.

  “Please just leave me alone. Please.”

  She waits a second and then whispers through the wood, “Okay.” Some time passes and I think she’s gone, but then I hear her say, “If it helps, he wasn’t very good.”

  Through tears, I laugh sarcastically. “It doesn’t help. It doesn’t help at all.”

  11

  Brendan

  Noon the next day. Emptying the lizard. Feeling fan-fucking-tastic.

  ________

  “You totally hit that.” I tap the mirror and chuckle. Pulling out the toothpaste, I squeeze it onto my toothbrush. “I am on a roll!” Foaming up my mouth, I grin and mentally replay how I smooth-talked my way into my first one-night stand. So what if she was a little bossy and weird? She was hot. Would I ever hit it again?

  No way in hell.

  Instantly uninvited, an image of the screaming blue-eyed banshee pops into my mind. An unexplainable restlessness settles in my chest as I remember her touching my face in the kitchen, staring at me like I was made of gold. Just thinking of her tracing my lip with the gentlest touch of her finger gives me a weird feeling on my mouth, like she’s here again, doing it right now. I’d thought for one second that she was about to kiss me, then. What’s wild is I’d wanted her to.

  I shake my head, clearing the image away. I must have been out of my mind.

  Rinsing and spitting, I toss the brush on the counter and strut out naked to get some clothes on. I’m not even going to shower. I want to smell like sex on a Su
nday morning. Meet the guys for lunch knowing I’ve got her on me. Yesssssss.

  A muffled text message alert makes me search the room for the source. Digging into my coat pocket, I find my phone and see Mark’s message: How was Corinne? Still have your dick attached?

  I stare, realizing he’s obviously asking from experience, which gives me pause. How do I feel about that? It’s fucking hilarious, that’s how I feel.

  Snickering, I type: So, that’s her name? I’d already forgotten.

  Staring at the words, I remember the banshee staring at me with that disappointed look in her eyes like I just told her she’d never have Christmas again. I almost don’t hit send, guilt rising in me because of the memory. Dammit! Why’d that girl get in my head?

  I send the text and drop the phone on the ground, feeling uneasy.

  I remember Corinne’s name. I will probably always remember her name after the fight with the banshee. So I know I’m just showing off with Mark by joking and pretending I’m one of the guys. Does that make what she said, true… that I’m just like them?

  What’s wrong with being just like them? With a crew like ours, we are in-fucking-vincible.

  But still, her words, her inexplicable sadness, won’t stay out of the fog haunting my mind. Annie… you strange little enigma, why are you in my head?

  12

  Annie

  Same second. Different mirror. Hung-the-fuck-over.

  ________

  I guess I fell asleep, because now it’s noon and my mouth tastes like a pig’s bed. My head pulsates with the worst headache since gin-night. The alcohol showed me no mercy; I remember everything. I remember the way he looked at her. How he called her ‘gorgeous.’ I remember skulking off to a bedroom at the party and talking to some girl for hours about the travesty that is man. I remember roaming the streets at an ungodly hour, realizing it’s called ‘ungodly’ because no one roaming the streets at four in the morning when the bars close at two, is going to be attending church anytime soon. There are some scary people out there, and for some reason (could be the booze), I didn’t care. I remember the fight with him, touching his face, crying, and losing my friend as she stared at me like she didn’t understand why.

  But most of all, above everything else including my own hurt, I remember his beautiful eyes staring at me like I was a Rubik’s Cube he couldn’t understand. How could he look at me that closely and not know I’m the one? It’s so obvious to me, every time I look at him.

  The answer stares back at me from the mirror and for the first time, I see the truth. Black streaks dried on my cheeks are a map of my misery. I dye my hair out of the box – this is no expensive salon job – and my hair looks stringy and ugly. I’m still wearing the outfit I wore last night and there is nothing attractive about it. It’s so obvious why he overlooked me.

  What man would look at me and call this gorgeous.

  I have to change. Gone must go the Goth look that I’ve hidden behind for so many years. It’s time to become the kind of woman who can attract a guy like Brendan Clark.

  Opening up the drawer below the sink, I pull out the scissors.

  Holding up a long black lock, I take a deep breath and snip it right off. In slow motion it falls to the floor. I’m going to go back to the color I was born with, and see if I can stop hating myself so much. It’s a terrifying idea to try to be seen, but it’s exhausting being this angry all the time. Something happened to me last night. Something broke through my anger and got to the root of it. And in that root, I found the truth – I’m just really, really sad inside. Really lonely and sad. I’m not doing what I want to with my life. I’m barely getting by, emotionally. It can’t be like this all the time, forever. I have to take a leap into life and hope the net will appear.

  Cutting lock after long stringy lock, I watch the hair fall. And with it, my old identity.

  13

  Brendan

  Twenty minutes later. Wearing the same clothes as last night. Bounce in my step. Sun shining. Head: cleared.

  ________

  When I get to Schmidt’s on Folsom and 20th to join Mark, Tommy, and Ross, the guys are already at a table with coffees and absent menus. Mark’s got his nose in the technology section of The Chronicle. They rise up one at a time to exchange guy-handshakes with me, all of our faces non-committal and chill. “Hey man. Hey. How’s it hangin’? Good.” Etc…etc…

  I slump into the last empty seat. “What’s good?” It’s obvious they’ve already ordered.

  Ross, a scrappy DJ whose Jamaican roots have his skin black as night and his attitude smoother than smooth, says simply, “Waffles.” He’s missing the accent – a pity.

  Tommy pipes up. “We’re all getting the grilled sausage to soak up the booze from last night, except Ross here, who’s gone vegan, mon.” The last part he butchered with his bad Jamaican accent he adopts every time he talks to or about Ross. Nobody laughs. It’s so past old we don’t even notice anymore. Tommy won’t drop it, though. He’s not the type to drop things. He looks over, all grins, and checks me out. “Is that the same thing you wore last night?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  Mark eyeballs me, then flicks his eyes back to the paper. Ross raises his eyebrows. Tommy shakes his head. “Man, we get it. You got laid. You don’t have to broadcast it.” He smiles but it’s more of a sneer. Fucking trust-fund babies. Why do they all have to be such dicks.

  “Shut up, Tommy.”

  “Make me.”

  I ball up a napkin and toss it at him as hard as you can toss a ball of flakey paper. He catches it with one hand and gives an ‘ooooooo’ sound like he’s scared. We’re just playing… I think.

  I guess I did wear the same clothes to revel in the fact that I got some action. I just hate it being pointed out. Now I feel like an idiot and I wish I hadn’t made such a rookie move. And now I like Tommy even less than I used to, which is saying something.

  An overworked waitress walks up. The place is way past capacity – you can’t blame her for the exhausted apathy. “You ready?”

  I don’t tell her I don’t have a menu, because I will let Tommy be the asshole. I look at him and silently count to three.

  “He doesn’t have a menu. How can he be ready?” Tommy says on cue. Predictable jackass that he is.

  She glares at him and he smiles like he’s the funniest guy in the room. I let her off the hook. “I’ll have the sausage. And black coffee. Thanks.”

  Playing eye-chicken with Tommy, she commits it to memory, turns and leaves without a nod of acknowledgment she even heard me. I stare at her ass. Mark, sitting beside me, lowers his paper and does the same. Then he pops the paper back up and keeps right on reading. “Looks like I should have invested in Google.” We all voice agreement, lamenting.

  Ross is leaning way, way back in his chair with stoner-eyes, and he cocks his head my way. “Hey Brendan. I heard you hit some MILF-ass last weekend.”

  “Ross, are you stoned, or did you just have a late night?”

  “Stoned.”

  I grin, look down and rearrange my silverware so that it’s aligned properly. “Yep. Sure did. Though from the tightness of her, I don’t think she’s had kids yet.”

  “Oh man!” cry out both Tommy and Ross in unison as they smack the table and each other’s shoulders in celebration.

  Mark lowers his paper. “Guys. Get it together. We’re not in college anymore. It’s about time Brendan joined the land of the living, but let’s not act like idiots, okay?”

  They quiet. The king has spoken – not that we’d ever admit it, but he is the leader of our little group. There’s always a hierarchy in male friendships. As soon as you know your place, you’re golden – just like a pack of dogs. It’s those who rebel that break up bands. There’s gotta be a lead singer and the women are going to love him the most. So is the press. Live with it and be who you are.

  If we’re the Rolling Stones, then Mark is Mick. And Tommy, I guess he’s Keith. Ross, and me we’re the two oth
er guys. That’s how it’s been for the past four years.

  Mark is the lead singer because he is by far the most charmed of any of us. Everything happens well for him like it was written on his birth-scroll: And whereith Mark shall walk, the doors shall open to receivith him. Not financially hence his not investing in Google. But people genuinely like him wherever we go and they help him out. He’s the opposite of Tommy. Maybe that’s why Tommy sticks around and why Mark likes him. They balance each other. But where does that leave me?

  Even Tommy – whose mouth is unhinged and unfettered by shame or self-awareness – even he does what Mark says without griping or questioning. When you’ve got a gold medal player on your team, you give him the ball as often as possible. Either that or be traded for stupidity and cock-blocking. I want to up my game to make myself indispensable. Sara tossed me away way too easily. I’m not letting that happen with my friends. What can I do to prove my worth? Getting laid and wearing the same clothes did nothing but make me look dumb.

  Mark folds up the paper and turns around to the table behind him. “You want this?”

  A man in a turtleneck and an expensive watch smiles and takes it. “Yeah, thanks.”

  “You got it.” Mark turns back and looks at us. We’re all watching, but I’m the only one taking notes.

  Our waitress comes to drop off my coffee and an idea occurs to me. I decide to try something. I reach out and touch her wrist as she sets the coffee down. She looks at me in surprise. Taking her tired hand in both of mine, I smile sideways, a little nervous but faking the opposite. “It’s been a hard morning, hasn’t it?”

  She blinks, taken aback. She’s attractive, around our age or maybe younger. “Yes. It really has been rough.”

  “Well, thank you for the coffee.” I release her hand, but not her eyes. “We really appreciate it. I’m Brendan.” I always see Mark making people feel good. I’m shyer than he is and talking to strangers isn’t easy for me. But changing feels necessary.