‘A small-footprint build-out inside Starcades Retro Arcade, like the sublease we had before. Only they get a small percentage of net sales. That’s what the department stores do in the mall. They lease floor space for their designer brands.’
That’s what the kiosks in the mall do, too. I still don’t say anything, mulling over his words, the possibilities. Maybe?
‘Look, Libbs, it’s much cheaper than white-box build-out – and the best part is, the customers are built in. Our customers are already here. And with multiple locations, the growth potential is huge.’
My mind continues to cycle through his proposal, then stops abruptly. ‘OK, wait . . . What’s in it for you? Because there’s always a catch; this is business. Nobody gets money for nothing and the chicks for free.’
‘Partners. We grow the new concept together. That’s what I want.’
My eyebrows lift. ‘You deserve ownership for the idea?’
‘Well, yes, that . . . and for already having pitched it to them.’
My mouth opens in surprise.
‘I didn’t want to get your hopes up if it wasn’t feasible.’ He smiles brightly. ‘But it is. In fact, I have preliminary paperwork to share with you.’
My eyes narrow, the wheels spinning behind them. ‘It’s clever, Jas,’ I say, giving a genuine smile. And I mean it. He always astonishes me with his business savvy. ‘It’s also a lot to think about.’ Something I can’t do right at this moment, but I will. Oh my gosh, I will.
‘Hey, Jas,’ says a guy, maybe in his early twenties, with lip ring and Nirvana tee. ‘Think you should know I knocked you down the board.’
‘What? No way.’ Jasper glances towards the far wall where a Ms Pac-Man machine sits. ‘Come on.’ He leads me through the crowd, and within seconds has a new game set up.
The guy and I situate on either side to watch.
‘Hey, Jasper,’ a girl with pink hair says, hovering. She reminds me of Jem and the Holograms. She places a hand on Jasper’s shoulder and leans in. Truly outrageous. Does she not see me? What if we were on a date?
They both appear comfortable with the contact. I find myself curiously watching them instead of the screen. I’ve only ever seen Jasper with one or two girls. Rachel was a cosmetologist and pretty in an edgy sort of way. Lots of black eyeliner and a small diamond nose stud. He dated her off and on, but she had two kids, wanted more and began hinting about a ring. Jas, like Hall & Oates, like me, ‘Can’t Go For That’, so ‘She’s Gone’.
People always struggle with this, as if something’s wrong with you if you don’t want to reproduce. They never consider that it’s a choice. Not everyone’s equipped, or should take it on. And believe me, there are many I think should have reconsidered. I mean, you’re responsible for a human being. My cats are tricky enough.
More people surround us to watch and cheer as Jasper continues to play. My mind continues to wander, allowing the small possibility he presented to take root. I should consult my Magic 8 Ball later for a final verdict. Out of the twenty possible answers, seven are positive, and I’m overdue for a win.
‘OK, now bring us home, Libbs,’ Jasper says, jolting me from my thoughts. With a tatted arm on either side, he locks me in front of him to face the screen.
‘Jas, no, I’ll only botch it up.’ I wasn’t even paying attention. I try and step away, but he stops me by lifting my hand to the controller and pressing his firmly over the top.
I’m drawn to how it completely covers mine. The smooth skin of his palm contrasts with the calloused fingertips from years of playing guitar. Having him leaning over my shoulder, breathing near my ear, and his arms wrapped round me is . . . I’m not sure what it is. Maybe nice. Maybe I just needed a hug.
‘Keep her steady. Easy, easy, and . . .’ Jasper pulls the lever left as together we guide Ms Pac-Man through the neon maze.
‘Yes!’ he says, as the screen flashes black and an animation of Ms Pac-Man and the ghosts floats across to a strange happy victory song. ‘Well done, you.’
I tilt my head up and manage a smile, but quickly pull my head back. He’s this close and isn’t moving. The screen blinks for the winner to add in their three initials. With his hand still over mine, he taps the control to rotate through the alphabet, then twice more to fill the three slots. ‘There we go.’
He’s added J + L. ‘Jas plus Libby?’ With a smirk, I turn slightly.
He shrugs with his crooked half-smile. ‘It’s for Jasper and Libby, but sure, plus works, too.’
I glance out the car window, not really saying much on the drive home; not that I’ve said much all night. I have to admit, the idea of teaming up with Starcades has potential, but to lose Pretty in Pink and take on a partner has me panicked. It’s a lot of change all at once – and yeah, like Exposé sang, ‘Seasons Change’, but I don’t want to.
My mind’s swimming in decisions, which is better than drowning in despair, but even the prospects are weighty and complicated, and I’m tired. It’s been a long, problematic day.
‘You’ve been really quiet.’ Moving into the turn lane, Jasper pops his blinker after the fact and slows to wait on the arrow.
I lock eyes on his. ‘Yeah, you’ve just given me a lot to think about.’
‘Off the top of your head, what’s your biggest concern?’ Reaching over, he turns down the radio.
I blink, my thoughts indexing through the list of many. ‘What if the new owners of Pretty in Pink require a non-compete? That’s a standard request when selling an existing business, right? That protects them from us competing directly.’
‘Well, yeah, usually it’s about distance.’
‘Starcades is right around the corner, Jas.’
‘Thirty locations, remember? There’s one in LA, and I wouldn’t mind going back home. Only a few reasons I stuck it out here anyway.’
My stomach twists several times to wring out the truth. ‘So we start over in LA? Just pick up and go?’ I know I’ve glossed over the deeper context of his words, but I pretend I haven’t. Moving is enough to deliberate.
‘Yeah, why not?’ With a sideways glance, he asks, ‘What’s keeping you here?’
My hand rubs at my neck as I sit back, letting the question crystallize. This is home. Pretty in Pink is home. And Dora, Finn and Dean . . . but if I’m honest, Dora’s about to become absorbed in marriage and motherhood again, Finn’s just absorbed, and my parents moved years ago. And the store? The store is all but gone. My heart sinks. ‘I guess . . . nothing. Nothing’s keeping me here any more.’
Except maybe memories. I’m haunted by them.
I turn and stare out the window again, unable to articulate the overwhelming urge I have to flip open the door and roll out, ninja-style. It’s all unravelling. My heart beats wildly and my hands go damp. I don’t want to sell, or move, or anything. I don’t.
‘Hey . . .’ Jas bumps my leg so I look over. ‘Let’s talk about something else. Tell me something I don’t know about you.’
Something he doesn’t know? Like what? Does he mean something trivial and odd like my irrational fear of crickets, or something deep and secret like my crying jags at night? I pull a face. ‘Nothing exactly worth sharing and pretty sure there’s nothing new to tell.’
‘Not true.’ The light switches green and Jas starts forward. ‘I didn’t know you couldn’t handle your drink, or that you have nightmares.’
‘Yeah, well, now you know.’ Should’ve gone with the crickets. I shrug. ‘Usually they wake me up and I can’t get back to sleep.’
‘And Oliver’s in these nightmares? You screamed out to him.’
Another shrug. ‘Like I said, I don’t really remember ’em.’ I can feel Jasper peering over at me, but I concentrate on the road, how the pavement changes to blacktop in sporadic patches. Why not repave it all at once? Fix it at the same time? ‘And besides, you’re the one with all the mystery.’ I peer back over.
‘Me?’ He taps the steering wheel and half-smiles.
‘Yeah, you.’ I shift in my seat, so the belt cuts sharply into my shoulder, and regard him. ‘You said you wouldn’t mind going back home, but why’d you leave LA in the first place?’
His face tenses in a way that tells me I’ve hit on something. ‘I grew up with my mom, stepdad and stepbrother, never knowing much about my biological father. He wasn’t ever in the picture and we never talked about him, but then . . .’ He cuts a glance in my direction, only to quickly look back to the road. ‘I stumbled on my birth certificate and there he was, his name in black and white, and it was a shock really.’
I’m instantly intrigued, getting more information than I anticipated. I didn’t know any of this. My overactive imagination crafts all sorts of drama plots. His real dad is his stepdad’s brother, or a neighbour he’s known all his life, or is secret service and pretends to be a furniture salesman. It has to be twisted, or else – ‘Why the shock?’
‘Turns out he’s a musician. Pretty well known, actually.’
Oh, this is even better! ‘Who? Would I know him?’
‘Unless you live under a rock, yeah.’ He taps the wheel again. ‘But he’s never been in the picture, and after I confronted my mom about it, I learned he wants it that way.’
His words hang in the air a moment, their meaning in question. ‘Did he know about you?’
‘Yeah, but me popping up as his kid wasn’t going to go over well in the media for his family or for my mom. They had an agreement.’ He changes lanes and turns into my complex. ‘Anyway, in exchange for my mom keeping a low profile, he paid for my college and then some.’
Things click into place: his expensive apartment, and how he’s able to live off what I pay him. I let my head lean against the seat. ‘Wait, that doesn’t explain why you left LA.’
‘Yeah, well. I was angry at my mom. I mean, I get his silence, but not hers.’ He parks, but pauses, hands still on the wheel. ‘I wasted a lot of time wondering about him and why he wasn’t around when I was a kid.’
‘Huh.’ I stare at him for a second, taking in his features: the dirty blonde hair, the curled lip. He suddenly seems . . . fuller. It’s still Jasper, but a more rounded-out version. ‘So are you going to tell me who he is?’
Squaring his shoulders, he faces me directly. ‘Are you going to tell me about Ollie? What really happened between you guys? Why you broke up?’
My heart jumps. This is what normal people do. They share their stories. But I don’t have a story – I have a nightmare, and we already discussed that.
Jasper’s tone softens. ‘When’s the last time you saw him?’
‘It’s been forever.’ My chest already aches. I’ve had enough today.
He’s careful with his words, and really, he has good cause to be. ‘Tell me why you like the guy. I mean, if you’re still hung up on him, he must be, like, I don’t know, perfect.’
‘Far from it.’ I glance up. ‘But he’s – I don’t know. He’s Ollie.’ I half-smile.
‘And that means what? You gotta give me something . . .’
‘You really want to know . . . ?’ When he nods, I lean back to think. ‘OK, ah, when we were young, he’d say my freckles were a map to the constellations, and that I was lucky because I would never lose my way. Then he’d point them out on my cheeks.’ I smile wider, remembering. I hadn’t thought of that in forever. ‘I always hated them, and he somehow made it . . . Well, he’s always had a way of making me feel at home in my own skin. Does that make sense?’ I laugh and roll my eyes. ‘Probably not. It’s all goofy, melodramatic teen stuff.’
‘But it’s your goofy and melodramatic teen stuff, so I like it.’ Jasper leans over, and I watch his eyes searching for imaginary lines along my dotted face. ‘I also like your freckles.’
My smile fades. This is somewhat intimate all of a sudden, and I’m not sure what to do. Stay or go? If I stay there will be trouble, so . . . there’s only one reasonable action, and I don’t need the Magic 8 Ball to tell me what it is.
‘See ya.’ I pop the latch, and bolt.
CHAPTER 17
Devil Inside
INXS, 1987
Speak of the devil
Dr P. called first thing this morning to make sure I planned on coming in. He was worried because I left abruptly yesterday, visibly shaken.
So I’m here, back in his office. I don’t want to be, but I gave my word. I didn’t promise to stick around, however. My nerves are frazzled, and bickering with Dora via text isn’t helping. She wants details on my date with Jasper, still not accepting it was a work thing.
DORA: OK, well then, when is your date with the Basket Case?
LIBBY: Never.
DORA: You’re killing me, Libbs.
LIBBY: They’ve all been disasters. Has pregnancy affected your memory?
DORA: No, just my feet. I swear they’re two sizes bigger.
She can’t even see them any more, so what does it matter? The door opens, and Dr P. waves me in.
‘Hi,’ I say, and gather my stuff, quickly flipping the volume tab to off and putting the phone away.
‘How are you today?’
I plop into my seat, not sure how to answer. How do you explain everything’s closing in, even the walls of his office? Does he have more books? The stacks have multiplied. For someone trying to push me forward, he’s kinda stuck in the past. He could eliminate some of this clutter, and the dust it collects, by reading on a tablet. Actually, so could I.
‘So . . .’ He takes his seat.
‘So,’ I repeat, and fiddle with my assorted jelly bracelets. My wrists are covered in them today.
‘Who’s Frankie?’ Dr P. motions to my T-shirt. ‘I get the relax part, but what doesn’t he want you to do?’
‘Oh, ah, he doesn’t want you to ask,’ I say, glancing down to the bold black text, definitely not wanting to explain the meaning.
After a beat he forgets, setting up the small table and metronome in front of me. He locks eyes with mine as if inquiring whether I’m ready. I’m not, but I know I need to keep going. Like Dr P. said, if you’re going through hell, don’t stop. I can’t stop.
Not here. Not again.
But how do you escape if the devil’s inside?
‘You remember what I told you about EMDR, eye movement desensitization and reprocessing? How it allows memories to flow freely?’
My lips twitch with a one-sided shoulder-shrug to mean sure.
‘Good; then we can start right where we left off, OK?’
‘Where we left off was me leaving.’
Dr P. ignores my comment, leans over and taps the pendulum so it swings. The tick, tick, tick fills the room. My heart beats twice as fast, filling the spaces in between like the connecting minor scale. The combination is sharp and out of tune.
‘Please.’ He motions to encourage me. ‘Follow with your eyes. And just as before, concentrate on the sound and imagine a well. The bucket is at the top and every click lowers it deeper inside.’
I drop my gaze and follow the movement. Left then right, left then right, left then right.
Tick, tick, tick.
Dr P. doesn’t say anything.
I follow it back and forth, back and forth. Seeing the well. The open field of tall grass. No butterfly today. Instead there are menacing crows circling against an inky black sky.
Tick, tick, tick.
My shoulders start to relax a tiny bit as I focus on the scene.
‘We were talking about your accident. You pictured yourself in the car, reaching for the radio or changing a cassette tape, and the car in front of you had suddenly stopped.’
At once I’m there, but again, the image is glitchy. I can almost feel the motion as I turn the wheel frantically in the opposite direction, trying to regain control. ‘Like I said, I swerved and spun on the gravel.’ The sound of kicking dirt and pebbles replays.
‘Right. And you said it forced you into oncoming traffic. A delivery truck. You last spoke about the impact, remember?’
How could I forget? My heart swells. His words hang between us.
Tick, tick, tick.
‘What else can you recall?’
‘The man. He sat up high in the truck and . . .’ It’s not really his face, more his expression that’s stayed with me. With wide eyes, his mouth opened in a scream I couldn’t hear. It was deafening all the same. I’ve seen this a thousand times in my dreams.
‘Libby?’
‘Yeah. The impact was quick, more a severe jolt than anything.’
The pain came after. Often healing hurts more than the originating incident. No one tells you that. They should.
‘I hit my head on the glass and when I woke up, my car was in the ditch on the other side of the road.’
‘What about the truck?’
‘He, um . . . hit another car.’ My mind’s eye sees the steering wheel, my hands still locked in place. A woman’s voice asking if I’m OK. ‘I don’t remember that part, though. I didn’t see it. They told me after.’
‘At the hospital?’
‘Yeah, or maybe in the ambulance.’ The siren’s loud. There are blurs of faces around me, all talking nonsense. I blink and can’t move. My neck’s restrained. A man says something to me, and I black out. I’m AC/DC’s ‘Back in Black’, and like the lyrics, let loose from the noose that’s kept me hanging round, I wake again to repeat the confusion, told how I barely escaped with my life. After what else they told me, I wish I hadn’t.
‘Where are you? What do you see?’
I focus again, and this time I see the hospital. ‘I’m in the ER.’ More faces. So many faces and voices all meshed together, busy. ‘I asked what happened and . . .’ His face materializes. Dark hair. Handsome. Angry. ‘The doctor yelled at me.’
‘He yelled at you?’
That’s how I remember it.
‘Libby, can you hear me?’ a man with a leaden voice asks. It bounces from the floor, then from above. Am I in a tunnel? I can’t tell what direction it comes from. The voice talks to someone else, and then . . . nothing. More black.
‘Libby. Libby, can you hear me?’
A light shone in my eyes, then everything went dotty. Everywhere I looked dancing blips blocked my view. ‘He said I had to stay awake. That I’d woken several times in a panic, and I needed to stay calm and stay with him.’ The voice was irritated and not kind at all. I don’t remember all the details, but that detail I remember clearly.
Holding Out for a Hero Page 17
