Remake

by A. J. Sand

  But it wasn’t just his eyes; she suddenly knew other details about his face, she realized, much in the same way the lyrics of a song heard only a few times could bury itself in the brain. Like how she knew he always had a shadow of scruff along the jaw, but it showed signs of obvious grooming. Or the few strands of his dark brows that stood errant away from the others.

  Jesus. How much have I been staring at this guy? A stab of compulsion sent her gaze his way again. With an absent rake of his hair forward, his forehead creased at something on his e-reader then his eyes widened. His deep involvement in whatever he was reading made her grin. After getting her own cup of fro-yo, she took the chair across from him, catching the subtle change in his features brought on by her presence. But it morphed into a grimace as he flexed the fingers of his right hand.

  Her brows flew together. “Are you okay?” she asked, her hand dropping to his wrist. In the moment, the calm returned to his face—a subtle smile curved his mouth—even as the slight twitching of his fingers continued. Electricity pulsed through her fingertips as they drew across his skin when he pulled his arm away. And she sat back against the seat, away from him, as a slap of heat hit her in the face. Once again, being around Matt was no match for Pinkberry’s air conditioning.

  “Yeah. I’m fine. Nerve damage…” His face reddened as he swung his gaze to one of the large windows near the front. “From an assault.”

  Raising both her hands, she said with a reassuring tone, “You don’t have to—”

  “I was…mugged last year walking a back way from a bar alone one night after I stayed behind to talk to a girl. Had a few too many drinks, and I was stupid that night; I did what they tell you not to do. I tried to fight him off, and not give him my wallet and cell. He beat me up pretty badly then pistol-whipped me. I’m lucky he didn’t shoot me.” Matt mashed his lips into a flat line. “I lost consciousness at some point. I woke up in the hospital and couldn’t feel my entire arm for months, but over time the feeling and control came back with rehab. Sometimes, it just goes numb, though. Class help, but it took me a long time to get to the point where I even thought it was important for me to go, though. I preferred Vicodin highs and being shitty to my friends for a while. I never told them what happened.”

  His story, though brief, had left her holding her breath and her spoon frozen midair. The wall she had built around herself wasn’t in danger of caving in just yet, but the crack that had been splintering its way up since returning to her old life fractured a little more. She quickly reflected on some of the things she had done in the aftermath of her attack, and Kai almost losing everything he’d worked so hard for over her and deserting her friends were tied for her second biggest regrets. Leaving Bryson was the first. This was the kind of camaraderie she had been seeking out and wishing for.

  “After my assault—”

  “You don’t have to share just because I did,” he said.

  “Thanks, but it’s okay.” Erica stirred the melted fro-yo absently. It had always been easier talking about it with people who didn’t know her very well, like when she first told Dylan back in January. She theorized that it was because a stranger or acquaintance didn’t have enough knowledge about her life prior to the incident, so there was no wondering if she would ever be the same again. They couldn’t see the seam. “I just wanted to say, I know the feeling of just struggling through it and scolding yourself for that night. I used to sit around and think, ‘I was so naïve in just accepting a drink. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so adamant about walking by myself.’ Just getting angry at myself about it over and over again because I couldn’t help it, even though I knew the outcome would always be the same. You can’t change it. And it just…it starts to drive you a little crazy.

  “And to make matters worse, I know the guy who hurt me. He was my friend for, like, five years. Or so I thought.” Even though she ended on a supportive smile, it was his hand that wrapped around hers in a gentle way, and a quiet understanding passed between them.

  “So, you’re not meeting up with your sister again, right?” He looked hopeful that her answer would be no, and Erica was excited to oblige.

  “Oh, God, no! It’s her fiancé’s turn, thankfully!”

  “Do you have time to hang out? I don’t have any pens and I don’t need to shop for necklaces. Let’s just go have a fun day today. You kinda owe me for not calling to find out if my sister liked the necklace.”

  Her face turned bright red, and lacking a thought besides, I’m trying to keep some distance between us before this goes too much further, Erica opted to stay quiet.

  “She did like it, you know.”

  “What do you want to do today, L.A. noob?”

  He laughed. “Noob? Ouch. Can we go biking down at Santa Monica beach? It’s on a list of cool things to do here.” He turned sheepish as they walked out of Pinkberry. “Yeah, I look at those lists.”

  The beach. It was strange the way her reservations and fears had developed following the rape. Her apprehension at being touched by people had faded or been forgotten, and Jeremy hadn’t stolen her love of the nighttime away completely. But so many of her fragmented memories of that night, even in their broken and jumbled condition, were tied to her sensory perception of the beach. The sand on her skin. The cling of her damp dress. The smell of the ocean. The voices of people on the street as she stumbled by while under the influence of whatever he had slipped in her drink.

  The closest she had come to returning to a beach was going to Miami during Wintervention and the Music Business Conference in January, but she didn’t actually end up setting foot on any sand. Beach life, however, was unavoidable in L.A. Could she handle it now? She hoped so because her resolution was to face it today. “There’s a bike rental place that charges thirty dollars for the day.”

  “Awesome. I’ll follow you.” As Matt walked to his car, Erica glanced around the parking lot on the way to hers, searching for another gold Toyota Camry. It could’ve been a coincidence last week. There were many cars on the road fitting the description of the one the P.I. drove—thousands in California alone, probably. But as she neared her Accord, her gaze landed on a gold Camry a few cars over. Coincidence. Just a coincidence. But the slight feeling of worry she’d been managing all week magnified in the instant, like she had suddenly encountered some venomous viper baring its fangs.

  With her heart trying to pound its way out of her chest, Erica rounded the edge of her car to take a surreptitious look at the Camry as she pretended not to know where her car was. It was empty and spotless on the inside. She turned her attention to the store it was parked in front of: a dry cleaners. Though, she suspected where the car was parked was irrelevant to knowing where the driver was. And no spying private investigator would get this close, right? Jaw clenching, she peered through the nearby glass storefronts anyway, looking for a man fitting the vague description Naomi had given her.

  But maybe he was watching her from somewhere else. Snapping pictures. Maybe he had gotten one of her talking to Matt today. Or the week before. Maybe he would even track Matt down at some point to ask about her. Any interactions with other men were probably fair game to make her look like a false accuser. And make the case for extradition harder.

  Erica tightened her hands into fists. The more she thought about it, the more she let the rage clawing at her in, until it completely doused her concerns. Jeremy, Chase, this other asshole, none of them would win this. This was her goddamn life.

  “Erica? Everything all right?” Matt’s car whined to a stop behind her, and she let a cheerful smile ease on to her lips before she turned to him.

  “Yup. Thought I saw someone I knew. But wrong person,” she explained. “Okay, let’s go.” But Erica’s steps back to her car were purposely sluggish, and once she was in it, she took her time getting settled and starting the engine, waiting for the owner of the car to return by some miracle of luck. Or Orioles cap. After a disappointing few seconds spent adjusting every mirror in the car twi
ce, Erica backed up, casting a final angry, lingering gaze at the Camry.

  And a short drive later, she and Matt were parked in a lot and walking to the bike rental place. With the sun forecasted to hang in a cloudless sky all day like an unchained medallion, the residents of L.A. had apparently ditched all indoor tasks. People were scattered across the sand, while bikers, skaters and pedestrians attempted to share the paved path that stretched adjacent the beach. She and Matt both looked up to the amusement rides down a ways at Pacific Park on the pier when the roller coaster curled around the tracks high up in the air.

  Erica was doing a lot better than she had anticipated since arriving, mostly because Matt was talking enough and asking many questions about her. And so far, she was able to keep away from the potentially dangerous alcoves of her mind where the memories were. She was sharing them with Dylan for filming, so she never wanted to repress them, for fear that it would do more harm than good, but she was uncertain about the degree of the triggering effect the beach would have if she did remember here.

  Matt yanked his shirt off over his head, and her stare swept his entire frame: the all-over, sun-darkened color that only faded near his waistband, and the smooth skin gleaming a little from a light mist of sweat. Erica concluded that the likelihood of yoga alone being capable of forming the distinct sections of muscles expanding across his torso didn’t exist. He turned his gaze momentarily to two women in bikinis walking by on the beach, and they cast exhaustive and appreciative looks his way. Her stealthy eye movement had tracked a few other female onlookers earlier, too. Damn, the guy was hot. And his hand bumping hers every few seconds wasn’t helping.

  “Why’d you quit modeling?”

  “Um…not enough talking and deciding things. I was already studying public relations, so I knew I was going to get out of it eventually. I spent a lot of time watching the fashion publicists who ran the shows and who made sure that no matter how crazy and disorganized things were backstage, the shows were still perfect when we were on the runway. I was jealous.”

  “Of possibly being the one who got blamed if things went wrong?” he asked.

  “Yes! Because I really liked the thrill of it! I interned with one of the women who ran a show I once walked in. I bet you think overseeing a bunch of prepubescent kids is hard. Try thirty or so models and…missing garment racks, broken communication equipment, and fashion heavyweights and career makers and breakers looking really somber in the front row!” There was a strange look in his eyes as he listened to her, and he turned pensive once she was done speaking. “What?”

  “Huh?”

  “Am I boring you that much? You look like I’m listing all the possible uses for plastic, and I just hit number five thousand and twenty-five.”

  “No.” Matt laughed. “You just sound so happy when you talk about it…”

  “I had a music writing job when I lived in New York not too long ago. I got to go to a lot of cool concerts and shows, but I wanted to be working with those artists. I wanted to be talking to the writers. So for me, being at Razorwire was sort of like modeling all over again. And don’t get me wrong, I loved modeling, it got me where I needed to be…but my calling seemed to be elsewhere.”

  “And you were really discovered just walking down the street?” he asked. “That really happens?”

  “Well, that was my ‘big break,’ I guess. I had modeled before that happened. The highlight of that day had been finding a pair of knockoff Versace sunglasses in the Fashion District, but then a guy approached me later when I was hanging out with Naomi and some of her friends. I initially assumed he was a creep, but he gave me a business card. And then I thought he was just a smart creep—”

  Matt interrupted her with an amused scoff. “Well, shit, I’m wondering now what you think about me…”

  “Nervous creep?” she teased, barely able to get the words out before laughter took over.

  Matt stopped walking, and from the way he contorted his face, she initially read it as genuine offense, but he erupted into laughter. “Oh my God, that’s horrible!” His arm swung around her shoulders, and he hugged her to him so that her head was on his bare chest, and his chin brushed her forehead. Conflicting feelings sliced through her: trepidation but excitement, sadness but hope, comfort with misgivings on the fringes. How badly did she want to be with someone who could relate to her? What would moving on really be like? There probably had to be numbing or nonchalance toward the other person, and she could still feel Bryson as strongly as ever, as if his fingertips were skimming down her spine.

  “Like it’s my fault you make me nervous.” He relaxed his arm, but kept it draped on her shoulders, and they walked the rest of the way like that to the bike rental. He paid for both on a credit card, and she glanced down at his ID: Matthew H. Corso next to a mug shot-like image of him. After he paid for both bikes, Matt guided the first one out from the rack and gave it to her before taking his own. “Gonna grab a lemonade. You want one?” He pointed to another stand a few feet from the bike rental with a short line of patrons.

  “No, thanks. Was that on the list of cool things to do in L.A., too?” she called after him, and Matt flashed a smile over his shoulder as he went. Erica walked both bikes to the short brick wall that hugged the beach.

  As she moved to sit astride her bike, a light breeze lifted her hair and carried the sound of disjointed voices. A line of rollerbladers, maneuvering sideways to dodge a group of children, zipped into a thread of space to her left, and all of them managed to slip through, except one, who barreled right into her. The force jolted Erica and the bike back. The unstable kinesis initiated a human chain of chaos with the other passersby. It was a ripple of bumping, leaning and falling bodies. Erica tilted, but managed to plant her foot firmly and avoided collapsing and crushing her leg beneath the bike metal. She hopped off to dive into the middle of the throng, hoping to assist a few people, and found herself enclosed by a wall of laughter and scattered chatter. The voices. So many voices. His voice. Suddenly, an image drilled into her thoughts: Jeremy’s finger trapped in the strap of her top and then pulling it down her shoulder.

  Breaths quickening and blood flow swelling by the time she returned to her bike, she shut her eyes and concentrated, not fighting the incoming recollection, which hit her with the force of a tsunami. She took a few breaths to stop the rising panic in her stomach and the clenching of her throat. Erica knew if he ever faced a trial she might have to testify if that mystery witness would not, and in some ways, filming with Dylan was like training her mind in the same way she did her body. Remembering often served to force her to push past the last point of exertion where the memories would shatter and go blank. She had considered that her memory, if cohesive at some point, could put her in the position to settle Thailand without entangling her friends too much. If she were a strong witness on the stand, people would believe her, right?

  She let the surrounding noises soak her up; they were just as loud and frenzied as that night. The fingers on her shoulder had tickled, and the act might have looked tender to the hasty, passing glances on the street, but her brain had registered the peril. Her body, too. Her palms had gotten sweaty, and her throat dried immediately.

  “Then what?” she whispered to herself. “Then what happened?” Her gaze volleyed his wrist and the gold band with a large watch face on top. That was new. She had never remembered that before. Her other shoulder was rammed against his side because she could only lean. Too weak to stand. Her eyes took an indolent swing to her left. Stubble, probably only light enough to tickle, came into view. She had never recalled any of that before. Erica clenched her teeth, sliding the two rows against each other until a pain pulsed at her temples. Still, she pressed on. Jumping in with two fucking feet. The back of the watch—the clasp—was scrapping her chest. It didn’t hurt, but it swiped across her skin in a constant motion like a pendulum as they walked. “What was the brand?”

  And they weren’t walking… her feet were just…they were j
ust moving with the motion. He was dragging her. He was pulling her with the arm around her neck, talking about…something. She couldn’t focus on it. Because of his finger. Her strap was still curled around it.

  “Erica?”

  No. Please, stop. And the waves of people. The onslaught of them, and their distorted bodies. Their disembodied voices. Just coming at her. Just. Tilted. The world was on a tilt. Shifting right off its axis.

  “Erica?”

  Scared. She grabbed his arm because it was all she had. And it sickened her to touch him. Queasy. Dizzy. Home. She just wanted to go—

  “Are you okay?” Matt asked, his hand landing on her lower back, and Erica’s eyes snapped open. “You’re really pale.” She was shaking, too. “I was calling your name… Where’d you go?” He tapped his own forehead as it creased.

  “Just, um, just… just stuff,” she faltered, assessing the necessity of telling him what she had been doing, but Matt probably reflected on the night he was mugged occasionally. “Thinking about the reason I’m in the class—forcing myself to re-live it essentially.”

  Matt’s concerned expression morphed into one even graver, and both his hands were on her waist now. “Oh. Wait… It happened here? Oh God. And I made you come here. I’m sorry.”

  “Not here. But on a beach,” she admitted, feeling the urge to assure him that he had done nothing wrong. “I’m okay…really. I wasn’t doing anything I didn’t want to do just now. I want to know what happened to me—everything—strange as it may seem. By confronting it, I feel like I can take away the power that night has over me.”

  Matt looked to the horizon, a wistful expression falling on his face. His muscles tensed until his entire body went rigid. “Joe’s was the bar, and basically a place I had been going to since getting my first fake ID. Getting mugged so close to there changed the place for me. I couldn’t go near it for a long time without imagining myself crumpled in that back alley. I was bleeding out from the pistol-whipping when he took my stuff. The asshole wasn’t content with just robbing me. He had to humiliate me more, too, so he kicked me in the ribs a few times before smashing me in the face with the gun again. I didn’t have more than forty dollars on me…” Matt shuddered as he continued in a whisper. “Before I fought him, I…I begged him not to hurt me. I told him I had parents who loved me and he laughed. I showed him the money, but he wanted to hurt me before he took it. It was like a game to him. I begged him and he… I just don’t get it. Why me? I…I…”