by Frankie Rose
I secretly think he wants to bulk up even more—he’s already huge—because he wants to impress Marika. She’s been knocking him back every time he makes a pass at her, and for the very first time I think I see my boy getting flustered. He probably thought he’d have bagged her by now, that she’d have caved and given in to his increasingly more obvious advances, but she hasn’t. She’s stood firm and shut him down time and time again, and I think it’s playing on Cole’s nerves.
She's obviously interested in me, however, but I'm not willing to even consider it. The last time I took a girl home I put my hand through the wall and ended up fucking up our plans for a while. I can’t even contemplate going through that again. I also can’t even contemplate touching another girl. The idea of it physically revolts me.
I scowl at myself in the mirror, prodding at the dark circles under my eyes. I should sleep. I really should. Everyone keeps telling me so, but they don’t know about the demons waiting for me every time I allow my consciousness to slip away. I was meant to use this time away from Avery to get better, to fix this nightmare, but instead it’s only getting worse. Now, I’m practically crippled by my night terrors, and I’m no closer to seeing my girl.
Somewhere in the apartment my phone is ringing. It continues to blare out an obnoxiously loud rap song that Cole set as my ringtone, shattering the peace and quiet. After eight rings it stops, then starts up again immediately after.
“Fuck.”
I find my phone on the small counter in the kitchen. Some part of me prays that it’s Avery calling, but I know that is as stupid as it sounds. She's not calling. She’s never calling again, I’d imagine.
When I look at the caller ID, it’s no great shock that it’s not her. “Reid,” I answer, walking back to the bedroom. I have to be quick. I have an appointment with Rafferty in an hour and there’s no way I'm missing it. I’m out of sleeping pills, and I’m definitely not in a position to be doing without them. At least when I take the pills, I don’t dream. I don’t remember. I’m just gone.
“Hey, man, it's Tamlinski.”
“That time of the week already, huh?”
“Yes, sir. Just thought you might like a SitRep on the whole Operation: Stalk Avery Patterson thing you sent me out on.”
“You saw her again?” My voice is all gravel as I grind out the question. Half of me looks forward to these updates from Tamlinski, while the other half dreads it. So far all he’s told me indicates that she’s doing just fine without me. She’s going about her life, visiting her friend, hanging out with some other musician guy at a run down recording studio close to her school. That one had me a little perplexed until Tamlinski discovered the guy is Morgan’s boyfriend. I wasn’t exactly thrilled about the idea of them hanging out together alone, but I know Avery. There’s no way she’d be messing around with her best friend’s boyfriend.
“Yeah,” Tamlinski confirms. “It was a complete fluke this time, though. I was patrolling through Central Park and I found this little girl. She’d wandered off on her own. When I take the kid back to the park, Avery runs up out of nowhere and grabs her from me, all freaked out. There was a guy there, the girl’s father apparently. They were flipping their shit. From what she told me, Avery was apparently helping watch the kid.”
“Wait, you spoke to her?” I hold my breath, jealousy surging through me. He spoke to her. He got to hear her. I can barely remember what the soft rise and fall of her voice sounds like.
“Yeah. When the father was going nuts on the kid for walking off.”
“The father…” I have absolutely no idea who this person could be. It’s infuriating.
“Yeah, dude. Fuck, keep up. I have real shit to do.”
“What did he look like? Older?” If she’s babysitting, that would make sense.
“No. The guy was her age. I haven’t seen them together before, but hell...I don’t have eyes on her twenty four seven. I think…I think he sounded Irish.”
I slump back against the wall, the back of my head banging against the plasterwork. It feels like I’ve been sucker punched in the gut. Never did I see that one coming. Irish. I don’t need to hear anymore.
I hang up the phone and press the warmed glass and metal into my forehead, trying to get a handle on this. Noah? She went back to Noah?
I can’t be mad at her. I did this. I did this to us, and now I’m going to have to deal with the consequences. I know all of this, and yet I can barely swallow as I grab my car keys and head for the apartment door.
Rafferty is gonna have a lot of shit to deal with tonight.
******
I press my face into my hands as I sit in the waiting room. I wear sunglasses and a ball cap pulled low. It’s not as though anyone would recognize me here—D.M.F. are doing well, but not that well. Not yet, anyway—but I want to feel anonymous. I don’t want people looking me in the eye. I just want to be invisible.
Noah Richards.
I can’t stop picturing him smiling, his arm slung around my girl’s shoulders. And a kid? Where the hell did a kid come from? It’s like, in the space of four months, Avery has found herself set up nicely with a complete family and I’m falling apart at the damn seams.
Rafferty steps out of his office door into the waiting room. He’s an economic kind of guy, doesn’t bother with a receptionist. I like that about him. He gestures me into his office with a jerk of his head. I get up and follow him.
“You look like shit,” he tells me.
“I know.”
“Wanna tell me about it?” He plays this game where he pretends to be a clichéd shrink, and I play along by being a cocky asshole. Except I’m not usually playing.
“Not really,” I reply. “I’d rather sit here and stare at the ceiling for the next hour. That would be three hundred bucks well spent, right?”
Rafferty rolls his eyes. “Shut up and sit your ass down, Hollywood. These sessions aren’t mandatory, y’know? You make the appointments. You show up of your own volition. That says you want help.”
I shut up and sit down because he’s right. I do keep coming back here under my own steam. I never feel great, but sometimes I feel better after I’ve had a session with him.
Rafferty’s office isn’t your average shrink’s set up. He has no desk, just a comfortable black swivel chair that he likes to lounge back in. Similarly, there’s no typical patient’s sofa. I have a black swivel chair, exactly the same as his. The chairs face each other with nothing in between them bar seven feet of empty space. Rafferty never has a notepad and pen, never takes notes about the shit I tell him. He explained during our first session that he records his discussions with his patients, and asked for my consent to do so with me, which I gave. So instead of furiously scribbling down everything I say, Rafferty usually stares out of the large ceiling to floor window that overlooks the sprawling city in the distance, his face utterly expressionless as he listens. Or doesn’t. I can never really tell.
He takes a seat and assumes his regular position. “All right,” he says. “Let’s do this.”
I blow out a deep breath. This happens to me every time—I show up and suddenly I don’t know what to say, what to think. Seems very self indulgent to come in here and complain about my life. Eventually I realize that I’m wasting both his time and my own if I say nothing. “I don’t care about anything anymore,” I tell him.
He doesn’t miss a beat. “What was the last thing you did care about?”
From the amount of sessions we’ve had, he should know the answer to this question. I know he does, but the whole admitting-stuff-out-loud thing is apparently part of this process. “Avery,” I say.
“And now you come in here today, telling me you don’t care about anything at all. Does that mean you’ve stopped caring about her?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then why do you feel that way?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sure you do. Think about it.’
“Okaaay…” I hate t
his bullshit. I hate playing guessing games. And yet… “I guess I feel that way because…I don’t know. I feel like, for the first time today, I know I’m never going to get back with her.”
“What’s changed?”
“My friend saw her with someone else.”
“Right.”
I punch my balled up fist into my other hand, shaking my head. “Right.”
“And you’re angry at her for moving on?”
“No. No, I’m not. I have no right to be.”
“Then why are you physically hitting yourself right now?”
Rafferty hasn’t turned around to see me do that, but he must have caught it out of the corner of his eye. I look down at the way I’ve clenched my right fist, like I’m readying myself to go ten rounds with someone. “Because I’m angry at myself,” I say softly.
Rafferty tips his chair back, stretching his legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankle. He does this when we’re starting to make progress. “Great. Would you consider yourself a very angry person in general, Luke?”
I shake my head. “No, not really.”
“But you recently smashed your fist into a wall, correct?”
The hairs on the back of my neck bristle. “I was drunk. I would never have normally acted like that.”
“Your father used to drink a lot, didn’t he?”
“He was an alcoholic.”
“And he was pretty violent, too?”
“He broke my arm. Twice. I think there’s a difference between me getting frustrated over putting myself in a stupid position and lashing out, and what he did.” My voice is getting increasingly louder. Rafferty sits there, staring out of the window, not looking at me. He shrugs.
“Maybe he felt the same way after he hurt you. Maybe he lashed out because he did something stupid and he felt bad about it.”
“What?”
“Well, you know how it can be. You said it yourself… you put yourself in a stupid position when you were drunk. If you’d just had one more drink, who knows what might have happened. You could have slept with that girl. You might have been too drunk to hear her saying no, she didn’t want to. You might have forced yourself on her without realizing. Right?”
“What the fuck are…what the fuck are you saying? I would never be drunk enough to—”
“Perhaps your dad didn’t really know what he was doing, Luke. Perhaps he woke up in the morning and tore himself apart over what he’d done. Maybe he didn’t even remember. Alcoholics black out all the time. How can he be held accountable for something that he probably didn’t even remember?”
I can feel the blood surging through my veins, too hot, too fast, too full of adrenalin. I’m getting ready to leap out of my chair and pile drive my fist into his face. How? How the hell can he be saying these things right now? My face feels so hot, like it’s on fire.
“Maybe...” Rafferty says. “Maybe he was just doing what came naturally to him. You can’t hold that against him, surely?”
I’m up and out of my chair in a heartbeat. It feels like my head is exploding, my vision clouding in my peripherals. My only thought is to get hold of Rafferty and make him stop talking. I grab his purple Ralph Lauren shirt with both hands and I yank him toward me.
“HE HAD NO FUCKING RIGHT! I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING WRONG! I WAS A CHILD!”
Rafferty doesn’t even blink, despite the fact that I’m roaring into his face. “Do you think you’re like your father, Luke?” he asks.
I set my jaw, glaring at him. “NO!”
“Do you think you deserved what happened to you?”
“NO!”
“Do you think there was any excuse for him to do what he did?”
I loosen my grip on Rafferty’s shirt, an ice cold sense of realization running down my back, as real as if I’ve had a bucket of cold water dumped over my head. “Of course not.”
“Then why do you insist on owning what happened to you? What you said just now was exactly right. Your father had no right. You didn’t do anything wrong, Luke. You were just a child.”
With every word, it feels like I’m being punched straight in the gut. I let go of him entirely, staggering away from him until my back hits the wall behind me. I slide down the plasterwork until my ass hits the floor, desperately trying to drag a breath into my lungs. God. God. Oh, god. I was just a kid. I hold my head in my hands and I sob for the boy who went through all of the beatings, the shame and the fear. He should have had a happy, joy-filled childhood. Instead he spent most of it hiding in closets and creeping around, trying not to draw attention to himself, terrified of the consequences if he did. I sit there and I cry for a long time. It’s a while later when I feel Rafferty’s hand on my back. I don’t look up at him yet. I can’t face him. I nearly tore his fucking head off.
I sense him sitting down beside me on the floor, leaning his own back against the wall. “Now we’re getting somewhere,” he says quietly.
I let out a shaky laugh. “How so?”
“Because I’ve heard you say it, and I’ve seen it for myself. You know what happened to you back in Wyoming wasn’t your fault. You know with every fiber of your being that you’re nothing like your father. You know you’re you. You can be free now, if you let yourself, Luke. And that means you’re in a position to be something to someone else, too. I couldn’t have encouraged you to chase down this girl back in New York before this very moment, right here, right now. You weren’t ready. But I think you are. Or you might be very soon, anyway,” he says, nudging me with his shoulder. “Do you feel ready?”
“Hell no. Not even close.”
“Well, you will soon. I don’t make promises to anyone, Luke, but I’m gonna make one to you right now, okay? Your past has been chasing you for years, and you’ve been running scared. Just now, you turned around and you faced it head on. And what happened? You saw the truth. Your past has no hold over you anymore, if you choose not to let it. So here’s my promise, for what it’s worth…Things are going to get better from here on out, Luke. Just watch.”
I let out a strangled bark of laughter. “I’m sorry I tried to kill you.”
“Oh, y’know. It’s fine,” Rafferty tells me. I can feel him shrugging where his shoulder touches mine. “Happens all the time.”
NINETEEN
AVERY
The air conditioner isn't working in Morgan's apartment. God knows why Sam and I decide to meet there for my practice session is beyond me. I sit in the middle of Morgan’s living room, dripping sweat and grumbling like a child. I like Sam a lot. Unlike Morgan, he’s laid back and yet he still has a fire lit under his ass. He’s a lot like Luke, I guess. It’s hard not talking to him about my fucked up past, which is unusual considering I’m normally doing anything and everything in my power to avoid talking about Luke.
My best friend pauses by her front door, lifting her unnecessarily huge bunch of keys in the air. “I’ve opened all of the windows. It’s hot as fuck in here. I'm headed out in search of ice. You guys want anything specific?”
“Something cold. God, anything.” I lift my hair from the back of my neck, groaning.
“I’m good with whatever, baby." Sam smiles and I can't help but smile as well. They’re sickeningly cute together. Morgan sticks out her tongue at me and disappears out the door. I glance over at Sam, the large tatted guy staring after my best friend like she’s still standing in the same spot, and I suppose I’m kind of relieved. She was in such a dark place, and so recently, too. With a guy like Sam looking out for her, I feel like I don’t need to worry about her as much anymore. “I'm glad you guys are together,” I say softly.
“Me too, kiddo. I've never wanted a girlfriend. Women have seemed like fucking hard work up until this point.” He shrugs. “And, man, I know she is. I know she’s got her issues just like I’ve got mine, but I don’t know...sounds strange to say it, but I want to handle her shit with her. I want to be there. I know that five years down the track, we’re gonna be boring as fuck, in bed b
y nine o’clock, watching sixty minutes and drinking decaf and shit, but I also know that I’m gonna be happier than a pig in shit. That’s something, y’know?”
“Pig in shit. Got it. Something to aspire to.”
“Don’t mock me, Patterson. This is gonna sound so fucking condescending, but you’ll get it one day.”
The thing is, I do get it. All too well, in fact. I pictured myself and Luke like that so many times. It never bothered me that we weren’t going to be out partying every night. I looked forward to the quiet, peaceful, silent moments between us, where the way we held each other tightly as we fell asleep spoke more than the declarations of love we made with our mouths and our words.
“Ahhh, big scary musician guy’s gone all mushy on me,” I say. “Who knew a six-foot-three, beer-swilling, ass-kicking, tattoo-covered guitarist could be such a romantic?”
“Every man has the heart of a poet when he finds the right girl, Patterson. What can I say? I knew I was in trouble the moment I saw her.”
“Love at first sight? I thought that was a rather outdated concept.” I strum halfheartedly at my guitar, not really concentrating on my right hand. The fingers of my left hand move swiftly in a pattern I’ve been practicing over and over again, until my whole arm’s felt like it’s cramping—the chord transitions for Blackbird.
Sam watches, nodding with approval. “You telling me you’ve never taken one look at a guy and gone weak at the knees?”
I can’t remember the first time I saw Luke. Even as a child, he was just there, a part of my community, my school, my life, always a couple of steps ahead of me, always seeming so much older. I do remember the specific moment that I saw him and he was no longer awkwardly tall Lucas Reid with the bowl cut hairstyle and the skinny frame, though. I was walking down the hallway on my way to AP math and there he was, arms wrapped around Casey, kissing her with an intensity that made my heart race out of my chest. She looked like she’d just gone limp in his arms, as though she had absolutely no control over her body and she’d surrendered herself to him. I’d never seen anyone kiss anyone like that before in real life.
