Dear Tori

by Renee Fowler

  Dear Tori

  Renee Fowler

  Copyright © 2018 Renee Fowler

  All right are reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author. No part of this book may be copied, scanned, uploaded or distributed, electronically or in print, without the written permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any and all names, character, places and locations are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Dear Tori,

  I hear you’ve made a new life for yourself somewhere warm and sunny. That’s all your dad would tell me. I’m surprised he told me that much after the way things happened, but I’m happy for you, babe.

  You deserve all the happiness in the world, only sunny days, and all nice things. I wish it could be me that gets to make you smile, but as long as you’re out there somewhere smiling, that’s all that matters.

  Remember when we rode out to the falls and got caught out in that storm on the way back? I parked the bike under that bridge, and we waited out the rain for an hour. When it finally stopped, the sun popped out from behind the clouds, and there was the prettiest rainbow stretched across the sky. You took about a dozen pictures with your phone because you never wanted to forget it.

  I wish you could remember, Tori. I know in my heart everything would be different if you could, but after all this time I’ve got to face facts. Those memories aren’t coming back.

  I miss you, and I’ll never forget about you, but this will be the last letter you get from me. You’ve moved on, and I guess it’s time I try to do the same.

  Love you forever,

  Noah

  Chapter One

  Tori

  My phone buzzes in my apron. I already know without looking who it is, and what he wants. My shift ran over, and I’m late coming home. Blinking, I stare down at the time clock and will the numbers into the logical order. I always get sevens and ones confused. Eights and threes too. People tell me I was actually good at math before the accident, but I can’t imagine it. If someone held a gun to my head right now and demanded my phone number, I might as well kiss my ass goodbye.

  Eventually I’m able to recall my four digit employee number, and I punch it in correctly after three attempts. I wave to Shelby on my way out the front of the arts and crafts store.

  “Bye, Vicky. See you tomorrow hon,” Shelby calls out warmly.

  Luckily the owner is understanding of my limitations. She usually has me restocking shelves, or cutting fabric for customers. Every so often she’ll pull me to the registers when it gets busy, and I do okay there, but if an item doesn’t scan and I have to punch it in manually… My face burns at the memory of the last time that happened, but I try to push it out of my mind as I drive the short distance home.

  I actually try to forget for once, but it doesn’t work. My brain is screwed up. The things I’m desperate to remember elude me. The things I would love more than anything to forget flitter through my brain on a loop.

  Christian is waiting by the door when I get home. He taps his gold watch obnoxiously. “You’re late, Victoria.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Just hurry up and get ready.”

  Christian follows me through to our bedroom. He flicks through the closet for something appropriate for me to wear while I strip out of my work apron, T-shirt, and jeans.

  I nearly fall over trying to tug the sheer stockings up my legs. The black sheath dress he hands me is modestly cut, and custom made to fit me precisely. I smooth it down my thighs and pull my hair loose from the clip at the nape of my neck. Christian plucks a pair of heels down on the plush carpet in front of me, and I start to shake my head. “I can barely walk in those things,” I say.

  “You’re not going to be walking anywhere, Victoria. Just put them on, and go put on a little bit of makeup too, but make it quick.”

  I teeter into the bathroom to swipe on some mascara and a smidge of lipstick. Now my green eyes pop. My pale lips don’t blend in with the rest of my pale face. I run a brush through my blonde hair, and give myself a few spritzes of some expensive perfume Christian bought me.

  He’s waiting in the open doorway with my ring. I fan my fingers out so he can slide it on. I don’t wear it all the time, and I never wear it to work. The large diamond gets snagged on everything, and it’s too expensive. I’m terrified of losing it.

  When he first put that engagement ring on my finger almost a year ago, I was happier than I could ever remember being, but everything changed after we moved in together. That’s right around the time Christian got that promotion, and he’s under a lot more pressure now. Maybe that’s why things are different.

  Christian smoothes my hair down around my shoulders. He tips my chin up towards him, and sharpens the line of my lipstick with his thumb, then he turns to check his own reflection. He runs a hand through his neat blond hair, and smoothes down a stray eyebrow.

  He has sharp, green eyes and pleasant, somewhat plain features. In a way, we kind of look alike. More than one person has commented that we could be related. The cut of his dark, tailored suit accentuates his lean build. Overall he’s handsome. I can say that objectively. When I first met him I thought so anyways, but lately… I don’t know anymore.

  Maybe after this merger things will go back to the way they were before. He used to actually ask me about my day. He kissed me, and not just immediately before or during sex. When he said I love you, I believed it, and when I said it back, I felt something besides a gnawing worry and a simmering resentment.

  “I’ll try to keep the conversation centered around current events,” Christian says as he steers us towards the restaurant. “Don’t embarrass me tonight, Victoria.”

  I roll my eyes towards the passenger side window. “I’ll try my best.”

  “That’s all that I can ask, darling.” He pats my knee in this placating gesture that makes me feel small and stupid.

  Is that how he sees me?

  So what if I have a hard time keeping numbers straight, and I’m missing a big chunk of time during my teenage years? I’m not stupid. I can talk to people and carry a conversation. Before Christian came into my life, I was getting by just fine. Maybe I didn’t live in a big house, or have a new car, but I never felt whatever I’m feeling as we walk into that restaurant. Less than. Belittled. Like I’m his pet instead of his fiance.

  Thanks to these ridiculous shoes, I’m forced to hang onto Christian’s arm for balance. That’s something else I lost in the accident. I used to do gymnastics, or so I’m told. Now I can barely walk in heels, and I’m sure I would break my neck if I attempted a cartwheel.

  Christian’s business associate and his wife are already seated at a table. They stand
up to greet us, then Christian pulls out a chair for me.

  He’s always such a gentleman when we’re together in public.

  His wife’s name is Karen. She’s about the same age as Christian and I, mid twenties I’m guessing. Her husband is about fifty, so that probably makes her wife number two, or maybe even three.

  Is Christian going to trade me in for a younger, perkier model at some point down the road? It wouldn’t surprise me. If I’m being perfectly honest, I’m not sure what he’s doing with me right now. Christian is handsome and well off. He has a degree from a prestigious university, and I have a high school diploma that I don’t feel entitled to since I can’t remember attending high school in the first place. I’m pretty enough, but I’m far from beautiful. The world of finance that he is so passionate about is a complete mystery to me, and he obviously thinks I’m a moron.

  Which is the real Christian, the one I met two years ago who seemed to like me despite my flaws, or the one sitting beside me now?

  I compliment Karen on her earrings, she compliments me on my ring. She asks about the upcoming wedding, and I hope I sound as excited as I’m supposed to feel.

  The wedding isn’t quite three months away now. What if things don’t go back to normal after this merger? What if this is our normal now?

  My eyes scan the menu. There are no prices listed, and everything’s in french. I’m shocked to learn I can read french, somewhat. And I remember that I took it all four years of high school. My french teacher’s name was Mrs. Potts. She wore thick glasses, and had a dark, greying bob.

  I wish I was at home so I could write it down in my notebook. Sometimes little flashes from those missing years pop through to the surface, and I like to record them.

  There was a time a rememberance like that would’ve excited me, my family too. For a while we hoped all of my memories might return and I would be the old me again, but it never happened. Already I can feel Mrs. Potts fading away. The words on the menu no longer make sense to me.

  It’s like waking up from a dream. For those first few seconds between sleep and wakefulness, the absurdities of the minds unconscious rambling are clear and almost tangible, then they disintegrate like smoke blown wide by a breeze. I no longer own the memory, but I vaguely remember remembering it. I have notebooks full of these second rate glimpses into my past.

  Funnily enough, I’m almost positive I’ve written about Mrs. Potts before. I’ve regained and relost that memory a few times now, but I can’t retain it. I guess it doesn’t matter since Christian knows french and he orders for both of us.

  Halfway through the meal my phone buzzes from inside my purse. I don’t want to be rude, and I almost don’t check to see who it is, but it might be important.

  It’s my stepmother Maggie’s name that pops up on the caller ID. I excuse myself from the table, and walk carefully towards the entrance of the restaurant to return her call.

  “Tori, honey.” Maggie swallows audibly on her end. “I need to tell you something, but… Are you sitting down? Maybe you should sit down.”

  “Is Brandon alright?” I ask about my six year old half-brother as I push through the frosted glass door to step out into the hot, humid night air.

  “He’s fine.” A gentle sob breaks through from Maggie’s end. “It’s your dad.”

  When Maggie tells me, I’m not sitting down like she cautioned. As the true meaning behind her words sinks in, I stagger over a few steps and plop down on the raised lip of a flower planter.

  My dad wasn’t even fifty years old. How could he have died of a heart attack? It doesn’t make any sense.

  On the other hand, I guess it makes a little sense. He drank more than he should on the weekends, and smoked behind Maggie’s back, although she nagged him constantly to quit. He stressed about the farm. He stressed about me, especially after I packed up and moved a thousand miles away. He was under loads of stress raising me alone all those years between when my mom died and he met Maggie. Plus he had a six year old son to contend with now too.

  He died of a massive coronary while waiting in line at the bank of all places. My mind tosses out an old memory of the interior of the only bank in my tiny hometown. The muted lighting, and fake greenery. A long row of teller booths framed in dark wood. The memory is already fading, but my brain torments me with an image of my dad crumpled on the dark carpet of the bank lobby.

  “Tori?” Maggie says.

  “I’m here. Tell me what I should be doing. What do I need to do right now?”

  “Just start heading home, honey. I’m taking care of all the arrangements.”

  Home. I’ve lived in Miami for five years, and it still doesn’t feel like home. That stupid McMansion I’ve lived in with Christian for a year doesn’t feel like home either, but neither does Brockton, Ohio. I’m homeless, and orphaned. I’m a twenty-six year old orphan.

  For some reason the thought makes me want to laugh. After I hang up with Maggie, I laugh and cry at the same. That’s what Christian finds when he comes to see what’s taking so long, me sobbing and laughing hysterically.

  “I’m so sorry, Victoria,” he says, after I’m eventually able to tell him what happened.

  “Stop calling me that!”

  A line forms between Christian’s eyebrows. “What am I supposed to call you?”

  I rub the heels of my hands over my eyes. Part of me realizes I’m lashing out. I’m prone to anger at times now. I don’t have a good handle on my emotions like I supposedly did before the accident. The prefrontal lobe damage must explain why I’m so pissed that Christian is calling me by my real name, the name I chose to go by after I moved to Miami. This place was supposed to be a fresh start, a brand new place for a brand new me.

  Christian hands me his keys, and tells me to wait in the car while he goes back inside to explain why we’re leaving early. I take off my shoes and walk across the asphalt barefoot. By the time I reach the car, my pantyhose are ruined. Leaning back in my seat, I hike my dress up enough to rip them off.

  When Christian climbs into the driver’s side of his car, I’m still sitting with the hem of my dress shoved up to my crotch, sobbing and clutching the waded up stockings in my fist.

  If he tells me to stop embarrassing him, I might hit him. Part of me wants to. I want to hit something badly.

  Christian doesn’t say anything, but he pulls me up against his chest, and tugs my dress back down silently. He pries the pantyhose out of my hand, and shoves them into the empty cup holder to dispose of later.

  “I can’t believe he’s gone,” I say. “I thought I would have more time to…” To what? Reconnect. Have a relationship. I don’t even know.

  “I didn’t think you were close with your father.”

  “I wasn’t.” Apparently we were close before the accident, but I withdrew from everyone that knew me prior. Being around people that remember the old me makes me feel like such a disappointment.

  But it’s not like I’ve lost all of my memories. Just the sixish years before that accident. Everything up until the age of twelve is still intact.

  I guess that’s who I’m missing, my dad who drove me to gymnastics and gave me an allowance for doing chores around the farm. The one who delivered the talk about becoming a woman with a blood red face, because he was the only one there to give it. He cooked elaborate dinners each Sunday for just the two of us, because that’s what my mom always did when she was alive.

  He begged me to come home after I left. He was worried sick about me, and who could blame him? Physically I was twenty-one years old the day I departed, but thanks to those missing years, mentally I was fifteen at best. I packed my things in my car, and started driving south without a clue where I was going, or what I was going to do when I got there.

  What forty-five year old dies of a massive coronary? One with a daughter like me, that’s who.

  “Darling, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to get away from work right now,” Christian says as I’m packing a bag back at our
house.

  That’s the precise moment I realize that I’m not going to marry Christian. If he gave half a shit about me, he’d drop everything to accompany me to my dad’s funeral. He’d at the very least place a few calls in my presence, pretending to make an effort to clear his busy schedule. I’ve suspected for a while now how meaningless I am to him, but this confirms it. I’ve never even met his family. I should’ve realized well before now that he doesn’t really love me.

  “I’ll go get you a plane ticket booked,” Christian says. “I can at least do that much.”

  “Don’t bother. I’m driving.”

  He scoffs. “That’s a nineteen hour drive. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  I’m biting my tongue so damn hard as he wanders out of the room to go purchase a ticket that I won’t be using. If I argue with him, he’ll just take my car keys. If I hand him back that engagement ring and tell him to shove it up his ass, he’ll sit me down and talk circles until I’m tearful, confused, and sleepy.

  Maybe I’m exactly who Christian wanted, someone easy to control. He gets to dress me up however he wants, parade me out for business dinners when it suits him. I’ll never have a real career to compete with the time he feels I should be devoting to him.

  From the day he slipped that ring on my finger, he’s been harassing me to quit my job. He can’t understand why I persist in my menial position that barely pays more than minimum wage. No matter how many times I’ve explained it to him, he doesn’t get it. I fought tooth and nail to regain my independence after waking up from that coma. There’s no way I would willingly give it up again. Not for Christian. Not for anyone.

  I pack one black dress, and one pair of short heels for the funeral. The remainder of that crap he bought me I leave in the closet. I slide the engagement ring back off my finger and put it in my jewelry box along with the rest of it, necklaces and earrings that I’m almost positive Christian’s assistant picked out for me. While he’s still in the next room, I grab my journals and shove them in the bottom of my bag.