by Anna Edwards
These are things that I love about me. I'm finally able to live my life the way I want, and here he is trying to change me. I have a mother for that. One who thinks the sun shines out of Will's ass.
I step under the spray, kneading my shoulders. Today is the day. I will break up with him and get this over with. There’s no need to drag it out any longer. I am not happy; I can’t pretend otherwise.
“So, have you told him?” Mac asks the moment I answer the phone. I peep down the passage and shut my door to have privacy.
“Not yet,” I whisper.
“Why’re you whispering?” my sister mock-whispers.
“Because he’s in the next room, dimwit.”
My parents were funny back then, before the fighting over finances and eventual divorce. They figured naming us Mac and Kenzie would be a hoot. It never was. I did get the better end, I have to admit that. The ass end, as Mac continually reminds me.
In my parent's defense, they did their best when it came to Mac and me and got along so much better once they were living in different houses. We never felt the impact of the divorce because of it.
“Just do it already!”
"It's not that simple. I do care for Will, you know."
She sighs into the phone. “You exhaust me. Just call me when it’s done so we can go out and celebrate.”
"Fine," I grumble and end the call. Mac is so pushy you'd swear she was dating Will.
A week later, I still haven’t told Will I want to break up. We sit at a small cafe close to my shop in Regents Park, and I sip on my kelp juice while he drinks wine.
I clear my throat. “We should talk.” He looks up from his newspaper, his blue eyes fixed on me. He sets the paper aside with the kind of precision I find almost maddening.
"Yeah, sure. What's up?" He reaches across the table and places a hand on mine, which is slightly trembling. This is not how I planned to tell him.
“I—” A crash of crockery and cutlery cuts through the otherwise serene atmosphere in the cafe. I look back at Will.
“You were saying?”
"I was saying—" I'm cut off this time by shouting in the back of the restaurant. I turn around and locate the source of the racket. Two men are arguing. One of them must be a waiter. A shorter, stockier man waves his arms around animatedly, clearly unhappy with whatever the taller, leaner of the two has done.
The tall man's shoulders are tense as he responds. I can barely hear what they're saying, but it looks heated. I shake my head, turning back to Will who's now reading his paper.
"I want to break up!" I blurt louder than I intend, causing the couple at the next table to turn and look at me. I straighten in my chair and look at Will, who has a confused expression on his face. "Will, did you hear me?"
“I did. I just don’t get it. Why? We’ve been great together.”
“No. No, we haven’t. I just pretend we are. And now I’m exhausted, and I need to just be honest.”
He rubs a hand over his face, looking flustered and unlike himself. “Is it another man?”
“No! God, no. I just don’t see us together in the long run. I care about you, deeply, but you’re not . . .” I trail off. How do you tell someone they’re inadequate to your wants and needs without hurting them? How do you tell them they’re selfish and thoughtless, and you deserve so much better? That’s the last thing I want to do, so instead, I say, “I’m sorry.”
He rests his head in his hands. “This is so random, Kenzie.”
I hear smashing in the back, and I turn to find the taller man is breaking dishes. I don't know what makes me do it, but I cannot handle this racket anymore. I stand up abruptly and stalk over to where he stands, making a mess.
“Do you fucking mind? People are trying to eat here, or at least hear each other.”
He turns, and I instantly recognize those sad brown eyes and dishevelled hair, the slightly parted lips, and a short beard. His eyes widen.
“You!” he growls, frowning down at me.
I have a sound mind to shake him up again, but instead, I place my hands on my hips and stare him down. His eyes never leave mine. "I'm not too keen seeing you again either, thank you very much."
He looks confused by my statement, lets out a growl, looks down at the mess he made, at the man behind him, then pushes past me. I stumble away and land against a nearby table.
“What was that about?” Will asks when I walk back to the table, my heart rate increased and my adrenaline pumping. Those angry brown eyes still in my mind.
“Nothing. Just a stranger I met at the store.”
“Are you serious about us breaking up? Can’t you give me one more chance? We can fix this.”
I reach across the table and take his hand in mine. “It’s just not working out, Will. I wish it was. I wish I could say it was all you or all me. The thing is, it’s so many things, and I just— I need space, not just to clear my head, but to re-evaluate my life. I cannot do that with you.”
“I love you, Kenz.”
"Then why has it taken you this long to say it? You had countless opportunities, but you never did, and you have to ask yourself why."
He hangs his head, and I let go of his hand.
“This is for the best, for both of us.”
He nods and calls over a waitress, who brings us the bill without us having to ask for it.
I hug him tightly outside the cafe, my hands around his waist and my face flush against his chest. I guess I’ll miss this, the feeling of being engulfed in another's arms. But it was time. I knew it.
“See you around, Kenz.”
I stand on my tiptoes and kiss his cheek. Turning on my heels, I walk away. The odd thing is that I should feel something. Disappointment, sadness, even loss. But I feel none of that, and it's how I know I've made the right choice. The only one worth making.
Chapter Three
Kace
"I got fired," I say before they ask me how my job is going. I tried, and I failed. It's the second job since the day my brother suggested I talk to Tiffany. I worked at a bookstore, but I apparently didn't have the right attitude. My opinions on literature put people off. Bookstores are an escape, the owner told me. So, I picked up my phone and keys, flipped him off, and left the store.
The cafe was going well until I got distracted, messing up orders, and not understanding what the big deal is about serving whole wheat bread instead of rye.
My column was waning fast, and I received that dreaded letter from the editor telling me that if I didn't have a more current theme to present to them in two months, I'd be jobless.
"That's terrible. Sorry, Kace, I really thought this was the one," Tiffany says in a small voice, and Jax just shakes his head. Like serving people food and drinks is all I am cut out for.
"What?" I ask, staring at my brother. I know he's holding back.
“Did you even try?”
“Jax,” Tiffany cautions.
“No, let him answer that. Did he try to make it work? All you had to do was deliver a fucking plate to a table. Simple. But you cannot even do that, Kace.”
I feel my temples start to pound, and I have to grit my teeth before I say something we'll both regret. It’s so easy for Jax and everyone else to judge me. It is so convenient for them to belittle me. But this is it. I’ve had about enough.
"Excuse me." I stand abruptly, spinning on my heels and walking to the front door. Nobody follows me, and I'm relieved. They understand. I'm just the fuck up, after all. The Briggs brother who will amount to nothing. Tears threaten to fall, but I bite back the urge. I'm not about to show anyone any weakness. It's when they know their power.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” My father's voice is loud and angry as he sits at the head of the table. “Do you have any idea what I had to do to make sure you were not expelled?”
Oh, I had a few ideas, starting with that fact that he had the principal bent over her desk for far less. He visited the school every chance he got.
“It was not my fault. I was just defending myself.” My voice is shaky with emotion.
“Is that what you’re calling it now? You’re a disgrace. Look at you. Fucking dumbass!” he spits, slamming his fists on the table, making me flinch. I’m well accustomed to his name calling and belittling. “I have a good mind to whip your ass.”
I grit my teeth, looking to my mother for some support, but as usual, she's staring down at her plate, her eyes vacant and distant.
I look at my brother, whose face has turned red with rage. He’s close to trembling.
"Why can't you be more like your brother? More like me? Instead, you're a loon, just like your mother."
"She is not a loon," I growl, and Jax kicks me under the table. "She's sick."
My father laughs and almost spits out his food. “Sick? The woman is a corpse.”
I stand, and before I can stop myself, I’m launching at him.
His chair topples back with the weight of us, and I start to punch his shocked face. He grunts and growls, trying to pull me off him. But I’m strong. At twelve, I’m almost his height and have a good bit of muscle too.
“Stop it!” Jax shouts and tries to pull me off my father. I hate this man. I hate him so much I could kill him.
Jax manages to pry me off him and shoves me out of the room. I know my punishment will be severe, but I don't care. I never do. I'm already in hell.
The wood on my table is chipped, and there are carve marks on it from the days when it used to sit in the kitchen in my parents’ house. I trace the circles and patterns my mother would use her nails to indent. I haven't thought of my parents for a while, but my fall out with Jax just brought it all back. The utter rage I feel at my father, the devastation I feel that my mother saw no other way out but to end her life.
I still miss her. Her gentleness and the way she used to look at me with wonder. Nobody’s looked at me that way since.
I'm a frustration to Jax, and I know it. But he refuses to leave me the fuck alone. I didn't ask to be this way. I just am. It's not something I can switch off. I can't focus, and when I do, it's on things that mean nothing.
I can't hold a conversation with a woman for long enough to develop something. I'm always wondering — about their lives, about what they think of me. About how little I think of myself.
I have a half-finished manuscript I swear I'll publish one day. I have articles I've written that I am far too afraid to submit. Afraid I'll expose too much of myself, scared the world will never see, no matter how much I show them.
Maybe I should talk to Tiffany. Perhaps I should just lay bare all my troubles so she can fix me up for my brother so I can stop being the one thing that drags him down.
The next morning, I swear today will be different. Maybe I'll find a job I actually like. Grabbing my jacket, I make my way out. If anything, I have to clear my head after the wreck of a dinner last night.
I jump into my car and am met with typical London traffic. It’s congested at every turn. I turn on my radio and open the window to let the cool breeze in since my aircon has been bust for the last year. And then I hear it, a horn blaring behind me. I don't bother to look. Instead, I close my eyes and pretend I am anywhere but here. The horn continues. I hum along to the tune playing and gasp when I feel cold hands grab my throat. I open my eyes and there she is. Again. This woman has a habit of popping up. I struggle out of her grasp and suck in air.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I choke. “You’re insane, you know that?”
“You’re blocking up traffic, asshole. Get a move on.” Icy-blue eyes glare at me.
She starts to storm away, her shoulder-length silver hair blowing in the wind. "Wait a minute," I growl, jumping out of the car and giving chase.
"You don't get to do that shit and walk away," I yell, and she ignores me, approaching her car and opening her door. I reach out and manage to grip her wrist, and she spins around. I let go of her hand and step closer to her.
"That's a pretty brave thing you did back there. If you'd stayed to face me, I'd convince myself you weren't a little coward." I glare down at her, and her cheeks redden.
"You asshole." She lifts her hand toward my face, but I grab it before she makes contact. The tension between us is so thick it could be cut with a knife. I step closer to her until she's standing against her car, her eyes widening in shock. Is she nervous? Is she afraid? Angry? For some reason, I need to know. Her pupils dilate, and she lets out a breath.
“What is it about you?” The words come out of my mouth in a tone so low I wonder if she hears me.
She kicks my shin, and I stumble back. "Ouch! That hurt."
She's inside her car in a flash. I tap at her window a few times, and she ignores me, staring forward.
I slam my hands on her hood and storm back to my car.
At the Starbucks store I usually frequent, I get out my battered laptop, connect to Wi-Fi, and I know exactly what my next article will be about.
Chapter Four
Kenzie
“You reading that bullshit again?” I roll my eyes at Mac who is sprawled on my living room floor with the paper open on the latest Complete Guide to Nothing column. Whoever writes that column is a turd. I’ve read one or two of those articles. The writer is probably a bored recluse with nothing better to do. I can’t understand what makes papers want to include that kind of bullshit in the first place.
Don't people have their own drama to deal with instead of wasting their time reading about a fantasy world filled with the theatrics one man creates?
“This is a good one,” she insists while chewing on a carrot. "So, this chick strangles the poor columnist in traffic, you see. Then he corners her to confront her, and she begs him to make sweet love to her mouth . . ." She laughs.
"Let me see that," I growl, grabbing the paper from her hand and reading.
What is it with women and their need to be obscenely aggressive one moment and a needy mess the next? There I was sitting in traffic, minding my own business, when a white-haired psychopath, albeit attractive, walks over to my car and assaults me.
I know what you’re thinking, people. This is Mr. N, being overly theatrical to sell a point. But I kid you not. She wrapped her tiny hands around my throat in a chokehold so tight I’m surprised I survived. I stormed after her because, I must admit, she was one fine-looking thing.
And she looks up at me, her eyes all come-hither, closes her eyes, and practically begs me to kiss her, right there in traffic . . .
“White-haired psychopath. Begged him to kiss me. That—”
“Wait, that’s you?” Mac snorts. “How did I not realize that?”
“Ha-ha!” I shove the newspaper away. “How dare he?”
"You strangled the man," she laughs, obviously loving the article a whole lot more. She grabs the discarded sheets and starts to reread it, seeing the writer and me in a whole new light.
“So, is he hot?”
“What?”
“The guy, Mr. N? He has to be hot if you were begging him to take you right there in traffic.” I knew who she meant.
"No! Of course, he isn't,” I lie. "And I did not ask him to take me or kiss me. He's a liar."
She cocks an eyebrow. “You got that twitch in your cheek. The one you get when you're an asshole liar."
I roll my eyes. "Fine, he's hot, but so not my type. And I really did not ask him to kiss me."
“Uhm hmm.”
“Mac, I just broke up with my boyfriend. I’m not going around drooling over other men.”
She gives me that look that tells me she’s not buying it. “You know what I think it is? You’re sexually frustrated. I mean, just look at how wound up you are over an article. It’s not like he named and shamed you.”
I throw a pillow at her. She ducks, and it lands on the floor. "It isn't that. I keep running into this guy."
“You know him?”
“Not exactly. He’s that guy. The car I jumped into thinking it was
yours.”
She scrunches her nose and scratches her head. “Oh, the one you were assaulting when I eventually found you?”
I open my mouth to deny it, but she's pulling a face.
“Then he was at the cafe the day I broke up with Will. It’s like he’s following me or something.”
"You should find him," she says excitedly, and I shake my head.
“Oh no, we are not playing PI. Besides, what makes you think I want to see him again?”
“You’re my sister. I know these things.”
Was Mac right? Did I want to see him again?
I should get pizza, I think, after Mac leaves. I’m actually starving my ass off. I call the local pizza joint and order a margherita pizza with extra cheese. I lay on the couch channel-surfing until I settle on watching a rerun of Ghost for the umpteenth time. I am just at the part where Sam is about to use Oda Mae Brown's body to talk to Molly when the doorbell rings. The shrill of it has me shuffling around in search of a tissue to dry my eyes off.
"Just a second," I sniff, slipping on my night slippers. The doorbell rings once again, and I dash to the door. People are so impatient it isn't even funny.
I swing the door open just as the serial doorbell ringer is about to reach for the button again. My eyes widen because, on my doorstep, pizza in hand, stands the guy who’s been playing on my thoughts for the last couple of hours since Mac put that crap idea in my head. Mr. N, the columnist, in the flesh. He's dressed in black jeans and a white T-shirt that hugs his chest. He wears the signature Iz a' Pizza cap and a leather jacket, and I’d be lying if I said he didn’t look irresistible.
“Mr. N?” I blurt.
He frowns at me, his dark eyes drinking me in. “How do you know that?”
“You used the term white-haired psychopath explaining our encounter the other day. There aren’t too many of those,” I explain, pointing to my hair, which sits on my head in a messy bun.
