Frayed Page 24

  His eyes sweep her. “Nice to meet you.” He grins.

  “You too,” she answers, and quickly looks toward me. “Ben, I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

  “Yeah, sure. Let me take a quick shower and I’ll be right down.”

  The door closes and the sound of her boots click on the tile floor.

  “She’s hot,” Kale says.

  “You’re such an asshole.”

  He raises his hands in the air. “What?”

  “Forget it,” I say, and pull the door leading to the locker room. “You’re just hopeless.”

  “What did I do?” he calls back.

  I just ignore him.

  “Hey, why do you call that Kaye chick Kimberly?”

  Again I ignore him and turn the water on, shower, and get dressed.

  Curiosity has gotten the better of me. Dahlia couldn’t possibly be here to talk about S’belle, could she? I’m pretty sure that even if we’ve moved past our issues, that would still be one very uncomfortable conversation. We’ve only seen each other one time since she bailed me out of jail and helped me find my way to the path I’m on today. One where my life doesn’t center on booze and chicks, but rather on working hard and trying to make something of myself.

  The elevator door dings and, glancing around the lobby, I see her outside sitting on a bench with her face lifted toward the sun. She looks the same as she always does. Her blond hair hangs long, her denim jeans are tucked in her boots, she has on a concert T-shirt and a leather jacket. There’s so much history between us, and when I see her like now, carefree and happy, it reminds me of all we shared. Sometimes I forget she was my best friend for so many years. It’s times like now that I miss that—just being able to talk to her.

  “Hey, what’s going on?”

  She lowers her head and pulls her sunglasses onto her face. “I want to talk to you about Bell.”

  My stomach drops. So that is what she’s here to talk about. Fuck me if this conversation isn’t going to make me squirm. Even though the romantic feelings are gone between us, the fact that I cheated on her has to sting. I know it makes me feel like a real asshole.

  I straighten my stance and fix my gaze anywhere but on her.

  “Ben, don’t be nervous. Come on, let me buy you a cup of coffee,” she says, standing up.

  “You mean let me buy you a cup?”

  “Some things never change.”

  I grin at her. I don’t care if I have ten cents or ten dollars in my pocket, I’d never let a girl pay—ever. Starbucks is only a few buildings over in the Commons and the line is fairly short. I grab our coffees and once she fixes hers with cream we sit outside.

  I take a sip of mine. “Sucks that Jagger had to pull out of the movie. Had they started filming yet?”

  She holds her cup with both hands. “No, there was some kind of production delay. But I guess Aerie had a suggestion for a lead replacement and the director is meeting with him today.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “Do you know the guy that plays guitar for Ivy?”

  “No.”

  “His name is Leif Morgan and Aerie and Jagger both think he is a shoo-in.”

  “Hmm . . . sounds like a good plan.” I tap my fingers on the table. “So, what exactly do you want to talk to me about?”

  She blows on her coffee before slurping a small amount so it won’t spill. Her eyes lift toward me. “This isn’t really any of my business, but I’m pretty sure I know how you’re feeling.”

  I take a deep breath. “About?”

  “Bell. I talked to her this morning and she told me the two of you started seeing each other. And she also told me about what happened last week.”

  I stare at her for a moment. No need to beat around the bush. “So you already knew? About the baby, I mean.”

  Seconds of silence elapse. “Yes.” She removes the lid from her cup and then looks back up. “I found out the day she told me about the two of you.”

  My mouth forms a thin line as I try to control the anger rising up in my throat. “And what, you didn’t think I had a right to know either?”

  “Ben, it wasn’t my place to tell you.”

  I narrow my eyes at her. “No, I guess not. It seems it wasn’t anyone’s place.” I stress the word anyone.

  She ignores my tone, but then again she always was good at doing that. “Did you know Bell was in a really bad accident shortly after she found out she was pregnant?”

  I shake my head no.

  “She was. The girl, Stacy, who was driving was killed and Bell was in the hospital for six months. She actually didn’t leave until after she gave birth.”

  The words gave birth seize my attention, and any questions I might have had catch in my throat. I’ve been thinking of nothing but my child for the past week. She searches my face for any reaction, but I don’t have one. I’m trying to process what she just said and I get lost in her words while attempting to work through the events in my head.

  Dahlia leans forward. “Ben?”

  I snap out of it. “When did she get in the accident?”

  “It was Halloween night our senior year.”

  I swallow. “The night you went out with Aerie and came back to the frat house early.” It’s not a question.

  She nods. She’s already figured it out. That was the night I was supposed to meet S’belle but couldn’t go because Dahlia ended up at the fraternity party instead of having a girls’ night.

  I push up from the table.

  “Where are you going?”

  I look down at her. “I don’t think I can sit here and talk to you about this. It doesn’t feel right.”

  She stands up and grabs my elbow. “Ben, sit down. Please. I’m not finished.”

  I inhale a huge breath and glance around and then at her. The look in her eyes is stern but also full of concern and I decide to lower myself back down. When I do the steel toe of my boot starts tapping the floor so fast my thigh hits the table and I can see the black liquid inside my coffee cup swirl.

  “This isn’t easy for me either, but I’m here because I know you. I know how much learning about the baby must have bothered you.” Her voice trembles.

  I suddenly feel a swell of emotion for her. The fact that she lost a baby just a few months ago must weigh heavy on her mind with the conversation we’re having. “Dahlia,” I say, pausing. I reach across the table and give her hand a soft squeeze and quickly retreat. “I’m sorry.”

  She shakes her head and her hair tumbles around her face. Her lips form a smile that isn’t the least bit reflected in her eyes. I don’t have to finish. She knows what I mean.

  “I want to ask you something,” she says, her voice gaining strength and clarity.

  I cut my gaze to hers and nod.

  She stares at me, holding my attention. “What would you have done if she’d told you? Back then, I mean.”

  It’s a question I’ve asked myself. I put my elbows on the table and cradle my head in my hands. Then lifting my eyes toward her, I answer with all I have inside me, “I honestly don’t know.”

  • • •

  The summer heat wave is over, but the brush fires seem even more stoked by the Santa Anas. Hot and dry, the winds wrap themselves around the Southern California coastline as I ride along knowing where I’ll end up but not quite ready to seek the answers to the questions I’ve asked myself over and over. The sweeping air picks up speed as I push through the narrow canyon passes, and the unusually warm temperature reminds me of a short story I read in college. Raymond Chandler described the “devil winds” in “Red Wind” in the most eerie way. He wrote:

  There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot, dry Santa Anas that would come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands’ necks. Anything can happen.

  I furrow m
y brow thinking, Anything could have happened. Anything can happen. Despite the warm temperatures, a chill chases up my spine and then back down as I try to determine what I would have done if S’belle had told me she was pregnant. Would I have been a dick? I’d like to think I wouldn’t have. Would I even have believed her? I’d like to think so, that I would have done the right thing, but the more I think about it, the more I know it’s a question I will never be able to answer with any absolute certainty—but I do know with absolute certainty that I still want her.

  CHAPTER 24

  Say Something

  Bell

  Even though it’s only eight in the evening, I feel completely drained. I just want to tuck my thoughts away deep down where I had them stored for so long. I cradle my arms around myself as the clouds gather in the sky and the temperature begins to drop, and I think tomorrow has to be a better day. However, as soon as my foot hits the top step of my building and I look toward my door, I want to run back to my car. He’s sitting on the ground with his forehead resting on his knees. The hood of his sweatshirt beneath his leather jacket is pulled up over his head, but I know it’s him. Once I’m practically standing in front of him, his head pops up. He looks worn, tired, and the glow in his blue eyes seems diminished.

  I know that I’m to blame for that. I cast this spell of pain over the both of us and I know we’ll be chained to it forever. For us the only answer is to go our separate ways—I figured that out the minute he left me standing outside Pebbles and ran to some other woman.

  He rises and shoves his hands in his pockets.

  The pull he has over me is still stronger than ever. All I want to do is throw my arms around him and cry with him for the child we made together but will never know.

  “Hi,” he says, his voice low and cautious.

  I try to speak but can’t. Emotion is so thick in my throat that I don’t even look at him, because the threat of my turmoil spilling out in a waterfall of emotions is too great. I slide my key in the lock and walk inside, leaving him standing there. But I don’t close the door. I leave it open, silently inviting him in.

  He enters and shuts the door behind him. “I think we should talk.”

  My heart pounds loudly in my chest as fear rips through me. I’m not even completely sure what I’m afraid of—maybe that he’ll tell me what he thinks or maybe that he won’t. I pat my wild mass of curls that I know looks like a mess and drop my purse to the floor. I keep my eyes trained to the floor and my back to him.

  “What exactly do we have left to . . .” I don’t finish the sentence. I can’t. I know what he wants to talk about—the baby, of course.

  He steps behind me. His breath blows in my hair. “Look. I’m sorry I acted like an asshole the other night.”

  I sigh heavily. “It was a week ago,” I say, the tears leaking from my eyes.

  “Time is all convoluted right now. I’m sorry. But I’m here now and I want to know everything you wanted to tell me last week.” His hands grip my hips.

  “Please don’t,” I say, kicking my shoes off and heading toward the kitchen to put some physical space between us.

  “Don’t what?” he asks, sounding genuinely confused.

  I stop at the counter and use it for support. I finally summon the courage to look at him again. Oh God, the look in his face makes me ache to soothe his pain, but my own pain is too great. “Don’t touch me.”

  “S’belle,” he says, moving toward me.

  I put my hand out. “Don’t call me that anymore.” I muster up all the courage I have. “I’ll tell you what you want to know, and then you need to leave for good.”

  He stares at me and an array of emotions crosses his face, but I think he settles on anger. Good. That’s easiest to deal with.

  “I want to know what happened,” he says again. This time his voice is sterner; the edge of kindness is gone.

  “What? In a nice little package?” I echo his anger because it will be easier for him to leave if we’re both upset at each other—and that is what has to take place. It’s best for both of us.

  He furrows his brow. “No, just like it happened.”

  I open the refrigerator and take out an already uncorked bottle of wine and set it on the counter. I opened it last Saturday night but never drank any of it. I take a glass from the cupboard and pour a glass. I turn toward him. “Do you want some?”

  “No. And I thought you didn’t drink,” he barks.

  I shrug. “I didn’t say I don’t drink. I said it’s better if I don’t.”

  “Then why are you now?” This time his voice is compounded with compassion.

  His concern starts to break me down, but I need to keep that wall up. I slam the bottle on the counter and turn toward him, allowing my eyes to meet his for the first time tonight. “Look, Ben, what do you want to know? Where the baby is? Because I don’t fucking know.”

  His shoulders visibly shake and his eyes widen. I feel a tug at my heart. I’ve never sworn in front of him, but it’s necessary to get my point across—that we cannot be together. He continues to stare at me, this time with confusion clear on his face, as I cross the room to the couch, averting my eyes when I can’t stand it any longer.

  “I just want to understand everything a little better.”

  He lowers himself on the couch but keeps a safe distance. My eyes cut to the Huck Finn book on the coffee table with the bookmark sticking out at about the halfway point, and I notice he does the same. I hesitate a moment and then reach to set my phone and my glass down, drawing his attention away from the book. I pull my feet up and twist my head to look at him, resting my chin on my knees. I search deep in my soul and start by asking him a question. “Have you ever been the reason someone died?”

  He bows his head and drags his hand down his face as though pained by my question. Silence hangs in the air for one, maybe two long moments. “Yes. When my mother had her stroke last year, I blamed myself for her death. I felt responsible.”

  More tears slip from my eyes and I will them to stop. We stare at each other, and the small distance between us suddenly seems like miles. I want him to wrap his arms around me and hold me forever, tell me I made the right choice, the choice that was best for the child with a whole life in front of it, but I shake those thoughts away. That’s not what will happen. It can’t happen. Being together will only end in blame, and I can’t bear that cross. I blink my momentary lapse of misjudgment away. “Well, then, you must know it changes your mind-set. You do things you might not normally do. . . . You make decisions that you might have made differently if you had been in a different state of mind.”

  “Yeah, I know that well. Too well,” he answers, dropping his elbows to his knees.

  His forthright honesty makes me suck in a shuddering breath. Blowing it out, I keep telling him what I’ve held inside for so long. “By the time I had the baby I was in such a bad place I couldn’t imagine raising a child. I didn’t even want to get out of bed. How could I take care of a baby? I told my family I didn’t want the responsibility, but really the pain of what I’d done shadowed any good I thought I had left inside me.” My voice cracks on the admission and I have to look away from him.

  “What happened? Tell me what happened,” he pleads. His own voice sounds pained.

  My mind slips back to that distant place. “It was Halloween and you had told me you’d meet me at my apartment around twelve. My brother was in town, so I went to watch him sing. He drove me. He always did. That night my friend Stacy was there and she was after him, but by the end of intermission it was clear he wasn’t interested in her. I wasn’t paying much attention to what she was doing. I was listening to the band. When the night ended I wanted to get home.” I look at him pensively. “Well, my brother wasn’t ready. I knew he’d be there for a while, so I begged Stacy to take me home. She was upset over him anyway, so I said we’d talk about it in the car. And . . .” I take a deep breath and more tears fall from my eyes. “I’m not sure what happened, bu
t a semi blew a light and hit us. You see, I made her drive me home so I could see you. I wanted to tell you I was pregnant. And her death was my fault.”

  He shakes his head. “No, Bell, it was the driver who blew the light. Not yours.”

  “So everyone says.”

  He shifts his eyes but leaves his elbows on his knees. At that angle I catch his face in profile. I can see its flaws, the way his nose has a bump on it that looks as if it might have been broken once, his hair so messy that it covers his ears, the stubble on his jawline as though he hasn’t shaved in a few days, but to me those flaws make him even more attractive. I try to stop myself from falling, from faltering as his mind works and he pieces the events of the past together. I can see it happening before me but can’t stop it now that I started it.

  When he asks, “Was your brother unable to take you home because he was with Dahlia?” I pick myself up immediately. There’s the elephant in the room that we’ve only briefly touched on. I swat my tears away and stare in disbelief at him. The anger that rears this time is real, genuine, and I don’t have to fake it.

  “Never mind, it’s not important. What happened after that?” he asks, but it’s too late. My wall is already back up.

  I purse my lips at him. “Did you even show up that night? Did you go to my apartment like you said you would?”

  He sits up and wipes his palms on his jeans. His eyes cut over to the book on my coffee table. The book he gave me because it’s his favorite. The book he remembered he was reading the first time we met.

  I take his lack of response to mean no, he didn’t show up. “What would you have done had I told you?”

  He swallows, working his throat.

  My phone rings, interrupting this painful admission of guilt, and I seize the opportunity to put an end to the conversation when I see Tate’s name flash across the screen. I reach to answer it, but he grabs my wrist.

  “You’re going to answer that in the middle of this?”

  I take a deep breath, then another one. My pulse is racing. “It might be important.”

  “This is important!” he seethes, letting go of my wrist.