Kiss the Sky (18 page)

CONNOR COBALT

I’m late.

I fucking hate that I’m late. Even with my legitimate
excuse—five hours of Wharton lectures and another two hour business meeting at
a New York City restaurant—I’m still unnerved. Time is obstinate, constant, and
undeniably aggravating. No matter how hard I try, time will not bend to my
will.
 

The traffic on my commute from New York to Philly resurfaces
my frustration. A man in a green truck lays on his horn to my left, as if noise
will magically part the congested freeway. I hold back the urge to roll down my
window and remind him that he’s not Moses and magic does not exist.

I pinch the bridge of my nose as I reread the last text from
Rose.

It’s on soon. I’ll
tape it just in case.
– Rose

The first commercial for the reality show airs tonight. And
Rose is already preparing for me to miss it. For most, being late for some
stupid thirty-second television promo spot wouldn’t be a big deal. They’d shrug
it off.

But it’s not okay.

All it takes is one time. One single moment where I walk
through the door ten minutes late and everything could change. The
what ifs
in life aren’t impossibilities.
What ifs
are parallel paths that
could happen—that could be. In one moment, a
what if
can be fact.

Scott Van Wright is a what if.

If I hadn’t heard the shower turn on, the pipes rumbling
through the walls and ceiling, then I would have never gone upstairs. If I had
no desire to tell Rose to go back to bed, to take a shower later, then I would
have never heard Scott’s voice through the door, tangled with hers.

What if I never entered the bathroom to break apart what
could have been?

Scott forcing himself on Rose is an image that cripples all
the others in my head—it’s what makes my spot in this car and not with her so
painful.

Another honk fractures my thoughts. I accelerate and close
the small gap to appease the asshole behind me. My eyes shift to the exit signs
and the words blur together, almost unreadable. I blink and try to focus, but
it barely helps.

Don’t worry. Do not
fucking worry, Connor
.

I’m starting to feel the effects of 36-hours without sleep.
The night is my graveyard shift. Proposals for class. Business emails for
Cobalt Inc. Everything and anything that needs my attention. I’ve pulled
all-nighters before, sure, but I have a rule to never exceed the 36-hour mark.
Sleep deprivation promotes brain inefficiency.

This is what I get for ditching my limo. I could have taken
a nap in the backseat while Gilligan drove me to Philadelphia. But as soon as
filming began, I opted to drive myself in a silver sedan. I may have been
granted luxury, but I work hard. And if I’m videotaped being carted around in
my limousine, all anyone will see is a lazy son of a bitch.

My eyes sag, and I feel the exhaustion weighing on my
muscles. I make the conscious decision to carefully pull off the next exit and
park in front of a drug store.

I take out my cellphone and walk inside.

“I need you to prescribe me Adderall,” I into the receiver.
My loafers clap against the tiled floor and the attendant gives me a narrowed
look. With my black slacks and white button-down, I look better suited for Wall
Street than some drug store off a freeway.

“No.” Frederick doesn’t even hesitate. “And next time you
call, you can lead with
hello
.”

I grind my teeth as I stop in front of the boxes of decongestants.
Frederick has been my therapist since my parents’ divorce. My mother’s words:
I can hire someone if you need to talk.
So
I spent weeks combing through potential psychiatrists to give the whole
“talking” thing a go.

Frederick was on the college fast track, and I met him when
he graduated med school at just twenty-four. He had this air about him. He was
hungry for knowledge, and that kind of passion was lost in the other thirty and
forty-year-old shrinks that I had interviewed. So I chose him.

He’s been my psychiatrist for twelve years. I would call him
my best friend, but he constantly reminds me that friends can’t be bought. He
earns a staggering sum from me every year, and I overpay for these moments—the
ones where I call him up at any hour of the day and he gives me his full
undivided attention.

Our last session, we discussed Scott Van Wright, and I tried
(rather poorly) not to call the producer names like I was seven and spitting on
a bully. But I think I may have used the words “fallible, conceited human
bacteria” when Frederick asked me what I thought of him.

 
Thankfully
psychiatrists have an ethical duty to keep secrets.

“
Hello
,
Frederick,” I say, trying to keep my tone even. He’s the only person who has
seen me at my worst. Broken. Unusable. But I like to keep those moments as
infrequent as possible. “You can call the nearest pharmacy in Philadelphia.
I’ll pick it up there.”

“I can, but I won’t.”

I let out a long breath as I scan the shelves. “This is not
the time to be obdurate. I’m late as it is.”

“First, calm down,” he says, and I hear rustling on the
other end. Papers shuffling around maybe. He likes to take notes.

“I am calm,” I say, layering on the complacency in my voice
for further effect.

“You just used the word
obdurate
,”
Frederick refutes. “Usually you just refer to me as a stubborn swine. Do you
see the difference?”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“Then don’t patronize me,” he rebuts. Normal therapists
shouldn’t be this argumentative, but I’m not a normal patient either. “You remember
our conversation right before your freshman year at Penn?”

“We’ve had many conversations, Rick,” I say casually. My
fingers skim over two different brands of nasal decongestants. I check the
labels for the ingredients.

“The conversation about Adderall, Connor.”

I clench my teeth harder, my back molars aching. Before
college, I told Frederick that if I ever came to him for Adderall to deny me
the prescription. No matter what. I wanted to succeed in college on my own
merits. Without stimulants or enhancers. I wanted to prove to myself that I was
better than everyone else and that I didn’t need a goddamn pill to do it.

“Things have changed.”

“Yeah, they have,” he agrees. “You’re in your first year at
grad school. You have a long-term relationship with a girl, and your mother is
preparing to hand over Cobalt Inc. to you. And now you have to deal with a
reality show. I fully admit, Connor, you’re able to juggle work and stress
better than ninety-nine percent of people on this planet. But this might be humanly
impossible, even for you.”

This isn’t the first time he’s told me that I’m taking on
too much, but I don’t have a choice. I want
everything
.
And if I work hard enough, I can have it all. That’s always been how my life
runs; I refuse to believe this is any different.

I grab the decongestant with the highest milligram dosage of
pseudoephedrine and then walk further down the aisle towards the caffeine
supplements.

“I agree, it’s not humanly possible. At least not without
losing some sleep. And going through my day, like a body without a brain,
half-coherent and lazy-eyed, is not an option for me. I need stimulants.”
 

“What happened to never succumbing to frat boy tricks?”

“
Guilting
me? Really, Rick? Isn’t
that a little low for you?”

“You’re the one that told me to use whatever means necessary
to talk you out of it,” he says. “There was a time in your life where you’d
rather jump off a bridge than take Adderall. I know things have changed, but
just think about that for me, okay?”

I stare at the caffeine supplements, trying to unbury an
alternate path. But I see none. To have it all, I must sacrifice something.
That
something
begins with sleep.

“If you don’t prescribe me Adderall, then I’ll be purchasing
pure ephedrine on the internet,” I threaten. Buying pills on the internet is
dangerous.
 
I can imagine all the other
unknown, untested ingredients accidentally laced in them.

I’m smarter than Frederick, and he’s aware of this fact. A
long time ago, he made me agree to be honest to a fault. To never manipulate
him.

I won’t. Which is why this isn’t a bluff.

“What are you taking right now?” The tone in his voice has
changed considerably. It’s tempered like his syllables are carefully placed.
He’s concerned, and I don’t ask how he knows I’m grabbing medicine off a shelf.

He’s had twelve years inside my head.

“Decongestants and 5 Hour Energy.” I bring the items to the
counter and the attendant rings me up at a sluggish pace. I have to show my ID
for the decongestants, and she gives me a long, harsh stare. Yes, it’s a little
suspicious buying these items together. But I’m twenty-fucking-four. Not a
child.

“That’s a trick that teenagers use to get high, you do
realize this?” Frederick says over the phone, still trying to convince me to
stop.

I take the paper bag from the attendant and leave the store,
the bells on the door clinking together on my way out.

“I’m driving,” I refute. “I can either take stimulants or
cause an accident. Would you like a four-car pile-up on your conscience?”

“How long have you been awake?” he asks.

“Isn’t that the question you should have started with?” I
uncap the pill bottle and toss a couple into my mouth and wash them down with a
swig of the 5 Hour Energy.

“Start answering me straight or I’m hanging up on you,” he
says sternly. I roll my eyes. Frederick has his limits, even with me. I lean
back in the car seat, waiting for the pills to kick in to where my eyelids
don’t feel like lead.

“37 hours.”

“So you broke two of your rules tonight.”

“I haven’t taken Adderall yet.”

“No, but you took
something
.”

I don’t say anything. I wait for Frederick’s obligatory
advice that arrives about now.

“You have to give something up,” he tells me. “And it
shouldn’t affect your health. So start looking at things in your life that
aren’t necessary.”

What would that be? Cobalt Inc. is my birthright. And the
only aspiration I ever had was to get an MBA from Wharton. Is my dream not
necessary?

So that leaves Rose and the reality show. They’re
intertwined. To have one, I must have the other. Rose’s necessity may be called
into question. One doesn’t need a partner to live. To succeed. But Rose is not
something I’m ever willing to let go. Necessary or not. She’s mine.

“My life is filled with essentials,” I tell Frederick.

There’s a long, strained silence that pulls over the phone.
I wait it out.

When Frederick finally speaks, he sounds a little defeated
but otherwise as calm as me. “I’ll order the Adderall, but the prescription
won’t be filled until tomorrow. Can you text or call when you make it back to
Philly?” He must be picturing that four-car pile-up.

“Of course.”

“Okay, great.” He doesn’t sound enthused.

After a few more words, we hang up. And I assess my level of
consciousness. Steady hands. Clear vision. Full attention.

I’m finally awake.

* * *

By the time I climb the brick stairs of the
townhouse, the promo has already aired. So I prepare myself for what I may
find. The worst case scenario: Scott has seduced Rose somehow—his arm wrapped
around her while she’s in a vulnerable state.

My adrenaline is already spiked from the decongestant
cocktail. Add in this unnatural fear—and my hand shakes before I turn the knob.

As soon as I open the door, my fear disintegrates into
self-assurance. Scott and Rose aren’t tangled on the couch together. She’s not
crying in his arms.

The living room is in an uproar. A chair is flipped over.
Pillows have been thrown and scattered all along the hardwood. Rose has her
heels in her hands, and she swats them at Scott like they’re swords. But she’s
being restrained by both Daisy and Lily, who grip her waist, tugging her back.

I hate questioning my resolve to overcome bad odds, and I’m
glad to have it back one-hundred fucking percent.

I shut the door behind me, but no one hears my entrance. Lo
is too busy spewing sharp insults that bleed my ears. Rose is violently
cursing, layering on expletives like
cocksucker,
son of a bitch, womanizer, dick, bastard, dipshit.
I hear
castrate
five or six times.

Scott has his hands defensively in the air, his back literally
up against the wall furthest from the television. But he wears the biggest
self-satisfied grin.

This is drama he created.

The cameras dance around the living room. Around
Ryke
who clenches and unclenches his fist, one hand
protectively on his brother’s shoulder. Then around my girlfriend who has
completely lost her shit.

Everyone is screaming over each other.

I calmly walk straight ahead, towards the chaos. Rose slips
out of her sisters’ clutch, and she takes the opportunity to lunge at Scott,
her heels barred. I slide into the space between them, and the sharp point of
her heel digs into my chest.

My jaw muscles spasm, the only sign that it fucking hurt.

Her eyes widen in horror, and she drops her four-inch heels
immediately, the shoes clattering to the floor. And then, just as quickly, her
gaze becomes hot and ill-tempered. She points an accusatory finger at Scott.
“He’s a—”

“Douchebag? A pig? A
fucktwat
?”

She places her hands on her hips, fuming. I rub her arm, and
she begins to calm. But hate is still present in her eyes.

My gaze flits between each of my friends. Their bodies begin
to relax when I look at them individually, the tension in their muscles slowly
loosening. Lo actually shuts his mouth, and
Ryke
unknowingly releases his fist.