Love Me Not (25 page)

I decided I wanted her to have it. She’d like it.

Her car wasn’t in the lot, so I took the opportunity and walked up to her door with the package in my hands. It was another of Dickens’ books and a receipt showing I’d ordered the rest of his works, to be delivered to her. I’d made it so her name was on the order, not mine.

This time, I left no note.

Then I went back to my car, behind its tinted windows. I knew I should leave, but I couldn’t seem to make myself. I wanted to see her. I hadn’t seen her in reality in so long. I wanted to make sure she was real, not something I’d dreamed up.

It was at least an hour later that she pulled up. I watched as she got out of her car and walked up the stairs to her apartment. My hand gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles were white when I noticed her clothes, a uniform from a fast food place. It was too dark to see her face, to see her expression, if she was happy or sad, to make sure she’d gotten over what I’d done to her. I wanted her simply to blame me for being an asshole and let it all go. She was strong—I was sure she’d already put it all in the past. I was sure she never thought of me.

She came to a stop at her door, at the package on the ground. She just looked at it for several seconds—confused or cautious?

She kneeled, and I could see through the spindles of the railing as she took off the wrapping paper.

This pause was longer.

I wished I could see her face.

She stood, book in hand, and walked back down the stairs under the streetlamp, finally facing me. Her expression was flat, no emotion. I told myself she was just tired, not upset.

I didn’t know where she was going. Maybe back to her car? No, she turned the opposite direction at the bottom of the stairs. Where in the hell was she going?

I stood from my car and walked through the thin line of trees behind the row of cars. Hopefully, with the darkness and the cover of the trees, she wouldn’t be able to see me if she looked back.

She kept walking.

Then I saw where she was going.

I told myself this was good, that it proved how angry she still was. Kimber was good with anger—she handled it well and didn’t seem to internalize it. Pain and rejection were much harder for her. She’d never have to feel rejected by me.
She
had made the decision to push me away. Part of me respected that.

She tossed the book in the dumpster and then turned around to walk back. I stayed where I was, nervous she might see or hear me if I moved.

She took a heavy breath and started walking. She glanced around, probably just being cautious of her surroundings.

Then she stopped. She looked right at me.

Chapter 45

Drunk

I turned and walked away.

I moved quickly and was in my car a few seconds later, pulling away. In my rearview mirror, I saw as she ran after me—surely in a rage.

For a long time, I drove around and tried to convince myself her reaction was for the best. Her anger was healthy. She was obviously over any feelings she may have had for me—which meant I couldn’t hurt her. I should be happy for her, impressed at how strong she was, stronger than me. No matter what I told myself, I felt like shit.

Maybe I didn’t have to wait the full year to follow through on the deal I made with myself…

I stopped at a liquor store and bought two bottles of Jack. I couldn’t kill myself, at least not tonight. Kimber might hear about it and feel it was her fault. No, I had to give it a little more time, but tonight I could get drunk. Maybe I could stop feeling for a while.

I went home, sat on the couch, and opened a bottle. It’d been awhile since I drank hard liquor. It burned my throat and kicked me in the head. I downed another long swig.

The room was cold. Part of me realized the temperature had dropped and the heat wasn’t on. But that part quickly drowned in my fuzzy thoughts.

I kept drinking. I didn’t care that I’d be sick in the morning. It wasn’t as if I had something to do on Christmas anyway.

The walls blurred and seemed to move.

I sat back in the couch and held the bottle between my legs.

I took another drink. The bottle barely made it to my lips. Some of it spilled down onto my shirt. I wiped my chin and drank again.

Knocking and my name being called.

Jack Daniels seared my throat.

“Heath.”

The voice was closer.

“Heath,” she said, “are you all right?”

I looked up. Auburn hair and green eyes…

I squeezed my eyes shut. No, it wasn’t her. It couldn’t be.

She sat next to me on the couch.

I opened my eyes and just looked at her, trying to make my vision clear, trying to make my head clear. The walls were still moving, kind of shifting back and forth, and my hearing seemed muffled, as if I had pillows pressed to my ears.

She took something out of my hand. The bottle. She set it on the coffee table with a quiet thunk. “Blackberry whiskey. That shit’ll screw you up real fast.”

I was still looking at her. I couldn’t figure out what was going on.

“Heath.” She tilted her head and set a hand on my knee. “What’s wrong?”

I looked away. I couldn’t be seeing things right. The hallucination would go away—just like all the other times.

Her hand squeezed my knee.

I’d never been able to touch hallucinations before…

It had to be in my head. I was alone in my apartment. Maybe I was passed out and dreaming. Yeah, that made sense. My dreams were always even crazier when I was toasted.

“I looked for you,” she said. “Where did you go?” Her voice was quiet, and yet I heard her pain.

“I’m sorry.” That was the best I could give her, pathetic as it was. I wasn’t completely sure who I was talking to, but it didn’t matter—I had lots of people to apologize to.

A pause. And then her hand drifted up my thigh an inch or two. “I suppose I can forgive you.” She shifted closer. “It was fun, you know. I’ve never known anyone who can move like that. No wonder women were all over you.”

I turned to look at her. She couldn’t be who I was seeing.

“But you spent more time with me,” she said. “Did you have fun?”

Time…I’d spent more time with Kimber than all the others. All night.

She looked like Kimber, the way her hair fell against her cheek, the way her lips looked red without lipstick, that sadness hidden in her eyes.

She leaned closer. “Will you move like that with me again?” Her other hand shifted up my arm to my shoulder. “It could be my Christmas present.” Her lips touched my cheek and lingered.

My chest expanded more fully, and my pants felt too restricting. My God, did I want her. Kimber. I wanted to feel her warmth, for her to welcome me in.

I met her lips with mine. The kiss was deep, not careful. I let go of my worries and doubts. I only had so much strength to fight her.

She sat up on her knees and held my face in both hands.

Everything was still fuzzy, everything but my desire.

She pulled my shirt off, and then I shifted and lay her down. I pressed against her. Her hands on my back, she held on to me, held me to her.

I kissed her. I wished our clothes were off and I could start now, be in her, be held by her, completely encompassed. By Kimber, no one else but Kimber.

My hand slid up her shirt, and my lips moved to her neck.

I breathed in her scent…

She didn’t smell right, no gardenia, only perfume and the hint of cigarette smoke.

I stopped.

She held me tighter. “What’s wrong?”

I lifted a few inches to see her face.

Marie.

I got off her and stepped back. Eyes closed, I pulled my hands through my hair. I’d almost cheated, almost betrayed Kimber again.

No, it’s not cheating. Kimber doesn’t want you.

My stomach rolled. I wasn’t sure if it was from guilt or alcohol. I felt dizzy, confused.

The woman is Marie, not Kimber. Kimber doesn’t want you.
I needed to get that one fact solid in my head. Everything else could be fuzzy and spinning, but I had to know that, to accept it. I couldn’t live in these fantasies. I’d hurt people. I’d go insane.

Part of me knew I was already halfway there.

“Heath.”

I opened my eyes. Marie was standing in front of me. Her expression was twisted in confusion, in pain. I was hurting her.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t.” I walked away toward my bedroom.

She said nothing.

I closed the door.

A few seconds later, I heard the front door closing—and one quiet sob.

I couldn’t do this anymore, couldn’t hurt anyone else. I had to leave.

Chapter 46

Hope

I spent Christmas Day hung over. I hurled once in the morning and then stood under the shower until the water ran cold. Then I sat on my bed and waited for the day to pass. Nothing was open. I had to wait for the morning.

My phone rang a few times, but I didn’t bother to get up and answer it. I knew who it was, the only person who would call to wish me a Merry Christmas.

I couldn’t be the friend Elizabeth deserved. I’d tried and failed. And it became clear to me that I needed to let her go too. She’d continue to spend too much time worrying about me and not moving forward with her own life. She was a good friend—she was upset when I was, and I knew now that I’d never manage being happy. She deserved to be happy. If I wanted to be a good friend, I should let her go.

And I needed to save her. My year was almost up. If I pushed her away now, the end would be easier for her to deal with.

Morning came, and I started making calls. Most places still weren’t open, but the tenth number I called answered. I still had that apartment guide for the city. The one place that answered was on the west side, just north of Orange Park. The area wasn’t that bad, though not good, either. They had a one-bedroom available. I told the woman on the phone that I’d be in shortly to sign a lease.

Then I started calling movers. This was even harder. Finally, I got someone who sounded like she was on a cell phone. I offered a thousand dollars extra if they could move me today. She agreed.

While I waited for them to show, I started packing. Clothes, towels, and bedding went in trash bags, and luckily I still had the boxes that the dishes had come in. Packing was done in a little more than an hour. And then I sat there and stared at my walls for a while.

The movers showed around noon. They consisted of two guys and a shitty truck. Whatever. As long as the job got done. And to make sure my crap didn’t get “lost,” I handed each of them a twenty and told them there was another hundred for each if they finished by four o’clock.

Once we were done loading, I gave them the address of the new apartment complex. Before I left, I tucked a note into Marie’s doorframe that said, “I’m sorry.” Then as I took the first step, I turned and took the note back. It would be better if I let her hate me with everyone else.

I drove to the new apartment complex, signed the lease, and paid a year in full, without looking at the apartment first. I’d driven fast and beaten the movers, and I was already done in the leasing office by the time they showed up.

The apartment was on the third floor and about the same size as the last place. Instead of a pond, my view was a few scraggly trees and interstate 295. I kind of liked the noise—kept the place from being too damn quiet.

By three o’clock, the movers were done and each a hundred dollars richer.

I unpacked a few things, the stuff I’d need in the next day or so, which was almost everything. I didn’t have much superfluous shit.

Then I noticed pain in my stomach and realized I hadn’t eaten other than a few crackers yesterday, my Christmas feast. I’d been too hung over to hold much down anyway.

I went out in search of food, maybe a fast food place, whatever I found quickly. At the end of Collins Road there was both a McDonald’s and Burger King. I picked whichever one was easiest to pull into.

I used to think I should worry more about what I ate. I was active enough now with my obsessive running to keep weight off, and I was too young to worry about heart problems. But I used to worry that my
I don’t give a shit
attitude would be hard to break as I aged. Now it didn’t matter. My one-year deadline was coming up, only a couple weeks. And if I died of a heart attack before then, so be it.

The restaurant wasn’t crowded, so I sat there to eat my chicken sandwich. I thought about getting drunk again tonight—I’d packed the rest of the Jack Daniel’s. But the experience hadn’t been what I hoped. I’d wanted to forget, but it only brought out the hallucinations even more. No, I was doomed to be perfectly alert.

So, I went home, sat on the couch, and stared at the wall. My phone rang, and I didn’t answer. I’d have to get my number changed tomorrow. The only reason I’d keep the phone at all was for the Internet. I had an article in the works, and I wanted to finish. I had a magazine already on the hook for it. It wasn’t that I felt responsible to the magazine. It was more that I felt the story deserved to be told.

My phone rang several more times, and eventually, I fell asleep on my couch, listening to the whooshing sounds of the cars on the freeway.

Thankfully, the next day I had something to do, something that would, hopefully, hold my interest and keep my mind straight—an interview for my article.

In the morning, I showered and shaved, which had become a sporadic event for me. The man I was interviewing was from a generation that would likely look at an unshaved man as unkempt, even lazy, no matter if it looked good on me.

After a quick stop at the cell phone store, it fell silent, and I drove north, farther into the west side, not quite into Riverside. The houses were small and at various levels of maintenance. The area had obviously once been a quaint area populated with hard-working families, and some of the houses still seemed to live in that era.

I parked at the curb in front of the still-quaint houses. It was sided in white, with a steep gable. The garden wasn’t much to speak of, but the lawn was cut and edged.