Weak for Him

WEAK FOR HIM

LYRA PARISH

WEAK FOR HIM

COPYRIGHT © LYRA PARISH
2014

PUBLISHED BY LYRA PARISH AT
SMASHWORDS

Copyright © 2014 Lyra
Parish

Published by Lyra Parish

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This is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s
imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for
atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or
dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales
is completely coincidental.

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Weak for Him/Lyra Parish. -- 1st
ed.

To Will for loving me no matter who I am, or who I
want to be.

To live is the rarest thing in the world.
Most people just exist.

―OSCAR WILDE

One

T
he real estate agent
marked a giant black X beside the line at the bottom of the
contract and handed me the pen. I understood the terms and
conditions. I had read them at least twenty times over the past few
days, but as my pen hit the paper, I froze.

"Sign on this line, Jennifer.
Unless you're having second thoughts."

She tapped the paper with her pink
manicured nail, causing her bracelets to jingle.

The people who wanted the house
said they would convert it into a bed and breakfast for all the
tourists visiting the Golden Triangle, a quaint area in Texas,
known for oil and the home of Janis Joplin. I would miss the little
things, like the Groves town square and the Pecan Festival, but
they would always hold a place in my heart. The worn boards, double
windows, and wraparound porch would be fully appreciated by someone
else.

Every detail about the house, the
way the shutters haphazardly hung on the upper windows, the boards
that creaked on the stairs, and the rounded corners of the island
in the kitchen, were a constant reminder of how my life changed
when a reckless driver slammed into my parents' SUV.

I didn't want the burden anymore.
I had dealt with enough.

Instead of studying for final
exams, I planned two funerals.

Instead of walking across the
stage during my college graduation, I buried my parents.

I couldn't celebrate without them.
I wouldn't.

Tragic situations sometimes forced
people into adulthood, causing one to take a leap of faith they
might not have taken before. If I learned one thing from the
accident, it was the fragility and preciousness of life. How a
person should tell someone if they loved them and not hold back
their feelings regardless of the consequences. I didn't tell my
parents how much I loved or appreciated them, and every day without
them, I regretted it.

The two-story farmhouse was a
reminder of the memories, of my childhood, and allowed the ghosts
of my parents to linger and haunt.

Devastation could make a person
stronger, or bitter, or depressed, and I didn't want to stick
around to find out which I had acquired. The longer I stayed, the
less time it would take to lose myself. I wanted—no,
needed—out.

I sucked in a deep breath and
signed my name beside the overemphasized X.

Mrs. Shirley, the old
bleached-blonde Barbie that used to babysit me when I was a child,
smiled at the signature.

"Thanks, honey. I'll let the
buyers know everything is final."

Her country accent seemed fake,
almost how actors portrayed Texans on TV, but it was natural; it
had been like that for as long as I could remember.

Signing that paper lifted a
million pounds from my shoulders. The shackles had released, and I
was free from the responsibility, the reminders, and everything
that came with the house. I blinked the tears away. I refused to
cry. Shirley continued to make small talk as I loaded the last of
my belongings into the trunk of the Honda.

"Where should I send your copies
of the finalized paperwork?" she asked as I slipped into the
drivers seat. I rolled down the window.

"To my P.O. box in town. I'm
having my mail forwarded there for now."

"So no address in Vegas,
yet?"

"No ma'am, not yet."

"You know you don't have to leave,
Jennifer. There are people here who love you."

"Yeah. There are people that I
loved that are no longer here. There's no reason to stay
anymore."

She leaned into the window, hugged
my neck, and kissed my cheek.

"Take care, doll. Call us if you
need anything."

"I will."

But she knew I wouldn't
call.

It was an empty expression that
she genuinely meant, but one that I would never claim. I was an
independent kid, and not much had changed as I grew into an
adult.

We exchanged one last smile, and
then I put the car in reverse and sped away. As I cruised down the
shell driveway, I took one last look into the rear view mirror,
where she stood on the porch, watching me drive into the morning
sun. I told myself I wouldn't look back, but I had to take one last
glimpse at my old life, the crooked shutters, and the pasture with
the tall crisp grasses, and the fence that didn't connect all the
way around.

"Goodbye," I whispered.

The house faded away until it was
miniature, and then non-existent.

The GPS read twenty-four
hours.

I would stop halfway, and then
continue.

The only choice I gave myself was
to live like the sun wouldn't rise tomorrow.

Las Vegas bound,
finally
.

Two

E
xhaustion blanketed my
body. So much, I contemplated crawling from the seat of my car to
the hotel lobby. My legs needed a stretch, and I couldn't drive
another inch. The golden Valet sign seemed like a
godsend.

Barefoot, and with a purpose, I
slid out of the Honda, stretched my arms to the heavens, and let
every vertebra in my back crunch. Instead of driving to the parking
garage, I threw the keys to the valet driver. He shook his head
like every tourist did it, and walked over to the little podium,
scribbled some things on a clipboard, and handed me a slip of
paper.

Before I walked into the hotel, I
took in the bright lights, sounds of zooming cars, and chatter of
the tourists on the streets. Smells of life and food and old hotels
made my body light up with excitement. Regardless of exhaustion—and
the constant emptiness that never seemed to leave—the city life
exhilarated me.

Everything I dreamed of was under
my feet: change.

Nothing but sidewalk pavement
surrounded me.

Oh, I couldn't wait to get
acquainted with the city.

Unceremoniously, I grabbed my
suitcase, and headed toward the grand entrance.

Once inside the revolving doors,
the sounds of tokens dropping on metal and musical
blings
echoed in the distance. Gambling and booze were only a few steps
away, and I would never forget the blown glass flowers that spilled
from the ceiling. Deep blues, oranges, and yellows hovered above,
coaxing me into their colorful spell. The lobby held the sounds and
distinct smells of freedom and sin.

"Can I help you?" the petite woman
at the front desk asked. A high-pitched, nasally voice escaped her.
She pushed her glasses up on her nose and smiled.

"I have a reservation. Jennifer
Downs."

In a few clicks, and a slide of a
credit card, I had the key to my room.

"Would you like help with your
bags?"

Although the bellman wore white
gloves and a cute little hat and practically begged me to take him
away from his post, I refused. Two suitcases were no problem, and I
never knew how much to tip.

"Enjoy your stay at the Bellagio,
Ms. Downs. If you need anything, please dial zero."

I pushed the arrow for the
elevator.

Once the golden elevator doors
closed, I caught a glimpse of my hair. Disheveled like I had run
through a hurricane. My clothes were wrinkled from sitting, but I
didn't care. All I cared about was Vegas.

Before I let my excitement get the
best of me, I sucked in a deep breath and smiled. As I hummed to
Frank Sinatra, the elevator dinged and opened, releasing me onto
the seventeenth floor.

I walked to the end of the hallway
and inserted the hotel key into the little slot. The mechanism
turned green and clicked.

Blue walls, blue accents, and blue
curtains—the color of serenity and calmness. The room was
breathtaking. Not because of the king size bed or HDTV on the wall,
but because of the amazing view.

I dropped my bags and moved to the
giant windows. Tall buildings, city lights, and mountains lined the
horizon. I wanted to encapsulate my emotions and remember the
moment forever.

The city drew me in, and called my
name as if I were meant to be there, a divine intervention that
patiently waited for each piece of the puzzle to be placed. As I
stared at my surroundings, I knew that moving to Vegas was the
right choice.

After staring at the pastures of
pavement for god knows how long, I unpacked my clothes, and placed
them in the dresser drawers. I took my phone charger out of the
side pocket of my suitcase and plugged my phone in next to the bed.
The whole drive, I refused to answer although I could hear ringing
and dinging until it finally died. Even once settled, I didn't have
the energy to look at the calls and texts.

When I entered the bathroom, I
didn't expect a separate tub and shower, shiny tile floors, or
honeysuckle-scented bubble bath. The sweet scent reminded me of
summer, sugar, and sunshine. Two capfuls would do the
job.

As soon as I turned on the water,
it instantly became steamy hot. Little rainbow-colored bubbles
hugged the side of the fiery, sweet water, and I could not get out
of my clothes fast enough. I practically ripped them off. Water,
warm and comforting, relaxed my muscles. Steam filled the bathroom,
causing the mirror to fog. I leaned my back against the jets and
closed my eyes. Slowly, my body gave in, and my muscles turned to
gelatin.

I grabbed the little bottle of
honeysuckle body wash and the shower pouf, and lightly rubbed up
and down my arms, my legs, and in between. I let go of the fluffy
sponge, positioned my arms on the edge, and sunk deeper into the
tub.

Although my skin had a hint of
pink from the hotness and my fingers wrinkled from the amount of
time I lingered in the tub, I refused to get out.

My breathing slowed, and before I
fell asleep the bathroom door creaked opened.

I tried to cover my naked body,
but not before the man in a designer black suit got an eye
full.

His eyes, the color of grass, met
mine.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Miss," he said
with a British accent, surprised.

"Get out!" I yelled and threw the
body wash. He ducked as the bottle flew inches past his head. Damn,
if my hands weren't wet, I would have nailed him. My aim was
usually impeccable.

"I'm sorry!" he said, and closed
the door, dodging a little plastic bottle to the face. It rolled to
the floor.