“How are things with Naomi?” I ask, not because I want to hear it, but because Bennett should be able to talk to me even if I’m a mess.
“Pretty good. We made it official while you guys were in Hawaii.”
“Wow. That was fast.”
“Not really. We aren’t twenty-one anymore. It’s pretty easy to tell if things can work.”
He leaves out the other part where it’s also easy to tell if things won’t work.
“I like her,” I offer, finally meeting his eye.
“Thanks,” he mutters with a skeptical glance.
We sit in silence for a while after that, letting the football game on my flat screen take over our conversation. My mind’s not really focused on anything. The game filters through my ears, but I don’t listen. The beer slides down my throat, but I don’t taste it.
“Dude, what the hell is up with you? I haven’t seen you like this since you got back from overseas.”
I don’t answer because I don’t know what to say to that other than the raw truth, which I haven’t even been willing to admit to myself until this very moment.
“I didn’t account for Charley.”
Fuck, saying it out loud, putting the feelings out into the oblivion, somehow makes it even worse, but my vocal cords don’t stop. “I wasn't prepared for her to wreck my life. You know that night at the club when Natasha came to meet me again? I could’ve slept with her, but I walked away and just left her hanging.”
“Why the hell did you do that?”
“Because Charley and Naomi were at the club. I saw them on the dance floor,” I declare, finally sharing that snippet of information with someone.
“What? They were there that night?” He leans forward in his chair, intrigued.
“Yup.”
“You never told me,” he frowns, trying to piece together the new information.
I nod, staring into the dark ale, not willing to meet his eye.
“Did you talk to her that night?”
“No, but the moment I saw her on the dance floor I knew I wanted her. I had to have her. And instead of listening to logic and reason, I went for her.” I tip back the beer, drinking half the bottle in one long drag.
“How long has it been since you guys have talked?” he asks with a frown.
“Two weeks.”
He nods slowly, taking a sip of his beer, and then another.
Finally, he leans his head toward me and cocks a brow. “Well, chump, what are you going to do about it?”
I shake my head, “Nothing. Charley has her own shit to work through. I can’t force her to want to be with me.”
“So you knew better than to fall for her and then you did anyway?”
“Looks like it.” I scrub a hand across my overgrown facial hair.
He chuckles regretfully. “Damn, I’ll drink to that.”
…
Charley
I decided to try to work everything out without therapy. It didn’t work for me last time and I already know they’ll want to put me on drugs. We live in the era of ever-present and ever-available uppers and downers, but I don’t want either. I know I can fix myself. I know the root of my problem; I just never thought it was possible to overcome my past until I met Jude.
He taught me how to experience life through my senses, never holding back, never pushing feelings away. He didn’t let me hide; he told me I had to be honest with myself. Hearing him say that was the biggest wakeup call I’ve had in four years.
For the first time since my father’s death, I lay alone in my room letting my mind wander. Will the memories even come? My head rests back on my pillow and my eyes study the white paint chipping above my head. For a little while I think of nothing at all, just white noise. Had I pushed them away for so long that they had disappeared completely?
But, then like a faint echo, I remember my father’s deep laughter. The sound is faint and fades in and out like the reception with a bad antenna.
He was always laughing.
Before I realize my movements, I slip off my bed and pull a large blank canvas from the armoire beside my bed. My bucket of paints tumbles out after it, but I let them spill out onto the ground, not caring about the mess. I grab the colors I need, mixing them on my palette and letting echoed remnants of his laughter push me forward. As I let the memories overtake me, I begin to paint my father as I remembered him.
His image is hazier now, but the important aspects are still there. His strong jaw and angled cheekbones were always so prominent. And then I think of his dark grey eyes, starkly different from mine and my mother’s.
To the untrained eye, his facial features and expensive power suits appeared stern and unyielding. But I knew better. He showered me with love, much to the dismay of my mother. He was everything to me growing up. Every girl has a special love for her father and mine only grew with age. I never confided in my mother, but my father was an excellent listener, even about silly things like friends and drama at school.
He worked late and often took long business trips, especially as I got older, but we talked every day. Even if he got home at midnight, he’d wake me up just to tell me he loved me, but then more often than not, we’d end up staying up late, talking and laughing.
Which is why his suicide blindsided me.
My hand freezes mid stroke. God, I haven’t let myself actually think that word since his death. Suicide. My father killed himself and I saw him do it.
The thin palette slips from my fingers and then my paint brush tumbles through the air after it. Paint scatters across the hardwood floor, splashing my bare feet and my yoga pants, coating the unfinished canvas and the woven rug next to my door. My eyes lose focus as dark rings impinge on my vision. I pinch my eyes closed, trying to find a grip on reality, while simultaneously remembering why I have to let myself slip away from it.
The memories are so hard to process; I’m afraid they’ll finally splinter my soul in two and leave me a hollow shell, even more so than I am now.
Tears stream down my cheeks as I clamor over the art supplies to find the half empty bottle of tequila Naomi left here the night we went to the bar; the night I stripped for Jude.
I steal it off the book shelf, twist the cap off, and step back to look at the half painted portrait of my father staring back at me. The blue and orange hues cast shadows across his features, but his grey canvassed eyes stare back at me, pulling all of my buried sadness to the surface.
Fuck you. I take a long drag of the tequila and relish the pain as it burns down my throat, setting my mouth ablaze. Fuck you for killing yourself. Another shot slips down, coating my stomach in sweet warmth. Fuck you for leaving me. One more long gulp of the hard liquor, and then I drag my finger across the wet paint, smearing his features into a blurry mess of mismatched hues. Fuck you for not stopping, even as I begged.
Jude
My phone’s buzzing reverberates through the silent room and I reach over to grab it from the nightstand without looking at the caller ID.
“Hello,” my pulse rises as I wait for her voice to filter through. Charley hasn’t called since she walked out of my apartment three weeks ago and my heart leaps at the chance that it could be her on the other end of the line.
“Jude! Thank God you answered,” a female voice sighs into the phone, but it’s not Charley.
Naomi?
“Naomi? What’s up?” I glance down at the screen to see it’s only half past nine at night. I’ve been working, hitting the gym, and passing out early every day this week.
“It’s about Charley.”
What? I have to fight to keep my calm.
“What about her?”
“Listen, I know you don’t owe her anything…but I think something is wrong and I felt like you should know.”
My teeth grind together as I stare up at the ceiling. What am I meant to do here? She left; of course there’s something wrong.
“Tell me,” I demand with a gruff tone.
“She hasn’t even told me everything, but, Jude, she’s worth fighting for. She keeps everything so private. But I’ve never seen her like this. I can usually get through to her on the low days, but the past two weeks have been complete torture. She’s been ignoring my calls and won’t let me in when I go to her apartment.”
Naomi pauses and I hear her soft sniffles in the background. The next time she speaks, her words are muffled through quiet sobs.
“She has the most beautiful soul, but Jude, it’s tormented. She’s had such a hard life. The kind of life that looks perfect on paper, the kind of life no one ever questions. But you have to keep pushing, Jude. I don’t know what to do.”
“She walked away from me, Naomi,” I point out, trying to remind myself of that fact as well.
“I know,” she says the words, but her voice doesn’t sound so convinced.
“I begged her to open up and she left. Why would she want to see me now?”
“You get to her more than anyone else I’ve seen. Hell, I had to pry my way in over the years, but in a few weeks you seemed to peel away every layer.”
“I don’t want her to suffer anymore,” I admit, feeling my steely resolve melting away.
“I don’t know what to do,” she cries into the phone.
“I’ll go by in the morning. I’ve only been keeping my distance because I thought it would help her.”
“Thank you, Jude.”
…
It’s Saturday morning, which means that Charley should be running her route in Central Park. I could hardly sleep last night because I wanted to call her, but I didn’t think she would have answered. So instead, I decided to wake up early, throw on my running gear, and find her on the trail to talk to her in person.
The temperatures dropped a few degrees in the past week so everyone is running in thick jackets and hats. I peel over each person that jogs by, but there’s no real way to tell anyone apart. Every time a blonde woman runs by, I convince myself it’s her, and every time my heart falls once I realize the features don’t match up.
I stand in the center of the park, where most of the trails intersect, turning in a circle and waiting for her. Cold wind whips by, making my eyes water as runners swerve around me. Some of them curse at me for blocking their path, while others clearly see the desperation playing across my features and offer me sympathetic nods.
I’m not sure what will happen when I see her. I wish I had a poetic apology, or a simple way to make everything better between us, but right now I just need to see her. I want to find her on the trail and sweep her away, back into our own little world. Maybe once the sun is shining on my angel, the words will come naturally.
But after hours pass, my confidence dwindles. I must have jogged the entire park three times before I finally decide I’m not meant to find her. Either I missed her running by, or she didn’t come out to the trail at all. It’s possible that our paths didn’t cross, but it doesn’t feel right. My gut tells me she’s not here.
Why isn’t she? It’s Saturday morning.
Various reasons start fleeting through my head, sending a panic racing through me. Without another thought, I jog toward the perimeter of the park and hail a cab.