Bottleneck Page 17

  “Well, let me know if you change your mind, and I can cook something so that you don’t have to stop what you’re doing.” I gesture to the laptop as I leave the room.

  She waits until I’m out of view before calling out. “Em. Wait.”

  Like the asshole I am, I make her sweat a solid minute before I turn back. One arm slung casually over my head, and fingertips gripped to the doorframe, I lean in. “Yeah?”

  Her fingers wind the cord of the earbuds. Around and around, the thin white plastic goes, cutting off circulation to her rapidly reddening finger. “I didn’t intend to minimize what it is you’re trying to achieve.”

  “No?” My arm drops, arrogant stance irrelevant now that I’m curious what she has to say.

  “I respect what you’ve chosen to do.” She lifts her head, pinning me with those bedroom eyes. “I just can’t fathom how you can show up here and act as though nothing happened between us.”

  “I’m not. I just need a friend, and to get that, I have to set aside our differences. Right?”

  She stares unmoving for a second before shaking her head and dropping her gaze back to her ballooned fingertip. “You hurt me, Em.”

  I take a tentative step closer and then drop to my haunches to level our gazes. “Why do you keep talking as though it was me who did you wrong?”

  “What the hell do you mean?” The cord flings dangerously close to my face when she whips it free, spinning on her ass to face me. “You dropped me like a hot potato, Emery.”

  “Bullshit.” I rock forward and land on my knees. “You pretended I didn’t exist after I left on that first tour. I figured you were just jealous, but you’d get over it.”

  “Jealous?” she shouts. “Whatever, buddy. I was nothing of the sort.”

  “Why else would you tell me you’d keep in touch and then fucking cut me off?”

  “I was heartbroken!” Alice shoots to her feet, towering over me where she stands atop her bed on unsteady legs. “You took what you needed from me, and then you ignored me.” She leaps off the mattress, landing beside me with a solid thump. “You sent back every fucking letter I wrote like what we had was nothing.”

  “What letters?” I rise to meet her head-on, not down with her having the upper hand. “Why the fuck has, now, both you and my mom mentioned goddamned letters?”

  “Because I sent them every fucking week at the start.” Her words hold a throaty note of warning. A dare to test her again. “What stung the most is that you couldn’t even return them yourself. You got your mom to do it for you.”

  “What?” Mom wouldn’t have done that. She loved Alice; still loves her. “Bullshit.”

  “You think I’m lying?” Her head whips back, eyes wide.

  My focus locks on to that goddamn concert poster again, the name of her band burning into my retinas as the ten-ton penny drops. Letters FROM Alice.

  “When did you send them?” My words are a mere whisper, guilt holding them heavy against my heart.

  “I waited a week before I sent you the first one.” She takes a step back, her oversized T-shirt now paired with cute little sweat shorts. “Of course, I had no idea where to mail it while you guys were on tour, so I sent it to your house knowing you’d get them when you rolled in.”

  “How many?” My hand burns a repetitive path across my head while I fail to come up with some logic for this. Why did I never know? Who would have sent them back? “Did you have the address right?”

  With a heavy sigh out her nose, Alice strides to the closet. I wait, head spinning in circles worse than any hangover, while she reaches up to the shelf and pulls out a tattered box that’s been taped and re-taped at least a dozen times.

  Candy-striped envelope clenched in her hand, she thrusts it toward me. “You tell me what that says.”

  I read my parents’ address at least four times before I slowly nod. “Yeah. It’s right.”

  “So, now tell me why the fuck you sent them back.”

  Flicking over to the opposite side, I snort a laugh. “Weren’t you listening? I had no idea you even mailed these.”

  The return to sender is scrawled heavily in a bright red marker. My fist tightens, creasing the folds of paper in my hand. I know that goddamn handwriting.

  It’s been at the top of every fucking Post-It note stuck to her bills the past eight years.

  “How many did you send?”

  “You mean, how many did I get back?” Alice scoffs. “Nine.”

  “You have them all?”

  She nods, brow furrowed.

  I wind my free hand before me. “Pass them over, then.”

  The taped box is shoved into my chest. Cradling the evidence, I retreat toward the door with a tight nod. “Let me know if you get hungry.”

  Alice tilts her head, arms folded across her chest. “Where are you going?”

  “To sort this out.”

  Hopefully, by the time I’ve worked my way through this box, I’ve learned two things: one, what the fuck I missed, and two, why the hell Deanna thought she had a right to mess with my goddamn mail.

  If I ever needed the smoking gun to counter-blackmail that bitch, then I guess I just found it.

  Not much bests a fucking federal offense.

  THIRTY

  Alice

  “Now We Conquer” - SETMEONFIRE

  The lid of my laptop shuts with a solid thud, my palm resting on top while I mull over what to do. Emery has been out in the living room for almost an hour now. It doesn’t take that long to read a handful of letters; I didn’t make them more than two pages at most.

  My heart hasn’t slowed, it’s steady tempo a reminder that not only am I alive, but I still care way too much about that son of a bitch.

  The first few were nothing special, a rundown of life at home in case he forgot what it was like to be a “nobody.” Some light-hearted humor to break up the monotony of a crazy work schedule.

  But as the letters went unanswered and the months passed by, they grew more personal, more … honest.

  More angry.

  I push the laptop away, toes tapping on the floor where my leg hangs off the side of my bed. My curiosity burns to go out there and see what he’s doing, but shame has my pride in a chokehold. I don’t know what I’d say if he asked; if he wanted an explanation of why my feelings about him changed.

  I felt no hesitation in giving the letters to him, in letting him see because those confessions were from a girl who lived years ago—not from me now. But as I struggle to remember my exact wording in those goddamn letters, I start to wonder how much I do still feel that way.

  Why else would I let him in here when he told me to get out of his parents’ house? Why else would I consider helping him yet again when he never said thank you for bailing his drunk ass at the airport?

  “Alice.”

  The decision is made for me. “Yeah?”

  “Can you come here?”

  I stop by the mirror on my way out the door to give myself the once over. My hair is a hot mess: overgrown and in dire need of a touch-up. Smudged black still sits beneath my eyes, where I was too lazy to get my stage makeup off properly last night. I’m nothing like I usually am and yet strangely more myself than ever.

  Leaving a laden sigh echoing in my bedroom, I head toward Emery. He’s seated on my living room floor, the letters stacked in what I can only assume is their timeline order beside him. Yet one remains in his hands, pinched between loose fingers, his forearms balanced on bent knees.

  “What’s up?” I stay fixed at the head of the hallway should I need a quick escape from the concoction of emotions that swirl between us.

  “You said you sent the first one not long after I left,” he states with a furrowed brow, focus on the paper before him. “But the date stamps on the envelopes are faded, so I’m not sure when the last ones were written.” He lets the letter hang in his left hand while he uses his right to scrub a palm over his face. “I think I’ve got them in order after reading them all, b
ut I just want to know.” He lifts the lined notepaper between us. “Why you never said any of this to me in person.”

  I creep forward and tentatively take the letter from his hand. I can’t exactly remember what I said in which one; it’s been so long. He remains quiet while I scan my eye over the letter, the sentences triggering muscle memory as the feelings that accompanied each line smack into me one by one.

  Did you ever wonder why it felt so perfect to be together? Why we never fought, never made each other angry? Did you ever wonder if there was supposed to be more?

  I lift my gaze over the top of the sheet and connect with his solemn stare. “Read me the last paragraph on that page, Alice. Say it out loud.”

  The walls of my throat thicken, my eyes burning as I drop my focus back to the words on the page and begin to recite.

  “So many times, I came close to begging you to stay when you’d say it was time to head home. So many times, I lay there for hours afterward, imagining what might have happened if you did stay. And most of those nights, I also wondered if you were thinking the same. Were you? Did you ever wish you had stayed?”

  The paper is eased from my hands; Emery seated on the floor at my feet. He rises to his knees, setting the letter aside on the sofa so he can place both heated palms on either side of my waist.

  “I wanted to stay,” he admits in strained chords. “Every fucking time from the first day you asked me to come over.”

  My chin dimples, the feelings I’d buried beneath a mountain of hurt and injustice all these years seeping to the surface.

  His hands skim my body, the T-shirt rising a little with the movement as he stands, leveling our gazes for a brief second before continuing to his full height.

  I refuse to lift my head. I can’t stomach where I would go if I let myself drown in the honest depth of his eyes.

  “Why did you never tell me that was how you felt?” he pleads. “Say it, Alice. What the fuck stopped you?”

  I swallow the last of my apprehension, equally as trapped and encouraged by the feel of his fingertips as he skims the back of my arm. “Fear of the unknown.”

  His hand stills. “You were scared I wouldn’t feel the same?”

  “I was scared,” I tell the floor, “that if you didn’t feel the same that I’d lose you forever. I reasoned it was better to have you as a friend than nothing at all.” A lone tear escapes, hidden from him by the angle of my head. “Not that it mattered anyway.”

  “What does that mean?” His demanded question leaves no room for denial.

  “You still don’t remember, do you?” God, I feel it all over again: the ache in my chest, the insufferable weight threatening to steal every breath from here on.

  Panicked eyes search mine, hooded by such dark expressive eyebrows. Looking in his eyes is like stepping out into the night: thrilling and terrifying all at once. “I wish I knew,” he whispers before stepping back suddenly. “Fuck!”

  Mosaic wakes where he sleeps on a cushy dog bed at the end of the sofa.

  “Tell me, Alice. For fuck’s sake, just put me out of my goddamn misery.” He swallows over and over, jaw working beneath the stubble. “What did I do to you?”

  I can’t hold back—I let him see everything that I’ve hidden up until now. “We slept together, Em.” Tears streak my face, tickling my jawline before they drip to my arms below. “Three days before you took Deanna on that fucking date, you and I got blind drunk at the campsite and had sex.”

  He blinks, tilts his chin as his brow dips, and then clears his throat. “What?”

  “We fucked, Emery,” I yell, startling his damn dog as I throw my arms wide. “We fucking broke past our friendship rule and started something else.” I huff a bitter laugh. “We started a goddamn misunderstanding that lasted all of three fucking days.”

  “Are you … Are you sure?”

  My face falls, and I stare at the idiot, hoping he isn’t serious.

  He totally is. “No. I’m not sure,” I deadpan. “Maybe it was all just a vivid fucking dream.”

  “Okay.” He waves a hand before him. “I get it. It’s just …”

  “Just what?” I ask, my arms folded again, and tears damp on my face.

  A shy smile tugs at his lips. “I can’t believe I forgot. I mean, babe.” He snorts, lips twitching. “It’s you.”

  “Yeah, well, clearly that meant nothing back then.”

  “Or I’d drunk enough that I’m fucking surprised I got it up,” he mutters to himself. “What now?” He stands, feet wide and fingers buried in his hair as he stares at me for the answer.

  “We carry on how we always have,” I state, giving him my back to take care of the drying tears. “Nothing changes, Emery. Those were feelings I had eight years ago, not now.”

  A tense second passes before he murmurs, “Tell me why you’re crying then.”

  “Memories,” I lie. “That’s all.”

  “You’re full of shit.”

  “What does it matter?” I holler, spinning to face him again. “We ruined what we had years ago. You made your choice, and you stuck with it. You preferred to be with Deanna, easily forgetting about me. You goddamn gave up when you didn’t even try to find out why I hadn’t written to you like I said I would. Perhaps if you had bothered to care, you would have discovered the truth so much sooner.” I shake my head, hand on the end of the kitchen counter to steady myself. “But you didn’t, and so here we are.”

  “Do you wonder why, though?” he roars. “Why the fuck our paths have crossed now? Maybe fate is at play?”

  I set a hand to my back, hyper-aware that I’ve strained my injury by sitting on my bed hunched over for so long. “Why the hell aren’t you at her place anyway?” I ask a hell of a lot quieter as I turn to retrieve a painkiller.

  He crosses the room in silence, watching me pop my medication from the blister pack. “What the fuck is that?”

  “Answer my goddamn question, Emery. Why the hell aren’t you with your girlfriend for this? Why have you come here and dragged me into the middle of this?”

  His ass hits the counter, thick arms folded across his chest. I’d laugh at how much he looks like a petulant child if it weren’t for the pain that I’m in.

  “She’s an enabler.” His brow furrows deep, anger blatant in the hard set of his eyes. “I needed away from her if I stood a chance at un-fucking myself.”

  “No offense, Em, but you’ve been an addict for over a decade. What made you finally decide to get clean?”

  He lifts his head, and I wish I’d kept my damn mouth shut. Stormy eyes drop to the blister pack sitting behind me. “What are they for, Alice?”

  “You can’t have any,” I snap.

  “I didn’t want them,” he shoots back. “I just need to know if I’ve come to the wrong place to get clean or not.”

  “Fuck you.” I stash the pain pills back in the cabinet, making a mental note of how many are in the pack. “I have a legitimate reason to take them.”

  “Tell me what it is, then.”

  “No.” I stand toe to toe with him, searching his eyes to make sure he goddamn understands.

  I won’t budge on this.

  “You’re a fucking hypocrite. You know that?”

  “How?” I storm from the area, heading for Mosaic. For some reason, the confused mutt looks like a great distraction.

  “Why the fuck didn’t you reach out via socials if your letters were returned?” he asks, following me. “You could have DM the band Insta, emailed, put a goddamn post on the Facebook page for all I care.”

  “Why the fuck would I do that years later when you’d rejected me?” I cry. “How stupid do you think I am?”

  “I didn’t reject you!”

  “I didn’t know that, did I?”

  We stare each other down, chests heaving. His fists flex at his sides, neck corded with his rage while I stay seated beside his goddamn dog, shaking from the sudden rush of adrenalin.

  “I fucking love you,” he grow
ls. “Even if I never said it, I always knew it.”

  Nostrils flaring, I refuse to look away, shoving the words out my throat. “You don’t get to tell me that now.”

  “Why the fuck not, Alice?”

  Closing my eyes so I can focus on the calming feel of Mosaic’s fur between my fingers, I whisper the harsh truth. “Because you have a girlfriend, Emery.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  Alice

  “Self Esteem” – The Offspring

  “Where on earth are you?” I grumble into Shanae’s voicemail. “I needed you to save me, hon.”

  Smacking End on the phone, I continue my brisk walk downtown. I don’t have anywhere to go, nothing to do. I just had to get out of there. Entering into this with Emery is the closure I’ve been seeking, but I don’t need the disruption right now.

  And that’s all he is—a six-foot, muscular distraction that promises nothing but heartache and trouble.

  I love him. Unconditionally. But I fell in love with the innocent boy he once was, full of dreams and barely restrained energy for what was to come.

  The man that’s back in my apartment? He’s different. He’s jaded by the pressure he’s under. Full of unhealthy coping strategies and anger at how little control he had over what became of his future.

  Even worse, he’s a stark reminder of what could happen to me if I get the damn breakthrough I pray for every night.

  I see what fame and expectation does to people in this industry, and yet, the need to reach that heralded level of success still prickles at my sense of failure, lighting a fire and burning the midnight oil beneath the little girl who was told she could never be.

  I say that I want to prove to myself that I can do this. That I can make a lifelong career out of my music. But who the fuck am I trying to fool? My mom knows it, Shanae knows it, and I’m sure Fria sees it now, and that’s what has driven her away.

  I want to prove myself to the people who said I couldn’t. I want to prove my haters wrong.

  Question is: why the fuck should I care so much what other people think? The simple truth is I shouldn’t, and that alone is why this whole goddamn sacrifice to reach the holy grail of a Billboard hit feels so damn wrong.