Wicked Restless

“You know what? I’m gonna go ahead and go,” I say, my lips tight now, too. I’m not looking at Lindsey though. I’m looking beyond her. I realize it a little late, and she catches me. When my eyes drift back down to hers, there’s a hint of suspicion in them. “Why don’t you and your roommate have a night—do that girl-talk thing, huh?”

Her misgivings about my motivation seem to melt, and her hands squeeze my arms in thanks. The puppy-dog grin she looks up at me with seals it. I hug her again, but my eyes stay on the shut door across the hallway.

Lindsey follows me through their kitchen and living room, where I grab my gear and pull it back up on my shoulder, leaving this apartment one more time without satisfaction.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” she says as I back out of her door.

I hold up a few fingers and start my steps toward the elevator bank, but remember that tomorrow’s Sunday, and Harley told me to keep my evening open in case he could line something up. I could really use the stars to align for a fight—financially and emotionally—I take a few quick paces back to her door, catching it before she closes it completely.

“You know what? Actually, I’ve got some family things tomorrow, and I’m not sure how late I’m going to be. I’ll just text you when I get home?” She looks down, and I can tell she’s trying to decide if she wants to believe the line of bullshit I’m giving her. Part of me wants her to call me on it, and part of me also thinks maybe that’s what I need—a good fight to distract me, to let me feel something other than angry and alone.

“Sure,” she says. It’s a pained response, but for now, I’ll take it. I’m tired; I’m also not in the mood for a breakup. And a breakup would mean no more Emma…and I’m not so sure I’m ready for that either.

“Great,” I smile, leaning in to kiss her lips lightly, just to leave her feeling something better than how I’m sure my blow-off just did. I really do have family shit to deal with tomorrow; I really only stretched the truth some.

The doorman is starting to recognize me, and he smiles and waves as I pass by this time. It’s the hockey gear, and my Tech sweatshirt and hat. It works on girls and doormen, it seems.

As long as everything felt like it took at Lindsey and Emma’s, I end up walking through my apartment door forty-five minutes behind Trent. He didn’t go to the bar, and I have a strange feeling that he was waiting for me—probably sitting here stewing in his own self-righteousness and whatever-the-fuck he thinks he has all figured out. He’s sitting on the couch, his feet up, beer in his hand, and the TV on a replay of some NASCAR race. He hates racing, so I know he’s just posturing.

I walk behind the sofa with my gear, hell bent on not stopping or taking his bait.

“You’re in over your head, Harper. What are you doing?” he asks, and mother fuck! I stop. I stop because he knows more than I thought he did. And since he has the bad shit all figured out, maybe he can help me wrap my head around what the hell is wrong with me—and why I’m still so angry.

I reach over the sofa and take the half-empty beer from his hand, claiming it for my own. I drop my gear behind the sofa and walk the rest of the way around the couch, sitting on the corner of the coffee table across from him.

My eyes are on his chin for the longest time. It’s like when you’re a kid and you know you’re wrong, and you’re about to get your ass chewed, but you just don’t want to give in to the adult and take your licks. I don’t want to have to face his goddamned honest face, so I keep my eyes on his chin and take a long sip from the beer I commandeered, draining it almost completely.

“I don’t know, Trent. She was there. It was her, and I don’t know, but I can’t fucking stop,” I say.

“Drew…who the hell is Emma?” He says her name, and my chest flips inside out, my heart running through an irregular rhythm of several fast beats followed by nothing at all.

“I’ve told you,” I lie.

“No, Drew. Not the drunken version you tell when you think you’re being honest. I mean the real story,” he says. I give in and look up the inch it takes to meet his eyes, and I hold his gaze while I wait for my heart to begin working again. I don’t talk about Emma. It started as a promise I made to myself that night, and then it grew into a rule I made to protect myself. I’m not so sure what would happen if I broke it now.

“There was a girl,” I say, letting my eyes wander over to the TV, which he’s conveniently muted. There’s a pile-up of cars in the race, one is on fire, and I can’t help but find some kind of sick humor in the many ways that scene mirrors my own life. “I got screwed over by the law…” I start, my eyes moving back to his, the recognition in his expression already there. He knows the story. And now he’s filling in the details.