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I rolled out of bed and went straight in to take a shower. After a short, hot one, I came back out in yoga pants and a tank, threw my hair up in a messy knot and went to find either my man or my sister. I wasn’t choosy. I just didn’t feel like being alone.
My progress, such as it was, came a lot more often in fits than spurts.
The kitchen was empty, as was the living room. Carly’s couch looked untouched. She didn’t love sleeping on it but since Tray had moved in, we didn’t have a lot of options.
My stomach clenched as I returned to my bedroom to search for my phone. Hopefully she’d texted while I was asleep. She never stayed out all night without sending word.
Two texts from Carly waited for me, both sent twenty minutes ago. Twenty freaking minutes ago.
Hey sorry, spent the night. Didn’t plan on it. Hope you didn’t worry.
I rolled my eyes. Yeah, as if I wouldn’t. If I’d been the least bit myself, I would’ve sat up until morning waiting for her and obsessively calling her cell. I never panicked without reason.
I always had reasons. History, for one.
Since you didn’t call, I have to assume you got a lil sumthin sumthin yourself. You’re welcome and please don’t leave any underwear near the front door.
“One freaking time,” I muttered as a flush heated my cheeks. If it had just been my panties, it would’ve been bad enough, but nope, Tray’s jock strap had topped off the undergarment sundae.
We tended to have sex wherever, whenever. Clothes only got in the way.
I blew out a breath and headed back into the living room. At least Carly was accounted for. Tray was not. He hadn’t left a note on the bedside table like he usually did, something I’d remembered to check once I knew Carly was still alive. Whether or not she would remain in that condition once she showed up remained to be seen.
On my way to sit at the table by the door—my usual space to camp out when I was too agitated to veg on the sofa—I noticed the patches of spackle on the window frame. The flush in my cheeks returned. I’d scratched the paint last night while I was riding him.
Enthusiastic, that was me. Vicious too, more often than not. His back had borne some scratches, but I’d been too tired after my session under the needle to offer him the same care as he’d given me.
Same story, different day.
There was another patch of spackled wall behind the heavy bag. That one wasn’t my fault, unless my arms stretched a lot farther than I thought.
Tray whipping off his shirt flashed through my mind. Sweat pouring down his face and shoulders. He’d done that to the wall. And yeah, probably that one was on me too. I’d likely caused the anger and frustration that had led to him not checking his strength.
Yet he’d been up early this morning, spackling. Where had he even gotten spackle at this time of day? Maybe he kept some on hand for emergencies. Vaseline, spackle and licorice cured most ills.
I pulled out a chair from the table shoved against the wall and sat down, drawing one leg up to my chest. My stupid need to cry sure hadn’t abated when I’d seen that plaster job. He wasn’t here but his kindness remained. This wasn’t even his place. I’d made sure he knew that, because I was a fucking raging bitch. I was so scared of getting too used to him, of needing him beside me to sleep, to eat, just to breathe that I was forcing him away to make the heartache come sooner.
If Tray dumped me, it was obvious who would be to blame. And this time, I couldn’t even pin it on my past. He’d accepted that part of me. I couldn’t accept it. That was the real issue. One of them anyway.
I rested my cheek on my knee and pulled my leg closer. Singing to myself was a habit ingrained since childhood when I was lonely or scared. Today’s song of choice was my rendition of Johnny and June Cash’s “Jackson” sans someone to harmonize with. Instead of crying while I sang, I rocked. Possibly like a crazy person.
If the strait jacket fits…
Sometime later, the front door inched open and Carly poked her head inside the apartment. I’d stopped singing and rocking. Stopped moving entirely. I was sitting like a stealth bomber older sister in the almost dark of a gloomy rainy day, prepared to catch my nookie-pursuing sibling doing the walk of shame.
But she caught me first.
“Ame, what in the actual fuck.” She pulled up short just inside the door, stopping with her sneaker dangling off one socked foot. If she hadn’t noticed me, that sneaker would’ve been flung across the room and likely ended up in the base of the big plastic potted plant she’d bought to give the place “atmosphere.”
All that plastic monstrosity did was give her a place to toss her shoes. Currently a pair of hot pink thongs—flip flops, not underwear—sat toe up in the fake dirt. Classy, we were not.
“Why are you hiding in the dark?” she asked, evidently unaware that I’d become fixated on her thongs. They were bejeweled, like penis cakes of yore. My baby sis sure loved her bling.
Speaking of bling, she was wearing one hell of a lot of makeup for someone who’d headed out on an impromptu date after a shift at the Salad Hut. Her mouth looked ripe, like an apple, and her cheeks had clearly been attacked by blush. Something shiny was on her eyelashes and the weak light caught on them every time she moved. I was tempted to reach out and investigate, but I knew she wouldn’t take kindly to me pawing her like a mother about to wash her child’s face with soap.
I wasn’t her mother. I couldn’t keep smothering her or she would leave.
Everyone would leave, goddammit.
