Chapter 10
10
REMI
Before…
A cool breeze kisses my skin. Looking up at the orange and red leaves dancing in the trees above, I almost forget where I am. Finished wood presses into my palms, braced behind me while I lean back and stare skyward. It could belong to the top of a picnic table anywhere with an autumn. My legs could be dangling over the edge near a lake in Switzerland. The wind traversing Kyoto, Japan.
I blindly feel for my phone beside me, refusing to lose the view. I wait for the perfect moment. A gust wraps through the towering trees, and I snap a picture. I lie back the rest of the way, and shortly after, a text comes through. I bring my phone over my face to see the screen and smile at the picture.
An unfamiliar but similar sky peeks through branches covered in different oranges and reds.
The leaves floating toward me could be falling in Prague.
A video chat pops up. I close my eyes and bite down on my lower lip. All of me turns way too fluttery at Foster’s name and the picture of his reflection in a shop window, phone in front of his face.
I fight it every time. Deny the warm tingle beneath my skin is anything other than a hormonal response to a sexy voice. Refuse to believe we share anything but a mutual appreciation of art. Ignore the uptick in my pulse at each Wanderer notification, and pretend every message outside the app and the video chats mean nothing more.
I just want to see the world, and he wants to share it.
The first text came a day after the video failed during our tour last month. He sent a picture of Le Mur in Oberkampf, where a street artist splatter-painted a neon lion on the wall. Then a video of people passing an outdoor café, his espresso in the corner while his fingers kept time on the cup. More followed, all a peek at the city. Of beautiful things. Right before leaving Paris, he returned to Le Mur, to the wide-eyed man panicked over a utility bill that covered the lion—the murals ever changing.
Since then, between Wanderer tours of museums and art, Foster’s taken me all over Amsterdam, Brussels, and Vienna. A hidden medieval courtyard, the cat sanctuary floating on a canal, Jardin du Petit Sablon, a baroque library. Whenever he explores, he lets me see the world through his eyes.
Eyes I haven’t even seen.
With about fifteen minutes left in my free period, I check to ensure no one’s around before slipping in my earbuds. It kills the illusion of not being on a table in the high school’s outdoor commons. At least I escaped for a little while.
I lower the phone from my face to answer and then flip the camera so I can show Foster mine while he shows me his. The dimming sky and trees in Prague obviously superior to everything in Ohio.
“Wait.” Foster’s camera dips from pretty leaves to his shadow on a worn walkway. “I want the first view back. The school uniform does it for me.”
I roll my eyes. “I want the first view back too. Shouldn’t it be the skirt you want to see, anyway? Not the white button-up?”
“Show me the skirt, then, Remi,” he rasps into my ears.
The way his voice lowers on my name hits in far too many places. I take a deep breath, the October wind fully responsible for my nipples hardening. My next sentence sounds like the October wind is messing with it too.
“What did we say about the flirting, Foster?”
He shows me the sky again, growing pinker with sunset soon. “You asked if we could make it through a single interaction without it. I immediately told you no.”
I sigh. “I liked you better when you followed other women’s skirts and didn’t talk to me.”
“You’re a beautiful liar, Remi.” He’s quiet for a second and then, “I haven’t thought about you at all today,” he says. “Now we can be liars together.”
Warm tingles and all fluttery.
Foster’s camera slowly descends from the trees to the park he’s in and finally settles on worn-in dark jeans. He’s sitting on a bench, a sneak of brown boots below. Then he waits, not saying a word but so loud.
He’s kept his word about no faces since Paris. I’ve seen his shin so he could prove he ran into a bike rack because I distracted him. He caught his fingers a few times other than at the café, dragging them through wet paint at an interactive exhibit, thumbing through a guestbook spanning fifty years. The faceless reflection of him that shows up any time he calls.
My lashes flutter closed. I breathe. Without giving myself time to overthink, I sit up. The view I give him cascades down from the branches above to the rest of the commons until it lands on the green plaid of my skirt.
“Now…” He raises his phone, revealing more of his leg, more bench, more boot.
“You saw the skirt,” I tell him.
“Not enough. I want to see you.”
I am so screwed when it comes to him. I can’t even fight it right now.
I lift my phone higher, exposing from the top of my skirt where my white shirt tucks in all the way to the few inches of skin below the hem before the rest of my legs disappear over the table’s edge.
Foster’s silent long enough, I almost move the camera from feeling self-conscious over two inches of me. But then he audibly sighs. “Fuck, this was a bad idea,” he whispers.
“Agreed. It’s never happening again.” I leave the phone in place, though.
“I never want it to, Remi.” Foster not only meets my lie; he adds another one. “I have no desire to see every goddamn inch of you.”
* * *
Only my maroon-painted toes breach the surface of the pink rose-scented water. I wait until the rest stills around me in the tub, the surface glassy smooth and iridescent. After a final check that nothing else shows, I send the picture and then instantly close my eyes to hide from the guy more than an ocean away. Even after my phone vibrates, it takes me a moment to look at Foster’s message.
I might have a newly discovered fetish for toes. Unrelated to your text obviously.
I smile and sink deeper into the water, about to put my phone on the ledge when he sends another.
Touching, licking, sucking. In case you wondered about my urges.
…biting.
I regret everything. Stop talking.
Not talking. I’m seducing. And why would I stop when you’re naked for me?
Putting my phone face down on the ledge, I slide all the way into the water. I have to before I text my way into Foster’s metaphorical bed. He’s infected me. Ever since last week and the leaves and the two inches of skin, he’s spread through my system like a fever, consuming my thoughts and smoldering in my veins. Every word from him, every pause and sigh intensify the heat.
He’s scorching me from the inside out, and I can’t cool down. I can’t slow down. I can’t use my head when it comes to Foster, and my other parts can’t be trusted.
The bathroom door bangs open, and I jump up, sending the water sloshing around in the tub as I surface.
Ebony hair and an annoyed bestie face rush in.
“Boundaries,” I tell Sage.
But it hardly slows her down.
She rolls her eyes so dramatically her head goes with them. Then she shuts herself in the bathroom with me.
“Please. I’ve seen you through all the cup sizes.” She drops onto the rug, back against the porcelain. “Plus, you can see my tits anytime. What’s mine is yours.”
I laugh and flick water at her profile. “My tits are not your tits.”
She hangs her head back to see me, her long black hair falling onto the tub’s ledge. “Selfish, bitch. Be more of an only child, I dare you.”
The world would be dark without Sage Teller lighting it on fire. She’s fierce, albeit slightly unhinged, and no matter how far I might slip inside myself, she’s either there to drag me out or waiting for me to find the way on my own.
“Is this a you missed me visit, or are we shooting someone up?” I ask.
She twists around and folds her arms on the tub. “I missed you. I always miss you ever since you fucking left me, but I am dealing .” She sets her chin on her arm. “And maybe Miles didn’t answer my text earlier, and I’m contemplating flying to California, and I need a talk down.”
I push her hair away from her face. “There it is.”
She wrinkles her nose at me. I grab my phone and find my texts with Miles, then I hand it to her after calling his number. Sage greedily grabs for it and turns on the speaker. The first call goes unanswered, so we go for a second. She’s glaring at me because I’m the reason Miles isn’t answering when he answers.
“Rem, is Sage okay?” he asks. As his greeting.
“She’s perfect. The most calm and collected woman alive, like always.” I give her a dry smile, right as he says, “I told you about my meeting, gorgeous. The one I just ran out of because Remi would never call me twice in a row without an emergency.”
She bites her lips together, innocently looking at the ceiling. “I might have forgotten,” she says.
I nudge her face away until she rotates fully. I get out as she moves to perch on the counter by the sink, tossing me a towel on her way, and I wrap in it before grabbing another.
“Are you mad at me?” she asks, pouting at me since he’s not here.
I pout back in solidarity, toweling my hair.
Miles lets out a sigh that turns into a groan. “Nah. It was fucking boring in there. Give me five minutes to grab my shit, and then I want to listen to you come while I drive.”
“Nope.” I pluck the phone out of her hand. “Sage will call you in twenty from the comfort of her own room on her own phone.”
She pretends not to hear me, checking her nails, but he chuckles.
“You good, Rem?” he asks. “Please spare me the it’s great bullshit if it’s all just shit.”
Sage flits her eyes up to me, and I quickly force a smile at my best friend and tell her boyfriend, “No, it really is great bullshit.”
“Everything still good with Wanderer ? No more video issues? You’ve taken a few less tours lately. If you tell me it’s because the app sucks, I will never forgive you.”
“No, Miles. Wanderer is amazing. The tours are…” I grab for the doorknob, my mouth turning up on its own this time. “One of my favorite parts of the day. I’ve just been distracted with senior year and my escape plan.”
And other things.
Sage shadows me out of my bathroom, the look in her eyes saying everything she’s trying to bite back. She hates the escape plan. I think she worries she’s part of what I’m escaping. In reality, she’s one of the only reasons I’m still here. I love her too much to tell her all the reasons I desperately want to go.
The frumpy dress I wore earlier lies balled up on the floor, and I kick it under my bed on the way to my dresser. I’m done acting for the night. No need for reminders.
By the time I throw on sweats and a baggy tee, Miles is off the phone, and Sage traps me in a hug.
“I love you, bitch,” she says, the term of endearment sweet as always. “I’ll see you in a few days. I’m thinking we dress as slutty nuns or slutty sluts. I’m undecided.”
I wince, pulling away. “Right. Halloween. Can’t wait.”
Dismissing the sarcasm, she heads to my window. I glance at the door and realize the pillows are still shoved up against the bottom.
“Why’d you come up the trellis?”
Lifting the window, she glances over her shoulder. “No one answered. I figured your mom and the chief were out.”
My brow dips as she throws her leg through, but I school it. “Yeah, they must be.”
Sage blows me a kiss before descending the trellis. I close the window behind her, leaving the latch undone as always. I feel too trapped with it locked.
I finish cleaning up from my bath and hit off the overhead lights. The LED strip around my headboard sends a blue glow bouncing off the walls and words written on them. I added new ones the other day after Foster and the leaves and our mutual lies.
The world’s full of liars and the oblivious.
As I’m snatching my phone off the nightstand, ready to zone out in bed, a muted crash stops me. I stare at the pillows on the floor, unease washing over me while I wait. Another noise turns into a tightness in my chest. My shoulders. My jaw. My throat. Then the tear happens inside me. One part begs me to block the outside with more pillows. Or sit in the bathroom with the door closed again. The other demands I go out there. To fucking try . Even if it slowly destroys me every time.
Who am I kidding? Either choice chips away at my being.
When the screaming breaks through my barrier—muffled and so angry—Ikick the pillows out of the way. The darkened hallway outside my room has an open banister where the living room opens up below. I look over on my way to the stairs to see what the fuck I’m running into. Like it will somehow matter. A destroyed lamp for sure and strewn fireplace tools.
The shouting only heightens once I reach the bottom of the stairs and see the rest. The entire dining table is upended, and every single plate, glass, and piece of silverware from dinner are scattered or shattered. Only an hour ago people occupied the knocked-over chairs. Soft music played.
The illusion tonight was a charming family unit. The doting wife who showed enough skin to feed her husband’s need to be envied by everyone around him. An angsty—and “incredibly shy”—stepdaughter, so hard to love, but they do because who else would? And the solid oak providing the security and safety every family needs. A king on his throne at the head of the table, surrounded by sycophants and false walls of gold. No one is aware the real walls are filled with rot and the king’s not wearing any clothes.
Or maybe they do know. They just don’t care.
I only have a few seconds to survey the damage before my mother slams into my shoulder, passing me for the living room. While I bathed the night off of me, she’s gone from seeming calm and agreeable to agitated and erratic. Pinpoint pupils now blown out. Pills to different pills or whatever else she’s using. I used to keep track so I could…
Help.
“I tried, Daniel,” she screeches. She whips around by the cold fireplace, thrusts her hands into her yellow hair, and pulls from the root. “I picked the dress you like. I only drank two glasses of wine at dinner.”
She slurs it all, nothing about her stable at the moment.
I ease closer, ready to coax her upstairs—anywhere but here. “Mom, let’s go?—”
“I fuck you in that dress because you look like a whore, Rebecca.” Daniel barrels through, and I draw back, wrapping my arms around my middle. I’m not sure if he’s on something or just his usual raging, abusive fuck self.
“I told you to fucking be presentable and quiet tonight. Not pregame with a handful of painkillers and dress like you want Marlo to come on your tits at the dinner table.”
My nails dig into my upper arms when she rips her head up, eyes wild. I hate it here. I hate every second.
“God, I wish he would have.” She wobbles toward him, but I think she intends for a sexy sway of her hips. “I bet Marlo’ll fuck me good. Better than your tiny dick?—”
“Watch it, cunt.” He rips his loosened tie over his head and fists the silk, forefinger pointed in her face. “I’ll make sure you die in the fucking gutter where I found you if you pull this shit again.”
She shoves him in the chest, and I flinch even before he grabs her by the jaw. I need her to stop.
“Mom,” I say, stepping forward, but Daniel jerks toward me, face and eyes red. I stop. I look away. I can’t move while being ripped in two different directions inside. A scared little girl, begging me to save her mommy like she always tried to, and the shredded remains from her failing every time, demanding I save what’s left of us.
“Be grateful, Rebecca,” he says, voice low and as much of a threat as his words. As his grip digging into her cheeks. “You’re a pathetic junkie, thrown away by men once they figure out you’re worth nothing but a quick fuck and regrets. Appreciate me for tolerating you and your fucking kid and be grateful I haven’t traded in your gash for a better one.”
My nails break the skin on my arms as he shoves her face, sending her stumbling backward. He storms away. I breathe in once he passes me, unsure the last time I exhaled, but my lungs were starved and my head swims.
But my mother doesn’t wait for me to regain my bearings.
She rips at her hair and then screams, tearing through the living room. I lunge in front of her and barely catch her to keep her away from Daniel.
“Mom,” I plead while she screeches and fights to get past me. “Please. Stop.”
She shrieks so many insults, my ears ring, but it doesn’t stop me from hearing Daniel shouting closer and closer behind me. The words don’t even matter anymore. My eyes sting, and my heart beats out of my chest while crowded between them. His front presses against my back, and his pointed finger is right beside my face. The sensory overload causes me to throw all my weight against her. I move her a few feet in the safer direction until she twists away from me.
No .
I try to stop her. I try to lock around her middle when she dives at him. I try .
The little girl always tries, even though that’s what broke her in the first place.
Daniel pushes her off, and she knocks into me, and then he throws her to the floor, following her down. Everything roars so loudly in my head, but I hear each word between his fists. “Fucking. Worthless. Bitch.”
“Stop.” But it’s weak, my voice breaking. I rush toward a limp form forever burned behind my eyelids. “She’s not moving.”
He isn’t stopping, though, and I shove his shoulder, trying to get to her, trying to get him off her. I land on my knees beside her, only to be ripped away in a split second, then the world’s spinning out of control, and pain whips across my face as Daniel backhands me. My shoulder slams into the overturned table, a jagged piece of wine glass slicing into my forearm when I land on the floor. It hurts so fucking bad, but I grit through it, sharp inhales and exhales through my nose.
Daniel’s already blown out of the room. I hear him swipe his badge and holster off the entry table and the quiet click of the front door behind him. His chief of police mask firmly in place while he hides the destruction behind an elegant door knocker.
I push myself up on shaky arms, the last sixty seconds replaying in flashes. Blood drips onto the white porcelain shards beneath my hand. I sit up against the table and wrap a cloth napkin around my arm, my eyes falling shut. They open to my mother crawling off the floor. She holds her ribs and grips a fallen chair for balance. And she starts for the stairs without even looking at me.
“Mom?” Every tear I refuse to cry strains the word.
She braces on the banister and slowly turns. Her face remains untouched as always even though mine throbs. After a second of her unfocused gaze on me, she shrugs. “Your own fucking fault.”
I stare off at nothing once she disappears to their bedroom. Scar tissue scars differently, rougher and thicker and more noticeable than the original. Scarred scars tear easier. Each layer heals uglier and uglier, covering the previous but not with a neon lion or panicked man. They build on the last wound and embed its memory deeper.
While I clean and bandage my arm in the bathroom, I spare a glance in the mirror. The swelling and redness creep up from my cheekbone to my eye, no way of hiding it.
The need to escape builds to a point of overwhelm, and this time I get all the way to the window with my contingency bag. Only I pause for too long with my hands on the frame, think too much about the unknown.
I let the strap of my bag fall off my shoulder. It hits the floor, and I pull my headboard away from the wall. Lowering down, I run my fingers over the Sharpie words, smooth and tethering, even if his voice has faded from them.
You can always run to me, darlin’. Escape for a while and then weather your storm.
I unzip my contingency bag that I always keep hidden and ready for the worst. I pull the velvet pouch from the inside pocket, but I leave my dad’s SD card inside—the only thing I have left of him. I took it from his camera after his funeral, and in seven years, I’ve never even looked at the pictures. It feels too final to see the last things he captured. Like there could be more, so long as I don’t witness the end.
Like I can still run to him when it all becomes too much.
I pull my phone off the nightstand. Reality needs to fuck off until I can breathe again.
Even after calculating the time difference, I text my new favorite escape.
Show me something beautiful.