Chapter 19
19
FOSTER
Before…
Walking through the flat’s door, I toss the single key on a dinky ring on the kitchen counter. I pause, noticing the other single key on a matching dinky ring, and try to determine if it’s moved since last night. When I left this morning, I barely paid attention. Now I’m overanalyzing, searching for something that isn’t there.
There’s a simple way to find the answer. I just need to ask the keeper of the key. Except Chase has barely spoken to me since Halloween. A grunt here and there. An irritated whatever.
Four fucking days.
We talked more when I lived halfway across the country than we are sharing the same thousand square feet.
At first, after I stopped being pissed at him, I over-cheered the shit out of everything to be a dick. He’d scowl. I’d grin. He ignored me asking if he wanted to grab food. I praised him on his commitment to finishing the entirety of the trash show he was watching in a single binge session.
Then he switched to avoiding me, and I decided fuck it and stopped trying to break him out of his tantrum.
I still have no idea what it’s even about. The Remi hate came out of nowhere. The day before our fight, he ran around the couch, pumping his fist and chanting #TeamFomi. I’m the one who told him to chill—it’s not that serious. Chase responded with, “ You’re so cute when you’re full of shit. Like a baby kitten. ” He scratched the air, using his hands as claws. Ten minutes later, he was blaring audio of an entire litter meowing.
Since the sun’s down and it’s peak avoidance time, I expected him to be out for the night already.
I unhook the tour glasses, dangling from the neck of my shirt, and toss them on the counter with the keys and then add my wallet.
After a shower, I grab my guitar and notebook, unsettled beneath my skin in a way I can’t explain. It happens a lot. The only way it seems to calm is working on music or wandering around. Not aimlessly, per se, but similar to when I’m writing a song. I don’t know where it’s going, but I know when it gets there. I’m where I wanted to be once I’m there. Until then, I follow different melodies, see if a path leads the right way.
It’s why Wanderer screamed at my soul. And now they’ve incorporated more lax tour options for these final weeks of the beta testing. Which means if someone wants to see what it’s like to cross the Charles Bridge or poke around outside of museums and art exhibits, I can get paid for simply walking around.
As I pass Chase’s room, the door’s cracked ajar. I sigh, stopping in the hallway outside of it. My fuck it seems to reverse itself.
“Have you graduated from the mime program yet?” I call.
Shockingly, he doesn’t answer, so I nudge the door farther open. Light spills in, and he’s scrolling on his phone in bed. He acknowledges me with a tic in his jaw.
“Is this your newest tactic to avoid me? Sitting in the dark? Or are you taking up spelunking next and want to acclimate to cave-dwelling?”
Nothing.
“Dude, what do you want from me?” I ask, the entire ordeal exhausting. “You were mad I wasn’t going out with you enough, but that can’t change if you won’t even be in the same room as me.”
The blue glow off his screen catches the irritated shake of his head.
“You’re acting like I don’t get it, but I don’t even know what the fuck it is, Chase.”
We’re supposed to be above this petty bullshit. Beyond holding grudges and expecting the other to flail around until they land on the correct answer. Instead, he’s icing me out and acting like I’m not even here.
“You’re pissing me off with the silent treatment. So, by all means, continue on in your one-sided fight. But I’m not leaving you alone until you talk.”
Another round of no response, and I step into the room and flip on the light. That earns a reaction, his glare snapping up. We sit in it, and I just want him to say something. But then he scoffs and refocuses on his phone.
“Chase—”
“Weren’t you fucking leaving?” he spits, not looking up. “I’d say weren’t you going home , but…” He lets a shrug finish for him, knowing the rest already landed.
It’s my fault. I wanted him to talk. I never specified I wanted to like what he said.
I shake my head, turning for the door. “Let me know when you want to apologize for that.”
“Shut the light off.”
“My pleasure,” I reply.
My fingers land on the switch, flipping it down. Then I catch it again on the way up, popping the overhead back on.
He never specified to leave it off.
With that glorious moment of bonding over, I step out on the balcony. I drop my notebook on the table and slouch into the metal chair, guitar coming with me. No one’s complained yet about me playing out here, so I doubt they’ll start tonight.
But it all seems off, and I end up staring at the sky, fingering chords on the fret even though I’m not strumming.
I have a place to live. A dorm room at school in Texas with a Cali-boy surfer for a roommate. I also have places to stay when not at school, Chase’s parents’ one. A home, though? I haven’t had one of those in a long time.
Not in the permanent residence definition or the one you feel in your heart and bones.
Chase simply used my truth as a weapon.
Still stings, though.
I pull out my phone, my other hand never leaving the guitar’s neck while I check for this month’s deposit. The money sits in my account, pulsing and festering. It’s an infection I keep contained because cutting it out would only negatively impact the other parts of my life. I’m using the money to get where I need to be as fast as possible. A calculated way to set myself up so nothing will stop me from being on a stage, playing my songs and singing my words.
The second that path clears, I’m going to blow up his entire life.
For kicks, I read his bullshit memo: Invoice 1229. I blink at it a few times before I laugh. Un-fucking-real. The motherfucker used my mom’s birthday.
Moments like this eradicate the twist in my gut over Andrew West’s hush money. They make me want to bleed him dry instead of only taking what I need to survive while focusing on music and school. Or snag a plane ticket to Europe, knowing he can’t get a tuition refund for the semester.
I finally pick out a melody I’ve tweaked a few dozen times already, working it some more until my phone lights up. The video shows a busy coffee shop, people buzzing, and a random bark of laughter. In the center of the shot, Remi’s fingers tap against the side of a white mug. A nod to one of the first videos I sent her.
Except now it links to another memory of when I watched her driving those fingers into her perfect pussy. Another two memories, after last night. I got a show from her point of view, looking down her body while she lay on her bed, legs splayed. No face but fucking hot all the same.
Seeing her come really had been a worse idea, the worst one I’ve had yet when it involves her. I thought she’d infiltrated before, but she proved me wrong. The more of her I get, the more I need. I’m starting to think that wouldn’t change even if she gave me all of her. And I’d be a smitten, little, shit-filled kitten if I said the idea of having all of her isn’t feeling like it would be my best one.
Glancing at my guitar in my lap, I half-smile and text her.
You want better background music?
A shattered image of the bottom half of a slutty fairy appears in response. I angle my chair more toward the table, and I answer, already setting my phone up. I lean it against the rectangular planter of succulents, so she’ll only see the middle of my guitar.
Her hand curls around her mug as I relax in the chair. “ You’re the better background music?”
“I am,” I tell her. I lazily strum the open strings a few times and then switch to something I started in Paris. It stayed in my head until we got here, and I practically sprinted to rent an acoustic.
When I hit the last note of what I have, I slide down the strings, causing them to squeak. The effect sounds right, how the song should end.
“I think I like you serenading me with your guitar,” she says softly—an admission.
“I think I like you,” I reply, but it’s know . “Be warned, though. Once I add lyrics, you’ll be throwing your panties at me.”
“Hmm.” The shot dips, and she picks a backpack off the floor, offering a peek at the plaid skirt with a leading role in my jerk-off fantasies—sharing the spotlight since Halloween. “You think you can seduce me with songs now?”
“Are you asking me to prove I can?”
She shows me the world in front of her as she leaves the coffee shop. Across the street is a town square with trees and benches. “Weren’t you supposed to be writing me one, by the way?”
I smile at her bratty tone. “Maybe this is your song. I just haven’t told you yet.”
She crosses to the square and passes shrubs, bare until spring. “Tell me the lyrics, then.”
My hand adjusts on the neck, and I play the first few notes again while staring at the notebook beside my phone. I’ve filled pages these past weeks, a common theme developing in the lyrics. Words I’ve never used before like darlin’ and maroon. Lines about my hands and her body and her devastating siren call.
“Nah, baby. Not until I sing it for you.” I look back to the screen. “This is a switch-up. Where are you taking me on our tour?”
She laughs as she passes a sign stabbed in the ground for the Ashfield PTA bake sale. “I’m about to show you the best my town has to offer.” She swings to a dead-for-winter flower bed with equal parts faded mulch and cigarette butts.
“I really appreciate how the artist incorporated that plastic cup into the neutral color palette.”
“A masterpiece, truly,” she deadpans. Then she swipes the cup and tosses it in a trash can. “I’m going to the house. I only have so much tolerance for this uniform and need it off.”
Despite an easy opening to suggest she strip for me, my eyebrows draw together. Maybe I’m more sensitive to it because of Chase being a dick, but I ask, “Not your house? Not home?”
“It’s my stepdad’s house. I live there, for a little while longer anyway, but it’s definitely not mine.” She proceeds to pierce me straight through my goddamn heart, adding, “My dad was my home. I lost it when I lost him.”
I huff a breath. The fucking timing. The universe must be bored, playing matchmaker with broken pieces, and ours just aligned.
“I don’t have a home either.”
She’s quiet for a second. “Will you tell me why sometime?”
“Yeah.” My lips tilt up, and I start strumming again. “You showed me yours, so…”
“Can I tell you something?” she asks, more light to her. I hum in response, and she wanders to a tree, spinning when she reaches it, giving a different view of the scenery. “I got approved to graduate early. I finish school in December at the end of the semester.”
“Look at you. Then what?”
“I leave and never come back. At least that’s the next step in the plan. Save every penny, graduate early, and move anywhere else until I start NYU next fall.”
I mute the strings with my palm. “I’ve got you covered. There’s more than one place for you to sleep in my dorm when I get back to Texas.”
“More than one, huh?” she says, amused. “Are they all in your bed?”
“Beside me, on top of me, under me…”
She laughs. “So many options. How’s a girl to resist?”
A deep “Remington” barely picks up on her mic. The guy’s walking toward her on the sidewalk, coming from the direction of the coffee shop. Dark gray winter coat unzipped with a lighter shirt underneath. Tall, short beard, and a wide-ass smile aimed her way.
“Roman.” A softness in her tone wraps his name, and fuck, that feels like jealousy nudging at my chest. “Uh, I’ve got to go talk to someone.” She tacks on, “He’s a friend.”
“Yeah,” I force out, watching him stop a few feet away to wait for her.
And yeah, I am jealous. Not necessarily of the guy—although it does feel like he’s grinning at my girl—but because I want to be that close to her. Closer.
“Night, Remi.” I lean forward for my phone.
“Hey, Foster?” Mine’s wrapped in something else, warm and raspy. The camera lowers to the sidewalk. “Thank you.”
“For what?” I ask.
“For being.”
One side of my mouth lifts, and I decide the way she says my name is better. “Anytime. Feel free to show me when you get out of your skirt.”
She sighs, ending the call. But by the time I drop back in the chair with my phone, she sends a text.
Maybe I will.
Jesus, how am I supposed to not trip over this girl? I never planned to bail on Chase, but right now, I wouldn’t mind standing on a sidewalk somewhere else.
Trying to distract myself from … everything at this point, I fuck around with the song from earlier for a bit. My heart’s not in it, though, so I trudge inside, more unsettled beneath the surface than when I went out.
I snag a beer and stand against the counter in the kitchen, figuring out my next move. Where in the city I haven’t explored that might do the trick. Or even somewhere I have but will look different at night.
Mid-sip, my gaze lands on the keys. Both are still there. Sighing, I shake my head and take a longer swig. Chase stays in after starting a war with me over it. Up until last week, I would point it out. Up until last week, we wouldn’t have gotten here either. Something’s going on with him. I just have to wait for him to be willing to tell me what it is. Otherwise I need to go roof shopping. He wouldn’t dare tarnish the sanctity of a roof. But I guess he kind of already did.
I finish my beer and sort through the drawers until I find one with office supplies. At first I grab the sticky notes, but they cover a better option. Walking down the hall, I see Chase kept his door open after shutting off the light I left on. An invitation. Not that I need one.
Sure enough, he’s passed out. One thing never-changing about my best friend, my brother, is his ability to sleep through almost anything. We used to screw with him all the time but over the years matured. Given our current circumstances, I think a little throwback is in order.
I pop the top off the permanent marker on my way in to leave a love note that doubles as a fuck you . A sentiment from me to him that says, who needs a home when I have a douchebag like him? And to make sure he sees it, I scrawl it right across his bare chest.
Bro is where the heart is.
Although, if I want to avoid more kitten allegations, I might need to admit a bit of mine might be in Ohio, too.