Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
The club lights are flashing, and the heavy base vibrates in my chest, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. That dark weight is still sitting heavily in my chest.
It’s been five days since Poppy left. Not even a text or a call back. I’ve tried to leave her alone. Tried to give her the space she thinks she needs. But the ache in my heart is screaming at me to chase her. To catch her before she can get too far away.
We need to talk. I know everything could be better if she’d just talk to me!
I throw back a swallow of my third drink. Or is it fourth? I don’t know. At this point, the lights are going fuzzy. They erupt in bursts of color like I rubbed my eye too hard, which definitely means I’m drunk.
But if I’m drunk, why do I still feel like crying?
I came to the club Poppy likes to go to, and now I’m sitting alone at the table where we sat the first time we came.
We had our first swingers’ experience here.
This is the seat I sat on with Poppy on my lap as we watched a woman dance on the stage.
I liked this seat ‘cause I didn’t have to leave the room to get a drink, which we got plenty of.
Specifically, lemon drops, and Poppy drank most of them.
I came here because I wanted to feel close to my girl. Also, because I’m pissed. I can be exactly what she wants if she’d open her eyes to see. We’re still a thing. She just needs to stop believing all that bullshit that she needs to be alone.
Who needs to be alone when they’re suffering?
Suddenly, my phone buzzes in my pocket. We aren’t supposed to have phones in here—I’ve seen people get thrown out and banned for using them. But I know that buzz. It’s Poppy. She’s finally responding.
My heart feels like it’s going to beat out of my chest as I pull it out of my pocket. Then, it sinks right back down.
It’s not a message from Poppy. It’s an email telling me I can get fifty percent off my phone bill if I upgrade to the latest device.
I stare at the screen. I feel like an idiot. Still, I check Poppy’s messages anyway.
Nothing.
My leg bounces. I’m letting her get away. I’m sending her the message that I don’t care by just rolling over and taking it.
I can’t just let this happen; I have to do something. Anything. It’s been five days. I’ve had my notes app open for five days, looking to write down any indications that she’s coming back. So far, all I have is:
Tuesday made my heart soar for a bit. She was thinking about our taco Tuesday nights. She went out of her way to grab more seasoning. But then the next day happened. Then the next. And the next.
Poppy doesn’t have any ‘taco seasoning’ from me—no sign that I was thinking about her. No hope unless I reach out.
Darting from my seat, I stride to the bathroom. It doesn’t have a door to the main room, but the stalls at least have doors. Closing myself in on one, I dial Poppy.
As the phone rings, my heart thuds in my chest. Will she pick up? She has to pick up. It’s me. The therapist’s lies can’t erase our history. The love we have is real.
I stare at the flaking paint on the door as the phone rings and rings. Then, it goes to voicemail.
No.
I dial my girl again. I’ll prove how much I want her. She deserves a man who will fight for her.
Again, voicemail.
I call a few more times, my body beginning to hum. No. Absolutely not. It’s ringing, which means she hasn’t blocked me. She still wants me.
Finally, when her voicemail kicks on, I stay.
As soon as the tone goes off, I’m talking.
I tell Poppy that I’m not ready to be done.
Tell her how much I love her. How perfect she’s been, even in the few months I’ve known her.
How I want to walk with her through this.
How she shouldn’t be alone. I talk long enough that the mailbox cuts me off.
Enraged, I call again, waiting the agonizing seconds till the voicemail comes back.
“Poppy, please.” I try to keep my tone pleading. If I show her how mad I am, she’ll use it as an excuse. Say I’m not good for her when I am. “I’m at the club. You know, our place. I’m waiting for you, baby.”
There’s a sound in the stall next to me as the door closes. Then, I hear the stream of piss.
I wince. “I love you. You can’t leave this. This is us. This is love, and I won’t give up on that. I refuse.”
The stream gets louder, and I pull the phone away. Can this fucker read the room? I hang up so Poppy doesn’t have to hear it and wait for him to finish. It takes forever, and there’s a deep relieved groan before the door finally squeaks open. The sink rushes, then nothing.
I wait until I’m sure the asshole has walked out of the bathroom and try dialing Poppy again. Only this time, it says the number I’ve dialed cannot be reached at this time.
What the fuck?
I try again.
Same thing.
Did this bitch… Did she block me?
I’m washed in a wave of heat, and suddenly, the stall feels too small. Like the walls are closing in.
She couldn’t have blocked me. We’re meant to be.
Bursting out of the stall, I storm into the rest of the bathroom, only to see someone is still in here. It’s a tall man in his early thirties, with dark, messy hair and a short beard. He’s handsome in a roguish way. Exactly the kind of man Poppy would love.
The man looks me up and down and then smirks at me. “Trouble in paradise?”
He looks like he’d never have trouble in paradise. He’s so hot, all he’d have to do is flash that face at his girl, and she’d bend over backwards for him.
I sneer at the asshole, pushing past him and out into the main room. As soon as I leave his presence, I feel an odd pull to go back. To smack that smirk off his pretty face.
But I don’t. Instead, I get another drink. Stalking up to the bar, I wave at the bartender. You bring your own alcohol here, but the bartender still has to serve you. It’s stupid.
The bartender finishes with the woman next to me, then gets my order. I can’t wait for the burn of the liquor down my throat. Anything to quell the boiling anger that demands I destroy something.
I feel someone’s gaze on the side of my face. I ignore it, thinking about the man in the bathroom. He was totally eavesdropping on my conversation and stayed to confront me about it.
The gaze is still on me, and I feel it making the side of my face tingle.
I snap my head over. There’s a woman sitting a few seats away, watching me.
She’s around my age with cropped blonde hair and a bunch of tattoos.
She’s sitting with her legs spread, and her stare is unsettling.
It’s intense, but also reflects boredom at the same time, looking like she’s reading me without even saying a word.
I huff, staring back at the bartender as she pours my glass. When she hands it over, I still feel the woman looking.
“What do you want?” I snap, turning the full weight of my glare on her.
The woman cocks her head just slightly enough that I wonder if I actually saw it. “You have piano fingers.”
For a second, I’m so thrown off by the statement that I just stare at her.
“How many of those can your boyfriend get you to stick up your ass at a time?”
The words take a second to register. All I can do is gape at her. Did she just…talk about my ass?
The woman taps a single finger on her drink, and there’s a tiny smirk on her face. “Whose man are you?”
For a second, all I can feel is hot rage. This bitch is messing with me. I go to answer, Poppy’s name automatically filling my mouth.
And then all that anger that’s been building like a volcano suddenly gets caught in the back of my throat. Everything feels tight. I was Poppy’s. Right now, it’s feeling a lot more like she doesn’t want me.
My throat squeezes so hard it hurts, and I clear it, hoping to relieve some of the stress.
“Well?” the woman asks, but her voice is softer now.
“No one’s,” I say, my voice gruff. Because if Poppy wants to behave that way, then I’m not attached to anyone. “Guess no one is loyal these days.”
There’s a huff next to me, and I glance over. She waves a disinterested hand at me. “Save it, I’m not your therapist.”
Therapist. The sudden reminder makes me angry again, and the anger feels so much better than the pain.
“Good. Fuck therapists, and fuck you too.” I take a burning swallow of my drink.
There’s silence for so long, I’m not sure if the woman left. I don’t care. All I care about is that the drink is finally, finally making the sad feel fuzzy. I glance at my phone, not caring anymore if I get caught. Opening our text threads, I read Poppy’s and my messages until the words blur.
“You drink like you’re running from something, piano boy.”
I glance over. The woman is still there. She’s looking at me with a calculating sort of interest. “You coming to the game?”
The game? What game? I just stare at her, then mutter, “Fuck off.” I’m not sure who this woman is, but she’s a nosy asshole. Seems to be a theme.
“That’s what I thought,” the woman says, her voice lowering. “You seemed like too much of a bitch anyway.”
My entire face lights up with heat as the anger flashes to life. I turn to face her fully. “Excuse me?” I’m not above fighting a woman. I’ve never done it, but this one seems to be asking for it.
She grins fully now, raising her hands. “Relax. You’re so easy.”
I glare at her.
Her grin is so wide I can see more of her teeth than is comfortable. “You just seemed like you needed to blow off some steam.”
I do. I need to blow off steam by storming to Poppy’s house and banging on the door until she lets me in. But I wouldn’t put it past her to call the cops, so I need something, anything to distract me. I grit, “What game?”
“Forget about it.” The woman finishes her drink.
“No,” I say. She’s right. I need a distraction. I try to focus on keeping the spinning lights in focus. “Tell me about it.”
The woman’s eyes dart around, then back to me. “You’re going to get me in trouble.”
Oh, so this is a secret thing. Suddenly, I’m interested. I always suspected there was more to this club than met the eye, but no one ever filled me in. And if I don’t participate in this stupid little game, I might go to jail tonight.
“You don’t look like the type.” The woman motions for another drink. “Offense meant.”
Anger makes me tighten my fist. Not good enough to take part in their bullshit little club? I’ll show her.
“I can handle it.”
“You won’t even fight for your…” she hesitates, “partner. What makes you think you can handle this?”
“Fight for her? I’d kill for her!” The words come out in an angry burst, but I realize I meant every word.
I’d kill for Poppy.
There’s a glint in the woman’s eyes. “By what, texting her to death?”
Now, my hands are shaking. How dare she question my relationship? “I’d do anything for her. I love her. No one will get in the way of that love. I won’t let them.” I’m spitting the words now, but I feel them deep in my bones. I feel like I’m saying them to Poppy. Only, she can’t hear me.
The woman’s finger taps against her glass. Tap, tap, tap. Finally, she asks, “You won’t let anyone get in the way?”
I just nod.
I can feel the woman’s gaze on me, but I don’t look at her.
If I do, I know she’ll see the sadness that I’m trying so hard to mash down.
Suddenly, I feel like I’m a kid again, getting chosen for a dodgeball game.
Only I’m not getting chosen ‘cause I’m last and they picked the kid next to me.
Poppy won’t pick me, and now this stupid club won’t either. Don’t be last. Don’t be last.
“Fine.”
The woman waves down the bartender and whispers something to her. I’m lost for a second, not sure what she’s doing. Then the bartender leaves and returns with a sheet of paper.
The woman at the bar slides it across to me. “Fill this out.”
I stare at it. What is this? The top of the paper says: The 14th Game. Everything under it is basic. Name, address, date of birth.
The woman taps at a part lower on the page. “This is where you put the one thing that’ll get between you and…true love.”
The section is the same. Name, address, date of birth.
I hesitate. “What is this?”
The woman is silent for a second, then she sighs and starts to pull the paper away from me. “I knew you weren’t built for it.”
She doesn’t think I’m good enough. My chest tightens. “No! I just…don’t know what I’m signing up for.” I wave at the paper.
The woman yanks the sheet from me. “I’m beginning to think you and I have different definitions of love.”
I can feel the alcohol humming in my veins, making me reckless. Love is doing anything for your person. And I’d do anything for Poppy.
Even as the anger boils, I realize the woman is telling the truth. So what if I don’t know the game? I’m being a pussy. I said I’d do anything for my woman, right? So I should fucking do it. Right now.
So, I do it. I fill out my section, then hesitate when I get to the second section. The woman said it’s anything that’s standing in the way of my relationship. And I know exactly who that is. The person who got in Poppy’s head and convinced her we weren’t meant to be together.
Holland Weathersfield. Poppy’s therapist.
Briefly, I hesitate. I consider walking out of here.
But then I realize I’ll drive straight to Poppy’s house, and I can’t be held liable for what happens next.
So instead, I pull out my phone, search voter records and utility bills, and find the information on Holland I need.
Something twinges in my chest when I slide the form back to the woman.
But the woman is right. If I love Poppy, I’ll fight for her.
It’s just a game, right? Maybe they’ll sign her up for Jehovah’s Witnesses or something.
Get an Etsy witch to cast a spell on her.
I open my notes app: