Chapter 13
CHAPTER 13
The next five days passed like groundhog day. I’d get up early to go to my shit temp job. When I’d leave my room in the mornings, Porter was always gone already, his bedding neatly folded, not a dirty sock in sight. If it weren’t for the coffee in the coffee maker and the lone cup in the sink, I wouldn’t even know he’d slept over.
I’d spend the day working. And when I came home, there was usually some sort of delicious, healthy, home-cooked meal tucked in the fridge with a note telling me to enjoy. No pizza in sight. The kitchen was always immaculate. Fresh, expensive groceries would find their way into the fridge. But he was never around. As far as house guests, he was almost perfect.
Except I found myself hoping he’d show up.
Each night, I watched Netflix, waiting for him to come home, but he never did. Whatever he was doing, or whomever he was seeing, he did it late into the night.
I worried about him, which was silly because I didn’t really know where he was. Perhaps he was spending every day with Felicia. Perhaps they were rekindling their relationship. I imagined lengthy discussions talking about what worked and what didn’t. Maybe they were discussing how they could reconcile this situation. Could he forgive her? Did he want to?
Then again, he could be spending every single day sitting in some bar, then walking home over the highest bridge he could find, so what did I know?
Regardless, I worried.
And I didn’t like how that felt.
Friday afternoon, after the shittiest day at work at my underpaid, overqualified temp job, I made my way home. All I wanted was a glass of wine and something really unhealthy to eat. I got the mail, kicking off my shoes as I walked in the door.
I dumped my purse and checked my phone. I had two messages. Maybe one of them was from my elusive roommate. I played my messages on speaker, cranked the cork out of the wine bottle I’d opened last night, found the biggest wine glass I owned, and poured until the bottle was empty.
The first message was from Mom. “Hi, Beth, this is your mother. I wanted to remind you that next Saturday, we have the gala, in which your father is announcing his candidacy. It’s critical that you attend. I wanted you to see Donna for this event, but it's too late now for her to buy you anything, so I think you should wear the crushed, black silk Chanel.”
I lifted my head, startled to see Porter standing in the doorway. How long he had been standing there?
Mom droned on. “I really don’t know why you’re so stubborn. Your father has worked so hard to provide you with a beautiful home, and you don’t want to live in it, but so be it.”
“Did I see split ends? I made an appointment for you to see Jimmy. He may not have time to give you proper highlights, but he’ll make time to give you a trim. Honestly, your hair looks like you’ve got a $50 haircut. It’s embarrassing. ”
“One more thing. Please, ensure your male friend stays at home. Let’s face it. This gala is a black tie affair, and we both know this isn’t his thing. That man probably doesn’t even own a tuxedo. So, do us all a favor and leave him at home. We’ll be sending a car so you won’t be late. And please, don’t disappoint us.”
Thanks, Mom, for the nice mind fuck.
I averted my eyes from Porter and took a long sip of my wine before hitting the delete button.
The next message started to play. “Hello, Beth. This is Andrea Lowen from Marketing Now. We wanted to thank you for coming in for an interview. Though you interviewed exceedingly well, we went with another candidate. Best of luck in finding a new job.”
I stood there for a long moment. I needed to think, but I was too sad to even process that. I would deal later with the fact that I seemed destined to work as a temp for the rest of my life.
Porter walked towards me. “Are you okay?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“I’m good.”
“Me too,” I lied, taking another sip of my wine. “Just peachy.”
“You sure?”
I picked up a large padded envelope that had no return address. “I feel some anxiety right now, but it has nothing to do with you and everything to do with my phone messages.”
“Roger that.”
I ripped open the envelope and pulled out a piece of paper. At first, my brain couldn’t process what was happening. There were beetles. Big, black beetles. The size of freaking Chihuahuas. Most of them were dead, but one was still a tiny bit alive. It half dragged itself across the counter.
I screamed, then covered my mouth, backing away from that fucking nightmare. Porter reached over and scooped all the beetles back into the envelope and rolled it shut.
“Throw that out.” I was hysterical, but I didn’t care.
“What does the note say, Beth?” How was his voice so calm? !
“What note?”
“You pulled a note out. What does it say?”
My eyes dropped to my hands. I was holding a note. I shook my head and tossed it on the counter. Porter, using the edge of the envelope, flipped open the folded sheet.
In black marker, a message was scrawled: “IT’S IN YOUR BEST INTEREST TO CONVINCE YOUR FATHER TO STICK WITH WHAT HE KNOWS. YOU’VE BEEN WARNED.”
What. The. Fuck .
I felt sick to my stomach. I couldn’t even process what was happening.
Porter appraised me, so much concern on his face. “Do you know who sent this to you?”
“Just another fan letter from one of my fans.”
I will not cry. I will not freaking cry.
The look he gave me—those grey eyes filled with such intense worry—tipped me over the edge. Tears spill onto my cheeks. “I need a minute.”
Numb, I walked blindly into my bedroom and laid spread-eagle on my bed. Then, the tears came. Big, sobbing tears. Stupid, but I tend to cry under pressure.
And intense fear.
I didn’t know how long I laid there—long enough to lament how much my life sucked. This fucking gala. Yates. My stalled career. That letter. I tried to push it out of my mind. I couldn’t deal with it. Not right now. I was too emotional to start coping with it. It could wait. I should get up. I should start acting like an adult, but it was easier to just stare at the ceiling.
There was a tap on the open door. Too despondent to lift my head, I said, “Come in.”
“I’m breaking a rule here, but I thought it might help.”
I lifted my head. Porter stood there with a glass of wine and a pizza box.
I swallowed and sat up. “You brought frat food. ”
He lifted up the box. “I personally think your ass can handle at least one pizza, but say the word, and I’ll remove this from your place.”
I held out my arms and wiggled my fingers. “Want.”
He walked across the room and handed me the wine. I scooted over and patted the bed beside me.
He evaluated me. “Do you want to eat here?”
“That depends.” I picked up the remote. “Will you let me watch whatever tear-jerking chick show I want to watch?”
“Obviously.”
“Then, yes. I want us to eat pizza in bed.”
He placed the box on the nightstand. “I’ll be right back.”
He reappeared with plates, napkins and a beer. He settled on the bed beside me and handed me a plated piece of pizza at the exact moment I lifted up the remote. My hand hit the plate, and my pizza slid towards the bed.
He juggled the plate and saved my pizza but lost hold of his beer in the process. It dumped all over his shirt.
“Sorry,” I cried.
“No worries,” he stood up, set the foaming beer on the nightstand and peered down at his wet shirt.
He crossed his arms and pulled his t-shirt over his head. My mouth went dry as I took in his muscular core and broad pecs.
As he inspected his shirt, he seemed completely indifferent to the fact that I couldn’t tear my eyes away from all those rippling muscles.
Work out much?
“I’m going to grab a dry shirt.”
“Sure,” I felt flushed as my entire body reacted to that manly vision that belonged on the cover of a men’s health magazine.
Calm down, Beth. Just calm the fuck down .
But some things can’t be unseen, and Porter’s body was one of those things.