I briefly think I’ll probably regret this in the morning, but right now, I don’t care.
I have alcohol and Converse on my side while she is tiny with a pair of pink clogs that look like they belong on a ten-year-old. I shove her aside and march into the foyer of the apartment while she tugs on my arm. I shake her off. It’s easy, especially because I’m running on adrenaline and pure rage.
A quick glance around his apartment shows an empty den and kitchen. Clothes are everywhere, some hanging in dry-cleaning bags. Music sheets litter the floor along with blank art canvases. I pause on them briefly, wondering about them, but get hung up on a soft pink cardigan draped over the chair in the living room. I cringe, knowing it’s hers.
I twirl around. “Where is he?”
She sends me a livid look as she pulls out her phone. “You’re trespassing, and I’m calling the doorman. I’ll let him deal with you.”
I knock the phone out of her hand. She really isn’t a match for me, not with the self-defense classes I still take and the anger burning in my gut.
“Where is he?” I push the words out. “Just tell me.”
She sucks in a shuddering breath and for a moment I see fear flitting across her face, but then she seems to rally, her resolve strengthening as she circles around me, blocking me from moving farther into the apartment.
My eyes go to the bedroom, and my heart drops.
She stiffens her shoulders. “He’s in the shower. Happy?”
My eyes bounce back to the bedroom, and the deafening silence allows me to hear the water running. A beat later, it clicks off.
“You need to go now,” she says, shooing at me with her hands as if I’m an errant fly she wants out of the apartment.
Spider’s voice yells from the bedroom. “Hey, I left my stuff in the laundry. Be a love and bring me some boxers, will you? Please?” He chuckles, the sound drifting into where we are.
I feel odd as if I’m not really in the room, but in a movie watching as the girl realizes the hero really is a douchebag. I can’t avoid the truth anymore.
I still love him so much.
I don’t know how it’s possible, but this time it hurts more. It hammers at my heart a little harder, a little deeper. I rub at my chest, feeling sick. Like I might throw up.
We made love.
He said I was his.
No—that was just fucking to him.
Leopards don’t change their spots. Past behavior is the best predictor for future behavior.
Loving him is hopeless, and if there’s one thing I know is true, it’s that I don’t deserve this kind of love.
Pink Cardigan glares at me. She’s been on her phone talking to someone. “I called the doorman downstairs. He’s on his way up.”
Without another word, I stumble out of the door she’s widened for me then she slams it behind me.
Wearily, I walk the few feet back to my own place, my bravado gone, my spirit broken. I open the door and go inside.
Spider
THE NEXT DAY AROUND ELEVEN, I knock on Rose’s door, but no one answers. The concert is tonight and I have a ton of things to do, but I’m itching to see her face. I’m wondering if she can come watch us run through our set. I want to tell her about my upcoming art show and maybe introduce her to the rest of the band.
I’m worried as I stand there and knock.
Last night, I’d knocked on her door after Mila dropped off my dry cleaning, but Oscar answered and said Rose was sick and didn’t want to see me. I wanted to push my way inside and check on her, especially since she hadn’t replied to any of my earlier texts, but Oscar’s tight face made me pause. Something felt off but I couldn’t put my finger on it. It made me worry about Trenton and what happened between them. I decided to give her some space, so I eased off and went back to my place.
It wasn’t until this morning in the shower when I was playing back the evening, especially the part about the random girl who showed up drunk at my flat, that everything clicked. Mila mentioned the girl looked familiar but she couldn’t place her. She assumed she was one of the hardcore groupies who follow us from city to city, trying to find ways into our hotel rooms and homes. One time in LA, a girl even hid in my car and slept there, surprising the shit out of me when I crawled inside to head to the studio the next day.
But . . .
What if this random girl had been Rose?
I mean, I didn’t tell Mila that she lived next door, and if Mila had opened the door to Rose before I had a chance to explain to her about Dallas . . .
With a knot in my stomach, I knock on her door again, this time harder. I get nothing but silence.
Pulling out my phone, I type a quick text to her. Are you home? Are you feeling better?
Agitated, I lean against the hallway and wait for her reply but get nothing. I rake a hand through my hair and pace up and down the hall, wondering what to do next. The girl showing up at my door is really bothering me . . . it feels ominous, and I want to shake it off.
I have to know if it was Rose.
I send another text. Did you come to my apartment last night?
Yes, is the immediate reply. I saw her.
Fuck.
Dread pools in my gut as I picture the scene the way Rose might have perceived it. It’s not good.
It’s not what you think, I tell her. I can explain but not through text. Open your door.
I’m at the library. I’m turning my phone off. Goodbye.
I slap my hand on the wall and push off, feeling frustrated. I don’t know what’s going on with her. Is she angry? Is she going to let me explain? Fuck!
Maybe I should go to the library and find her. I’m assuming it’s the NYU library, but I don’t know for sure. It could be any library. Antsy and jittery, I decide it’s not helping to stand around, so I shake it off and leave to run my errands.
My first stop is at the art gallery in Soho where my show will be in a few days. It’s an invitation only event where several musicians will be showing their work. I’ve been working on it for months, and I’m looking forward to seeing it come to fruition.
I waltz in and Jenny, the gallery owner, meets me with a wide grin. A blonde with a broad genuine smile, she shakes my hand enthusiastically. “You want a sneak peek of everything?”
I shake my head. “Just here to pick up more invites for the show. I didn’t think my father and his wife were going to make it, but they are. I also need one for a girl.”
Or at least I hope I do.
Father called yesterday to tell me they were coming to see my show. He hadn’t known for sure because Anne broke her leg on a skiing trip a few weeks ago and he didn’t know if she’d be ready to travel. Thankfully, she is, and I’m glad. It feels like Anne tolerates me most of the time, and truth be told, I’m fine with that.
It’s my dad I want to secure a solid relationship with.
I told him about seeing Rose and he wished me well.
I take the cardstock invitations from Jenny and leave. With unease still eating at me about Rose, I get in my car to head to the venue for the show. I type out one more text to her. Can I see you tonight after the concert?
I get no reply.