Ricochet
Authors: Ashley Haynes
Ricochet
By Ashley Haynes
Copyright © 2016 by Ashley Haynes.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including
photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the
prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by
copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author at the email
address provided below.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places,
events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or
used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover Design Copyright © 2016 by Ashley Haynes
Cover Photograph by Amanda Thomas
https://www.facebook.com/AcoletaPhotography
Cover Model Hannah
Uhl
“It is
absurd to divide people into good and bad. People are either charming or
tedious.”
-Oscar
Wilde
Table of Contents
“You
can’t just up and leave. This isn’t fair,” he whined.
“I’m not just up and anything. This is
what, the third time I’ve walked in on you with a strippers legs up in the
air?” I said as I tossed the last of my belongings haphazardly into a plastic
grocery bag. This was kind of a snap decision.
“I
have a problem, I’ll admit that. I’ll get help. We can work through this.” His
voice was grating on my nerves. Maybe he really does have a “problem.” Maybe I
am being insensitive and
ableist
to walk away in his
time of need.
But, probably not.
“I’ve
heard enough excuses. I’m done.
Maybe be upfront about your so-called ‘sex addiction’ with the next
girl, maybe she’ll be more understanding,” I groaned. I gathered up as many of
my grocery bag suitcases as I could carry. I wanted to make as few trips to
Regan’s car as possible. This was trip number four. She was downstairs waiting
for me, getting impatient. She said she can’t handle emotional situations like
this, but I personally think she just doesn’t like manual labor. At least all
of the furniture is Hunter’s. I moved into his pre-established apartment. I
moved into his pre-established, serial dating, non-monogamous life. Fuck me,
right?
“Is
that everything?” asked Regan, hopefully. My car was already full. Her trunk
was packed, the back seat was packed, and this load was spilling into the
front.
“One more armload,” I said, embarrassed.
“How
do you have so much shit, Lilly? Can you leave it? Can we come get it tomorrow?
I have to work in the morning and I think we’re about to surpass the weight
limit,” she whined. Lots of whining from everyone; shouldn’t I be the one
whining?
“No,
I need to be done. No coming back tomorrow. No coming back. Ever.” I turned on
my heels and headed back into the apartment building. Hunter was waiting in the
stairwell. I don’t do elevators, although I wish I had made an exception.
“Babe,
Look… I’m sorry. I promise. That will be the last time.” He grabbed me by my
wrists, and spun me against the wall. He stared into my eyes with a gaze that
he must have thought looked incredibly pensive and romantic.
It came across more pathetic and unsettling.
He was right. It would be the last time.
“You
need to get the fuck out of my face before I push you down these stairs. Don’t
touch me,” I said as I pushed him away.
“Okay.
I’m sorry. I just… I love you,” he gasped.
Yeah, okay. This is getting really redundant.
Should
I be crying? I feel like I should probably be crying. Two years of my life have
been flushed down the drain. I thought I loved him. But if that were true,
would I be this relieved? Would I feel like a burden was lifted from me? Maybe
I didn’t love him. Maybe he was just cute and decent in bed. His dick wasn’t
anything to write home about, but he went down on me for days. He had a nice
apartment and HBO Go. I guess I’m pretty shallow. Whatever.
The
next few weeks involve a lot of Netflix, ice cream, take out, and booze. Hunter
would not leave me alone. He sent daily poetry excerpts and professions of love
on whatever communication method I hadn’t managed to block him from yet. I’ve
been avoiding Hunter, avoiding showers, and feeling sorry for myself for three
weeks or so; time is meaningless.
Regan
already has apartments lined up for me to look at. I’m pretty sure she’s had
apartments lined up for me to look at for the past six months, since the last
time I caught Hunter balls deep in someone named Bambi. Don’t get me wrong. I’m
not a prude. I’m not one of those “porn is cheating!” kinds of people. I never
had an issue with him going to the strip clubs. I don’t care where you get your
appetite as long as you eat at home. I guess he took that literally and started
bringing them home. That’s kind of where I draw the line. A full STD panel
later, and I
am
single and ready to mingle, if you
call flirting with the Chinese delivery guy mingling.
“For
someone who ‘doesn’t give a fuck,’ you sure are wallowing in that self pity,”
Regan
often
teased. I might be milking the “socially
acceptable depression” as an excuse to binge drink, whine, stay in, wear the
same pajamas for an entire weekend, and eat a lot of carbs. Living the dream.
She also keeps reminding me that I am
welcome to stay as long as I need to, but that it would do me
so much
good to get back on my feet.
Hint taken. Tomorrow I look at one of the apartments Regan has lined up for me,
and it actually looks pretty promising. It sits near a small lake, and there’s
a bay window in the guest room that looks over it. I really want to get back
into painting, and that sounds like the perfect atmosphere for a studio. Bad
news is it’s on the fourth floor. As I mentioned I don’t do elevators, and four
flights of stairs is quite the walk. But the rent is where I need it to be, and
the pictures online look beautiful.
I can’t crash on Regan’s couch forever.
“This
is a really great space. It won’t be vacant for long,” said Diana, the
apartment manager. We turned the corner, and she led me to the elevator. I
shifted nervously. I have a huge issue with elevators. It’s real, and it’s
deep. I can’t even set foot into one without feeling like I’m going to die. I’m
sure it is all in my head, but your head has a habit of making things feel
very, very real.
“Uh,
are there stairs? I really prefer to take the stairs. I can meet you up there.
Trying to stay healthy,
ya
know?” I rambled,
nervously.
Diana
laughed, “We have had some issues with unsavory behavior in the stairs and
we’ve been committed to making this a safe and welcoming place to live. The
stairwells are alarmed and are emergency exits only.” She stepped into the
elevator, beckoning me to follow. Ugh.
Bay window, mama.
You can do this. You can’t have this irrational crippling fear forever. Maybe
today is your day to nut the fuck up.
Nope.
I was very wrong. Today is NOT my day. I’m going to die. Blackness invaded the
edges of my vision.
My heartbeat sped
,
my legs began to shake
. This is it. This is how I’m going to
die. I’m going to black out in this fucking elevator, hit my head on the fake
marble floor, and bleed from my head until my heart stops beating. They’ll
never get the stains off the floor. My blood will drip through the cracks in
the door and down in the shaft, into crevices they will never be able to clean.
I’ll be forced to haunt this elevator shaft for all of time because my blood
will tie me to this place.
“This
is our floor. Are you ok?” Diana asked.
“Uh.
Yeah. No. I-D-K.” Did I just speak text lingo? Why didn’t I just die? Now I’m
exasperated and embarrassed. I jump out of the elevator, grasping the wall
behind me for support.
“Well.
You’ll survive, right? The unit is this way,” she chided. I could hear her
mocking me in her tone of voice. Fuck you, too, Diana.
She
opened the door to the apartment, and the pictures didn’t do it justice. Diana
points this out as well. Hardwood floors, unfinished brick walls, well equipped
kitchen, plenty of space. All of which I noticed on my own, even though Diana
made sure to point them out. Diana rambles on about the various amenities and
other “I need to rent out this unit yesterday,” bullshit. We get it, Diana. I
ignore her oft-recited spiel as I meander around the apartment. Yes, I do see
the abundance of electrical outlets. Yeah there really are limitless options
for furniture arrangement because of the multiple cable outlets. It is
super
awesome that
we get free Wi-Fi.
I’m
sold as I wander into the second bedroom. The bay window looks over this
idyllic, back of the postcard, front of the calendar lake, complete with little
sailboats and children flying kites. Fuck me, I’m moving into this fourth floor
apartment with no accessible stairwell. Because art, okay? I’m not really an
artist in the general sense of the word. Painting is more of a release for me
because it’s up for debate whether or not I have any actual skill. I just enjoy
the smell and the textile sensation of a brush moving over the canvas, late
nights fueled by coffee to create something, even if it’s something I hide in
the bathroom because it looks like a toddler painted it. I am nothing if not
self aware that my talent is mediocre at best.
I tell
Diana I’m very interested, and she suggests I fill out an application right
away, as there are other parties interested in the unit.
Blah
blah
blah
, whatever Diana.
As we leave the unit, I’m caught up in a daydream of me painting in the guest
bedroom, bathed by moonlight as I splash paint on some poorly executed
bullshit. I crash right into this wall of Versace Eros and flannel and denim. I
look up to see why the walls in this apartment building smell so good, and
sunbeams filtering gently through decanters of whiskey look back at me.
“Holy
shit, I am so sorry. Are you ok? I wasn’t watching where I was going,” said the
wall made out of wet panties and golden eyes. It can speak for some reason.
“Oh,
no, totally my fault,” I managed to stutter back. As it turns out this wall was
actually a person, and reason number two I am totally moving into this
apartment. I smiled weakly, embarrassed by my own thoughts.
“This
is Cash, and he’ll be your neighbor if you decide to move into the unit! Cash,
this is Lilly,” boasted Diana. I see that selling your apartments based on the
sex appeal of your current tenants is not above you. Have you no shame, Diana.
We
follow Cash to the elevator and my heart sinks.
Fan-fucking-
tastic
, now he gets to see me be a total spaz and
have a full blown panic attack. Maybe my growth as a person will win him over
in the long run. He’ll see me now, clammy and shitting my pants, but in a few
months after my forced exposure has me hopping on and off without a second thought
he’ll think “Wow. This girl is really something.”
Cash’s
voice interrupts my fantasy. “Just so you know I’m a terrible neighbor. I sell
drugs and have like one thousand prostitutes. Just, all hours of the night.
Constant drugs and prostitutes.” Diana playfully smacks his arm.
“We’ve
never had a complaint about any of it. Why don’t you want a neighbor? Quit
trying to scare away my tenants. I have bills to pay too,
ya
know,” she chuckled. This exchange was uncomfortably friendly. Like maybe they
used to fuck. Or are currently fucking. Even though she’s like 52 with two kids
in college and probably a wallet full of photos of grandchildren. But who am I
to judge what goes on between consenting adults?
“I just like the quiet. That’s the only
apartment that shares a wall with mine. The space under me is a laundry room, I
like not having to censor how loudly I sing in the shower,” he explained.
The
elevator dings to announce its arrival, which is actually more welcoming than
you would think for someone with a crippling phobia. Anything to get away from
being told that my presence would be disturbing to someone’s sold out shower
performance of Queen’s greatest hits. I wait for Diana and Cash to step into
the tiny metal death box as I try to gather my wits. I step over the threshold,
and despite my most valiant efforts to maintain my composure; I instantly lose
my shit as the doors swish shut behind me. Here we go. I’m
gonna
fucking die.
“Are
you scared of elevators?” Cash asks. No! What gave it away? Is it my pallid
color?
My heavy breathing?
Maybe I get off from
elevators. You don’t know my life.
“I
used to be really terrified of elevators. I used to pretend that I was doing
some dangerous heist and when the doors opened there would be a bunch of guys
shooting at me. I would get all hyped up for the danger when the doors opened
that the ride itself became less scary. Might sound ridiculous, but it worked.
I’m not scared anymore.” Cash’s story distracted me and I didn’t even notice we
had made it safely to the ground floor.
“Thanks.
Maybe I’ll try that next time,” I said as I stepped out of the tiny metal death
box.
“See
you around, maybe. If you don’t mind copious amounts of drugs and hookers,” he
said playfully. I followed Diana back to the office to complete the paperwork.
I’m definitely moving into this apartment.