#Superfan (13 page)

“Don’t make this your fault, you hear me?” Grasping his face, I turn it to look directly at mine. “You didn’t give your mother cancer.”

“I shouldn’t have let anything keep me away. I should have come back.” His face crumbles minutely, but he reconstructs it easily enough. His expression goes slack. Numb.

“You did come back. To make sure Isabeth wasn’t pregnant.”

He nods. “I’d never leave a kid fatherless. Even if it meant marrying a girl I didn’t love.”

“That’s because you’re a standup guy, and these people aren’t.” I wave my hand around, freezing when I remember where I stand. “Well, not literally
these
people, but the people back at the farm. You know what I mean.” I huff.

Eight snickers and takes my hands, pulling me flush against him. His hands flatten on my lower back, and dip a little lower until tingles of pleasure unfurl on all my most sensitive areas.

“There’s my girl. The girl who makes me smile.” Eight’s own smile saddens. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this mess. I don’t know what I was thinking. No, actually I do. I blame your father.”

“My father? What does he have to do with any of this?”

“Your father is amazing. He’d do anything to protect you. I’ll admit I’m a little jealous of your relationship actually. You don’t know how lucky you are to have parents who only want the best for their child. You should forgive them, Alex. Before it’s too late.”

#chapterten

Eight’s words about forgiving my parents loop on repeat for the next few days. They play while I work on a new order for an author I’ve never heard of—and YA at that, a genre far from the erotica covers I’m so typically asked to create.

At night my dreams are filled with memories of a cemetery. Wooden boards shaped like a crucifix lean at odd angles over two fresh graves. I stand by the mounds of dirt, my siblings flanking me on both sides. And when I awaken it’s with a desperate gasp and my heart lodged firmly inside my throat.

Eight’s returned to his unpleasant, evasive ways. He drops by on occasion but doesn’t stay long. Perma-worry lines are etched above his brows whenever he’s around. As much as I want to comfort him, I give him the space he needs to think about his mom, his dad, and whatever he needs to do to repair things with his family.

A week passes before I decide to call my mother. It’s a Saturday morning in March. Springtime teases me from the window near my bed. Sunlight spills between the cracks of the blinds, waking me. I sit up, stretch, and give the cords of the blinds a hasty tug. Blinded by the light, I swear and wipe the stinging tears from my eyes.

The sunlight helps wake me but does nothing to chase away the memory of my latest dream. In the dream I stood at a train station, watching my family climb onto the train. I called their names, but they couldn’t hear me. The train lurched forward, and I ran down the platform. The train picked up speed until the distance swallowed them whole.

Shoving my hand under my pillow, I fumble around for my phone. There’s a missed call and one missed text from Eight. I open the text, my pulse pausing and then picking up speed with what I read.

going out of state on business. see u in a few days.

Out of state? He’s mentioned nothing about going out of town. And what kind of business does he have, unless it involves a job?

A job. Acting. Plenty of acting jobs in Los Angeles and New York City.
A wedge of alarm smothers the air from inside my throat.
He’s looking for a job. A job out of state and away from me.

“Stop overreacting,” I tell myself. “Even if he were to leave, it’s his decision. You’re not married or anything.”

did you leave a spare key somewhere? i could water your plants?

nah, don’t worry about it. they died anyway. i have a brown thumb. see u in a few days.

Eyes narrowed in suspicion, I read his text again and again. I dropped by his apartment two days ago and his plants were green and vibrant. His flowers were blooming and the leaves were glossy and full of life. There’s no way they died within the last forty-eight hours. And a brown thumb? Please. Eight grew up on a farm. Where he did … farmy things, like growing gardens and keeping plants alive and ish.

And he’ll see me in a few days? How vague is that?

This is why I’ve never had a serious boyfriend. I overreact and overanalyze every little detail about every little situation. And I’m terrified Eight will figure out this flaw inside me and kick me to the curb. Worse than anything, I’m disgusted by how depressed that possibility makes me feel.

Madi calls, and she picks up on my sadness straightaway. She doesn’t question me, but she does offer to bring over a tub of ice cream and a few chick flicks. At first I think about declining her offer, but the sunlight’s still there making patterns on the floor. It reminds me of my recent change, and not to wallow like I would have in the past. I tell Madi to come over, but to leave the ice cream behind and bring a healthier option. Madi laughs hysterically and ends the call.

She arrives half an hour later with a carton of chocolate ice cream in one arm, two Nicholas Sparks movies tucked under the other. She tosses her expensive shades on the bar and dumps the goodies on the counter.

“I see your lover has his mysterious friend stashed in his apartment again.”

I grab a couple bowls and spoons from the drying rack, turn around, and shoot her a quizzical glance. “Huh?”

Madi rolls her eyes. “The hottie with the body? I mean booty? Body and booty, if we’re being honest.” Madi shudders, and I swear it’s from a ripple of ecstasy. Her eyeballs practically roll into the back of her head. “What I’d do for a piece of that.”

“Madi,” I say in warning. “Need I remind you yet again that you’re married?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m married to Logan, blah, blah, blah.” Madi grins at my frown. “I’m just messing around. You know we humped like hyperactive rabbits after our big night out.”

“And things have been cool ever since?” I dig around inside the silverware drawer until I produce an ice cream scoop.

One scoop won’t hurt, right?

“Everything’s fine, great. Let’s get back to the subject at hand.” Madi wiggles her eyebrows. “Hottie with the booty.”

“How do you know someone’s crashing at Eight’s place?”

“Because you told me on the phone that Eight’s not home, and when I walked past the apartment I heard someone cough. Unless you think the ghost of old Mrs. Spearman’s floating around in there cutting eyeholes in her white hood and working on her white supremacy propaganda website.”

“That’s so weird.” I dish out a bowl of ice cream for her, and a smaller one for me. “You know, he’s never told me about his friend. Why he crashes at his place. Why he doesn’t say anything about his friend, really. As much as I’ve learned about Eight over the past few weeks, his life is still a big fat blank, you know?”

“Yeah.” Madi stirs the scoops of chocolatey-goodness until they’re smooth and creamy. “I’m not trying to bring you down or anything, but are you sure you want to be in a relationship with someone like that?”

“Someone like what?”

“Someone who keeps you at arm’s length?”

I drop my spoon in the bowl, my appetite spoiled. “Honestly? I have no idea. He’s already told me he cares about me, and even made a joke about us having kids once, but then he’s got all these secrets. Like his friend, his job—”

“Wait, hold up.” Madi holds one manicured hand in the air, stopping me. “That boy mentioned having kids with you?”

“It was said in jest, Madi.”

I’m playing dumb, but I didn’t tell her for this exact reason. Madi’s always pushed me to date, but she’s a bit like my parents where picking a partner is concerned. She’s only met him once, and that was under false pretenses after casing out his apartment.

“No, you didn’t tell me. I think I’d remember that little detail.” Madi takes a bite of her ice cream, humming around the spoon. “So?”

“So what?”

Madi frowns. “So do you care about him too? Maybe even love him?”

She finishes her bowl and starts on mine. Where she packs all the sugar and carbs is beyond me. She’s as tiny as a twig.

“Yeah, I think I do.”

“You
think
you do.”

Shaking my head, I say, “No, I definitely do.”

“Oy.” Madi palms her forehead.

She’s got chocolate ice cream smeared all over her chin, but I don’t tip her off. She looks like she’s been eating poop, and it tickles me. So I say nothing. I need all the humor I can get.

“Let’s watch a movie,” I suggest. “I promised myself I wouldn’t wallow in worry today.”

“Girl, all you’ve done since meeting Eight is wallow in worry.”

Madi skips to the bathroom, leaving me alone with the dirty dishes and my own thoughts. As I wash the bowls and spoons, I ponder what she’s said. Is it true? Has meeting Eight turned me into a Nervous Nelly? A Worrisome Wanda? A … an Anxious Anna?

“You’ve got this weird constipated expression on your face.” Madi takes a bowl and dries it with a kitchen towel. “By the way, thanks for not telling me about the ice cream on my chin, you whore.”

“My bad.” I can’t even muster up the strength to feign an honest apology. “You know, I’m not feeling so well.”

“Oh, Lord. Was it the ice cream? You barely touched it.” Madi drops the towel and presses the back of her hand against my forehead. “You don’t feel warm. Where’s it hurt?”

My head. My heart. My everything.

God, I’ve transformed into one of those heartbroken girls I read about between the pages of the covers I design.

“No, it’s not the ice cream. I think maybe I need to lie down and get some rest.”

“But you just woke up.” Madi narrows her eyes. “You’re wallowing, aren’t you?”

I raise my hand and make a pinching motion. “Maybe a little.”

“Fine. Whatever.” She tosses her hair over one shoulder and gathers her things. “My kid’s chilling with my parents, and Logan’s working out. I’ll finish this tub of ice cream and watch these fuckawesome Nicolas Sparks movies by myself.”

Madi leaves, sticking her tongue out like the mature woman she is before she goes.

I think about wallowing. I mean, I really contemplate doing so, but the sleepless nights and Eight’s sage advice fill the void in the room.

Mom picks up on the first ring.

“Alexa.” My name comes out of her mouth in one relieved whoosh of words, and I’m stricken again by the guilt of waiting too long to call her.

“Thought I’d call to see why you keep blowing up my phone.” Yeah, I’m playing a little hard to get. Hey, they’re the ones who acted like asses first. Why can’t I?

“Your Dad’s been so upset since you left,” she says. “He can’t stop talking about how sorry he is for the way he treated your friend.”

Boyfriend
, I want to sneer, but I swallow the word. Eight left. Went out of town, hell, out of state, with no excuse and some shady “don’t water my plants because they’re already dead” shit I don’t buy.

His boyfriend card has been revoked.

“Dad’s upset, huh? So upset that he hasn’t even called to apologize?”

“You know your father, hon. He’s not the one to sort things out over the telephone. He wants to see you, and your friend too. He owes you both an apology.”

“Yeah, he does.” Cally hops onto my lap, mewing her fat little butt off. “I’ll discuss it with him when things kinda calm down.”

“What’s going on?” There’s worry in her voice. I inherited it honestly through her.

“Eight—er, Brantley’s mother passed away last week.” And suddenly I feel like the world’s biggest asshole. Here I am pissed off that he split town and has a friend I know nothing about staying at his place. Meanwhile he’s dealing with the death of his mother.

Boyfriend card reactivated. Tentatively reactivated.

“Oh no. The poor thing. And after the way we treated him.”

Tears garble her words. My mother’s sensitive nature explains why she’s been desperate to reach me since that fateful lunch, and why she’s crying now over the loss of someone important in Eight’s life.

“I’ll make him a cake. A chocolate bundt cake. You said he loves chocolate, and everyone loves a bundt cake.” Her words are barely understandable.

“He’s out of town at the moment, so hold off on the bundt cake.” I lick my bottom lip and sigh into the phone. “It’s good talking to you, Mom. I’m sorry I’ve been so stubborn and haven’t returned any of your messages until now.”

Mom sniffs. “Honey, I understand.” Her voice drops. “You want to speak to your daddy? He’s in the next room eavesdropping.”

I laugh. “No, that’s okay. Like you said, he’s uncomfortable on the phone. When Brantley gets back in town I’ll call ya and we’ll set up a dinner date, okay? But no insults. And no absurd accusations. For the love of God, did he really think I’d date a guy who’d abuse me?”

“No, he didn’t.” Mom raises her voice. “Of course he didn’t really think you’d be with an abuser. He acted ridiculous and it better not happen again.”

“Okay, Mom. I think you got your point across.” I roll my eyes. “I feel better now after talking to you.”

“Me too, sweetie. And hey, bring over some of those books you’ve made covers for. Brantley made them sound so beautiful. It’s all your dad’s talked about, seeing those covers of yours.”

“Really?” The word has a hard time coming out considering there’s a ball of disbelief lodged inside my throat. “You want to see my covers?”

“Yes, bring the books, or a portfolio. However you keep up with them.” Mom giggles. “You’ll have to teach me the lingo.”

Speaking becomes difficult. Different emotions swarm me: relief, happiness, disbelief, and love. Love for a man who broke a barrier my family has built up for so many years. Love for the guy who’s skipped town with a lame excuse. Barrier. Another barrier. Built by him. But I’m not letting this one stand. I’m taking the reins from him, smashing all those walls of his the way he smashed down all of mine.

“Mom, I should let you go. There’s something I need to do.”

***

A low rumble of televised laughter breaks the silence in the hallway outside my apartment. The sound is muffled by the wall separating Eight’s apartment from the corridor, but the sound is there. And it wasn’t earlier when I took out the trash, or when I left to return the rental car and pick up my car from the repair shop. Someone is there inside, as Madi had said, and it isn’t Eight.

I peer through the peephole into his apartment, knowing I won’t see anything and I don’t, but no one can say I didn’t try. Swallowing my nerves, I knock on the door. Once. Twice. Six times, and clutch an annoyed Cally against my chest. I’m not sure why I brought her. Okay, I’m totally sure why I did. I envisioned her as a guard dog of sorts. There’s no telling who’s behind that door.