Things Remembered (Accidentally On Purpose Companion Novel #3) (3 page)

“Emmy Grayne highly—if not erringly—recommended you, but I do not want you in my department. Besides, it is more likely that you will soon slip back into your old ways than to succeed here. How unfortunate that you will probably destroy your relation’s credibility.”

He’d given me one last hard look and then headed toward the door.

My hatred for him right then was enormous. I hadn’t hated him for the calloused and stabbing things he’d said previously. I had most likely said worse things to other people, and without the eloquence that he’d possessed. What I’d hated him for was his last couple sentences alone.

Every day had been a struggle to keep my feet on the ground. Every hour, every minute…every second. It had taken an astounding amount of power to convince not only everyone around me, but myself as well, that I could do it—that I could get through a day without failing, let alone get through the rest of my life. Much too quickly, Kyle Sterling had made me second guess myself. The little bit of confidence that I’d had, along with the confidence that I’d pretended to have, had been blasted away.

Had he made a derogatory comment about my weight, my mixed race, or the old track marks on my arms, it would have had far less of a negative impact on me. I hadn’t feared not getting a job at Sterling, there were other places to work. No, my worst fears had been that I’d lose myself to the drugs again and let everyone down.

“Dickhead,” I’d muttered over my shoulder. It hadn’t been the most mature response, but it
was
heartfelt.

“Excuse me?”

When I’d glanced back up, I noticed he’d stopped just in the doorway and glared at me with a raised eyebrow. He probably didn’t expect me to repeat it.

At that point, I didn’t really have anything to lose. If I hadn’t lost my employment prospects over threatening bodily harm to the man whose last name had marked the front of the building, surely, I wouldn’t have lost any by my next words.

I’d turned in my seat so that he’d see my lips moving when I spoke, just in case he really was hard of hearing. “You are a dickhead,” I’d said, pronouncing each word carefully. “An itchy, infected, puss-oozing penis head.”

His eyes had darkened, but he’d kept his bitch face in place when he’d said, “Well, with your past, I suppose you would know what an infected, puss-oozing penis head looks like.”

He’d walked away before I could even contemplate throwing anything at him. Distractedly, I had turned back around in my seat.

Keith had cleared his throat when I bent forward to pick up my purse off the floor. I knew the man was about to dismiss me from his sight. My mind had raced as I’d tried to recall the other places I had applied at.

“I apologize for the, erm, distraction,” Keith had said after clearing his throat again.

I’d raised my eyes to meet his, and I’d found him smiling. My jaw had fallen open and my eyebrows shot up. I’d closed my mouth and then opened it again, unsure how to respond.

Keith had leaned forward conspiringly. I’d leaned forward as well, an automatic response when someone is about to share a secret.

“I’ve never seen anyone stand up to him like that,” he’d whispered. “In the very least, your interaction with Kyle Sterling will be entertaining for the rest of us.” He’d winked at me and he no longer seemed to be nervous. “Now, would you like to discuss the human resources position?”

That first meeting with Kyle had sparked a hateful relationship that had lasted for years. Emmy hadn’t been too fond of him, either. She’d nicknamed him Douche Puddle. Therefore, it had been surprising when, some months later, she’d accepted a promotion as his personal assistant and department manager. It had been more baffling when a couple years after that, she’d somehow ended up in bed with said douche puddle.

That whole situation had been a hot mess. He’d had a girlfriend, and Emmy later got a boyfriend, but they’d continued to screw around anyway. Even though Emmy hadn’t been very sensible, I had hated Kyle for his role in that relationship. He’d been in a position of authority over her and in my opinion, he’d had the bigger responsibility not to stick his prick in his employees.

That screwed-up relationship had come to a very explosive and violent ending after about a year, though, after Kyle had gone into a violent psychopathic fugue.

Amazingly, Emmy doesn’t hate him for what he did to her. Even though I’d hated him for hurting one of my best friends, I had been able to relate to Kyle Sterling. I had a few of my own VPFs when I was younger. I understood how drugs could completely alter a person. I understood the denial and the cravings and helplessness. I understood the desire to die, but unlike Kyle, I hadn’t minded trying to take my own life.

I wish I could say that those feelings and deadly thoughts faded with time, but they didn’t, not truly. Kyle understood that, and very few others did. So, despite my many reasons for hating the guy, it was the destructive pieces of ourselves that had brought us together in an unexpected and strange association, which in a way debunked my whole broken people can’t help broken people theory…

“It’s that kind of day, is it?” Kyle asked at the end of the meeting.

He glanced at the origami flower on my lap. I had used the paper sleeve of my coffee cup to make it during the meeting.

I had learned the art of origami during my last stint in rehab. My therapist thought it would be a soothing distraction for me whenever I was anxious, depressed, or had the desire to shoot up or have a line of coke. I didn’t think it would help at all. I thought it was the dumbest idea I’d ever heard. However, before I knew it, there were paper animals and flowers all over my room at the rehab center. It wasn’t a miracle cure or anything, but it helped me, as long as I really want to be helped.

“I saw someone I used to know today,” I admitted immediately. I was never one to beat around the bush, and neither was Kyle. It was another reason why we had an equal hate for each other before, and yet another reason why we
could
tolerate each other later.

“Another phantom,” Kyle said, nodding knowingly.

“Not this one. This one is pretty solid.”

He gave me a surprised glance. “You remember him? Without the help of your cousin or Em?”

My cousin Tack was just “your cousin” to Kyle, but Emmy was “Em.”

So many years later he could still say her name with an intimate familiarity that sometimes made me feel a little uncomfortable, and there wasn’t much in the world that made
me
uncomfortable.

“I do remember him. Like anything else, there are some dark patches in my memory, but I remember him pretty clearly.”

Many people were still milling about, drinking sludgy coffee and nibbling on stale cookies that someone had brought in. Crazy Judy and Drunk Larry spoke earnestly in a corner, and I prayed that the two were both sterile and wouldn’t procreate while Judy healed him with her pussy…cat.

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Kyle prodded. “You want to remember.”

Slightly bending back the pedals of my paper flower, I spoke softly. “I don’t want to remember this time.”

He matched my soft tone. “What is it? Who was he to you?”

My hand closed into a tight fist, crushing the delicate flower to my palm. I took a deep breath.

“He was a lot of things. The older brother of a good friend Tack and I used to get high with. He was someone I used to…love…” I said the word hesitantly. It felt strange coming out of my mouth. “He was also my unsought savior. My friend and I both overdosed at the same time and he chose to save me instead of her.”

I dropped the crushed flower to the floor and kicked it away. I lifted my head and looked at Kyle.

“He helped the wrong girl. He let the wrong girl live.”

Chapter Three

We went to a diner after the meeting. It wasn’t uncommon for us to walk the two blocks to the little hole in a wall after a meeting if one of us—mostly me—wanted to talk, or if we were just hungry. When Kyle stepped outside to take a work-related phone call, I began to lose focus on the world in front of me. The conversation inside the diner, the clinking of silverware against dishes, and the smells of food cooking became nothing more than a low buzzing at the back of my mind as I slipped into the past…

I was only two when my mother put me in dance classes. I was three when I began piano lessons, and I was four when I competed in my first beauty pageant. My dark, spiraled hair, my peach-colored skin dotted with light brown freckles, and my big gray eyes got me in without any trouble, but I was also a very well-spoken child, unafraid and charismatic. I excelled at dance, conquered the black and white ivory keys of the piano, and was victorious at most of my pageants.

My young life was a hustle and bustle of activity, going from one practice to another, shopping for the next dress, and trying out the newest hairstyle. Also, I was expected to keep an A average as a homeschooled child. My leisure time was almost non-existent, and I rarely got to do the same things kids my age did. I didn’t learn how to ride a bike because of the risk of injury. That reason was also why I couldn’t play Freeze Tag, jump rope, roller skate, or participate in any sports.

By the time I was eleven years old, I had begun to burn out. I also began to hate my mother, because she wouldn’t let me quit, nor would she just give me a break.

“I’m tired,” I complained to her. “I just want to do what other kids are doing.”

“You are not like other kids,” she said with a sigh. It wasn’t the first time we had the conversation. “You are special.”

“I don’t want to be special.”

“Mayson, most young girls wish that they were in your shoes.”

“They can have my shoes!” I shouted.

I removed my ballet shoes as my mother patiently watched with her arms crossed over her chest. I threw them one by one across the small dance studio that had been transformed from a two car garage many years before.

“Are you quite finished?” Mom asked, one dark eyebrow raised on her russet-colored face.

“No!”

I yanked the pink ribbon from my hair, and then the hair tie and pins that held my bun in place. My curls sprang free, making me look like a child-sized Medusa, especially since my eyes were no doubt as stony as the mythical creature’s eyes.

“I don’t want to dance anymore,” I said, stomping my foot. “I don’t want to play the piano anymore, and I don’t want to be in any more competitions!”

Mom cocked her head to one side as she looked at me thoughtfully.

She was pretty, prettier than most moms I knew. She was a beautiful medium shade of brown with big, slightly slanted dark brown eyes and hair to die for. It was natural, thick, wavy, and fantastic. Her body was curvy but fit. She worked out daily to keep her trim waist, flat stomach, and long legs toned. No amount of working out, however, could get rid of her genetically inherited boobs and butt.

“You’re right, Mayson,” she finally said, and I started to relax at her words, thinking that maybe I could finally start being like other kids. “You are tired. You may go to your room and take a one-hour nap.”

I blinked slowly as my mouth hung slightly open. “A nap?” I asked dumbly.

“Yes, a nap. You will feel refreshed and ready to begin again after a brief rest. Now, pick up your ribbon and your shoes and go. I will wake you after an hour.”

Outraged, I stomped both my feet and crossed my arms. “I am not a baby! I don’t need a nap!”

Her eyebrow went up again as she wordlessly said, “Oh, you’re not a baby, are you?”

“Why won’t you let me quit?” I asked in a whiny voice.

“Only losers quit, Mayson,” she said easily. “If you quit now, you will never be able to succeed at anything else for the rest of your life.”

I threw my hands up in the air. “Everyone has to quit sometimes, Mother. No one can do something forever.”

“Someday you will thank me for all this. You will appreciate the discipline and order in your life. Now, Mayson, enough of this. Go lay down. Pick up your shoes and your ribbon as you go.”

Rebelliously, I ignored the shoes and the ribbon and
her
as I left the studio. I stormed into my bedroom and slammed the door so hard that a couple trophies fell off a shelf. I let out an ear shattering scream of frustration and swiped another trophy to the floor.

I sat down on my bed with my arms crossed tightly and glowered at the wall without actually seeing it.

My mom wasn’t going to listen to me. She’d never listen to me. Even at the age of eleven, I knew what was happening. She was trying to live the life she had wanted as a child through me. She had grown up poor, ugly, and fat apparently. She eventually lost the fat and turned into a swan, but by then, all the things she had dreamed of were out of her reach because she was too old and too poor. She had told me thousands of times that she had to work very hard to get through college, that she was often too broke to eat more than one or two meals a day. That had all changed when she met my father. Adam Mayson Grayne took away all of my mother’s struggles, loved her, and gave her a daughter.

I understood that my mom had a rough life and that I needed to be appreciative of the life I had. My dad was born into money and made very good money himself doing his part in the Grayne family business. I didn’t have to go through the same challenges that my mom went through, but she was adamant about me doing all the things she had wanted to do as a child and could not.

“I always wanted to be a princess,” she’d told me when I was eight. “Now I want you to be a princess. Being an actual princess isn’t possible, but this is as close as we can get.”

Somehow, I doubted that princesses had to do all the crap that I had to do.

“I don’t want to be a stupid princess,” I growled to myself as I got off the bed.

I changed out of my leotard and put on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. Most of my casual clothes weren’t really casual at all. My mom was insistent that I wore dresses like a lady. I was so tired of dresses and cute shoes. I smiled broadly when I slipped my feet into a pair of flip-flops that my dad had bought for me. Mom hadn’t liked that.

I wasn’t going to take a nap. I almost always did what my parents told me to do, but I was so angry. I wanted to be defiant. I wanted to be bad.

Very quietly, I pulled open my bedroom door. I became instantly annoyed when I saw that my mother had placed my shoes in front of the door with my ribbon and hair tie stuffed inside one shoe, but then I felt satisfied knowing that my hair was wild and free and totally uncontained.

As an afterthought, I went into my sock drawer and pulled a small wad of cash out of a ball of socks and stuffed it into my pocket. Not having any time for leisure had one advantage: I didn’t spend any of the cash gifts I received for holidays and birthdays. I had way more money than an eleven-year-old should have.

I went back to the door and listened for several moments until I heard the faint sound of water running in the kitchen. My mom was probably in there preparing a ridiculously healthy lunch for me. That was another thing I was tired of, healthy food. I wanted chocolate and cookies and cake and candies. I wanted to stuff my mouth with potato chips and cheeseburgers and French fries and suck down a thick chocolate shake, but my mom only allowed me a small candy bar once a month and no more. My dad worked away from home most of the time, but sometimes when he came back, he’d bring me treats that I was allowed to eat. It wasn’t often enough, though.

I slipped out of my room and carefully closed the door. I silently moved down the front stairs, pausing every few steps to listen for my mom. She was still in the kitchen, and as long as she stayed in there, I would be able to get out of the front door unseen. I wasn’t sure about being unheard, though. Sometimes, the door squeaked when it was opened, but as luck would have it, the telephone rang.

“Grayne residence,” Mom answered formally.

I took my opportunity quickly and hurried down the last few steps and quickly out the door. Fortunately, it didn’t squeak.

I really had no idea where I was going. I didn’t really have friends outside of dance class and the pageants, and those girls were more like enemies than friends. My cousins Emmy and Tabitha were older than me, but they were the closest things to friends that I had. They didn’t exactly live within walking distance. They both lived in towns that were miles away from me.

Walking aimlessly through my neighborhood, I found myself at the local school. I had never gone to a regular school. I had always been homeschooled by a private tutor. I never had a backpack or a lunchbox. I never got the opportunity to eat cafeteria food or to feel chalk between my fingers. I never got to sit at a classroom desk or go on a field trip. Worst of all, I never experienced recess.

My fingers hooked onto the tall chain-link fence as I watched kids running across a blacktop. Some kids swung on swings and others played ball. There were a couple clusters of girls standing close together, chatting and giggling. A group of boys approached the girls and seconds later there were shrieks and shouts as the girls suddenly started chasing the boys.

I watched all the activity with deep envy and loneliness. Although I did play with my cousins at some family events, those times were few. My mother kept a close watch on me, always ready to jump in and stop me from doing something silly, like running or skipping. I otherwise had no playtime and no one to play with, even if I wanted to. Besides, I was almost twelve, and I would soon be too old to play like that.

A whistle was blown and the kids raced to line up to go inside. I didn’t know if more kids would come out or not, but I didn’t want to see anymore. It made me feel sad.

I walked on for a while longer until my growling stomach began to object to any further activity. I surely wasn’t going to go back home to eat rabbit food. I walked to a convenience store that was about a quarter mile from my house. There was a girl I recognized from my neighborhood standing on the side of the building smoking a cigarette. She was way older than me, at least fourteen or fifteen. I knew she should have been in school, but she was probably thinking the same thing as she watched me walk by.

When I came back out ten minutes later with a bag full of junk food, the girl was still there. She was dark skinned, the color of dark chocolate, thin, and several inches taller than me, as most people were since I was on the short side.

She smiled at me and I felt myself smiling back even as I took a huge bite of a chocolate bar.

“You have chocolate on your face,” she said, not bothering to hide her smile. “Come here, I think I have napkins in my satchel.”

I was a little wary and a little awed. I was wary because even though I knew her face, I didn’t know her. I was awed because she was a teenager, and not a new teenager, either. She had been a teen for at least a year, and she was talking to
me
.

The girl dug around in the brown bag slung across her body. It was covered in pins—some for bands, some looked like cartoon characters, and a few of them were just phrases.

“Ah-ha,” she said as she pulled a couple slightly crumpled napkins from her bag. “Don’t worry, they’re not used.”