Trouble (5 page)

“I burnt the eggs,” she whispers, her eyes filling again.
I push her back so that she’s sitting on the edge of the tub and sit down on the closed toilet.

“So?” I prod, pulling her arms away from her middle so that she’s not so closed off.

“Y-you don’t f-find me attractive, and I burnt the eggs, and, and” she trails off and I try not to laugh. I don’t find her attractive? What does that have to do with anything? “And I don’t know what to do so that I don’t have to l-leave.” The strangled noise that comes out of her sends chills down my spine. I lean back and take in the entire scene.

She thinks because I sent her out of my room that means I don’t find her attractive, how long has she been using that as a means to get what she wants? Then she’s crying because she burnt eggs, and she doesn’t want to leave? Like I
said, some kind of defect. I’m not sure where she got those ideas, but they’re twisted and malicious in her mind.

“You don’t have to leave
, and I can make my own eggs. I’ll even make some for you if you stop crying.” But she’s not stopping. Is it possible that someone can have that many tears? I’m starting to panic, my internal instincts kicking into overdrive. If she doesn’t stop I’m going to have to leave, I’m going to have to run from my own apartment like a beaten dog with his tail tucked between his legs.

“Stop crying, Daisy!” I try yelling at her, but it doesn’t work.
She just shrinks away from me like I’m going to hit her, and that makes me feel even worse. So I do the only thing left that doesn’t make me feel like a whipped dog.

“I find you attractive!” I admit to her. It’s
probably the biggest mistake of my life, but I push back the hair from her forehead and grab a wad of toilet paper when she stares at me in disbelief.

“You do?”
Her voice is weak and disbelieving. I shove the toilet paper in her hands and watch her blow. Then I nod when she looks at me, and I pull her up off the tub. She’s still holding the wad of toilet paper when I shove her out the door and close it. I click the lock shut and tear off my clothes, jumping into the coldest shower of my life.

Every time I put pencil to paper the tip breaks off because my hands are shaking uncontrollably. I growl in frustration and sharpen it again, my hand shaking as I do so. I’m pissed, tense, and I have no idea why. If my best friend were here I’d be able to talk to him, but I’m stuck in my own head. When I break the pencil tip again, I slam it down on the table and push back, running my hands through my hair.

Carl comes to stand in the doorway and frowns at me, his fingers idly rubbing his chin like he’s thinking.
But I recognize it as his pissy, moody face. “Why don’t you go home, or go out to the bar, call Delilah? Something before you end up smashing my entire tattoo shop apart.” He moves aside and points at the front door when I don’t move.

“Go on,
git!” He growls at me, his eyes narrowed. I stand up from the chair and grab my keys off the table. It’s two in the afternoon. “Get laid you ass!” He shouts at me as if that’s supposed to make me feel better. I give him the finger as I slam open the front door and stomp down the steps to my bike on the sidewalk.

I shove the key in and hop on, roaring it to life. The cool air of November washes over me as I fly down the street at reckless speeds.
That is until I hit an amber light and get stuck behind a car. After that, I keep revving it until the driver gives me the finger and shouts out the window at me. When the light turns green I whip around him, careless and fearless in that moment.

By the time
I reach the apartment, I’m shaking like a leaf with an emotion I can only describe as vivid rage. It’s been days since Ronnie’s funeral, and everywhere I look I’m seeing his face, hearing his voice, and when I’m on my bike I can imagine him riding next to me. It’s like his ghost is trying to kill me so he can torture me forever in Hell.

I slam into my apartment and shut the door so hard the lamp on the table next to the couch rattles and almost falls off the stand. Daisy almost jumps out of her skin when I
stalk past her. I barely notice that she’s holding a newspaper in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. She puts down a red pen from my kitchen and stares at me as I storm into my room.

No matter how awful I feel, how angry or pissed I am
, the tears won’t come. They’re burning at the corners of my eyes and torturing me forever. This is my own private Hell. When I close my eyes they seem to retract back into my tear ducts instead of falling. That’s when I lose it, when I’m squeezing my eyes shut so hard that it hurts, and I still can’t cry.

I’m seeing red
. I never understood the term until now. Everything is literally veiled in a haze of red as my heartbeat increases, and my system goes into overload. I grab my dresser and fling it onto the ground, breaking everything on top. I walk across the broken debris with my sneakers still on, crunching the glass. That’s not good enough. I pull off my shirt and my sneakers, flinging them across the room and hitting the wall.

It’s not hard enough to break the drywall, thank God. I’d have to pay for that later. I turn around to find something else to break and find Daisy standing in my doorway, her mouth gaping open. It’s not until I
see her hands shaking at her sides that I realize I’ve scared the shit out of her. I fall back onto my bed, gripping my hair in my hands and pulling on it to stop myself from breaking anything else. If only I could break myself.

Maybe I should.

I’m sobbing, but there are still no tears falling down my face, it’s just dry, angry sounds coming out of me. I feel like a trapped animal in my own skin, and I just want to get out. I just want to be the one buried in the grill of the truck and not Ronnie. He would know what to do with a woman in his apartment; he would probably be polite to her and have sex with her all at once. He’d understand why she was crying this morning, or why she’s standing in his doorway with a frightened look on her face.

“I’m sorry,” I finally choke out, staring at the floor beneath me. I don’t hear her,
but suddenly her feet are under my gaze. I’m staring at pink, little toenails and cream colored flesh.

Daisy’s hands find mine in my hair and pull them away from my head, her fingers shaking like little feathers in the wind. They’re not leaves; they’re too soft for that. She kneels down in front of me and positions her face so that she’s looking into my eyes, her eyebrows drawn together with confusion.

“Do you want to talk about it?” She asks in a hushed voice, her hands still on mine. I put my hands on my knees and look down at her, do I? Should I talk about Ronnie? Just thinking about it sends me into a fit of rage, what if I lost control and hurt Daisy? I don’t think I could live with myself. So I clamp my mouth shut and shake my head no.

The momentum of my head shaking sends the tears on my nose flying off. When did I start crying? When I realize that the moisture is actually seeping out I begin to sob, making awful,
ripping noises in my throat. I squeeze my eyes shut and wish that the tears would stop now. I’m embarrassing myself. But she’s not ashamed of seeing me cry; instead, Daisy, the woman I was going to leave in an alley, straddles me from behind and wraps her arms around me, her feet resting on my legs.

She
pets me and makes little noises in my ear, her breath running over my earlobe and making me shiver. I cry for a long time, gasping for air at points and trying to stuff it back down inside. But now that the dam has been broken it’s like I can’t stop. All the suffering, the anguish and pain that I should have felt at the funeral, it’s all rushing over me and sweeping me away with it.

When the last tear leaks out of my eye painfully slow and drips onto the carpet beneath my feet, I lean back into her embrace and concentrate on her heartbeat against my back. It’s slow and methodic, fluttering when I brush a hand over her ankle. If I stay like this too long I’m going to take advantage of the fact that she feels
sorry for me, and that wouldn’t be right. I unwrap her legs from around me and gently lower her onto the bed behind me.

For a few seconds I look down at her face, she’s still afraid. So I slide off her and go to the bathroom to clean myself up. When I come back out she’s not in my room anymore.
She’s sitting on the couch with her bare feet up on the table in front of her, circling some more things on the newspaper. I grab myself a cup of half cooked coffee and turn off the coffee maker. I don’t bother dumping any sugar or creamer into it, just sip it black from the mug.

I don’t feel complete, or whole, but I feel like I can be normal for a few more days.
I sit down next to Daisy on the couch and look over at the newspaper.

“What’s that?” I ask in a hoarse voice. I clear it and drink my coffee.

“Jobs,” she answers me, circling another one. Secretary, that’s interesting. I would have never pegged her for a secretary type, but imagining her in the classic, sexist secretary garb has me leaning back from her. I had better stop that, or I’ll end up shaming myself. “Big Man never let me have one,” she whispers, circling another secretarial position. There’re four circled and one waitress position.

“I’m not
letting
you have one, that’s your choice, not mine.” She smiles down at the paper and underlines one of them a few times.

“I know,” she whispers under her breath, stuffing the pen into her mouth so she can turn the page. She’s wearing a pair of shorts that are made from a hot pink, stretchy material and a white t-shirt that’s a little too
big, is that mine? I don’t ask. If she insists, then I’m going to stop complaining.

“Carl needs a good receptionist; he’s getting tired of doing it.” I idly tell her, putting my coffee down. “I left early today, but he’s there until six tonight. If you want to stop by, I can give you a ride.” I still feel raw and a little embarrassed about my outburst. I shouldn’t have barged in here, and I’m going to have to buy a new lamp. That’ll look pretty retarded on the back of a bike; I’ll have to get my car out of storage. It’s about time anyway.

“Okay!” She looks hopeful, too hopeful.

“He might not hire you,” I warn her, standing up.

“Okay,” she still looks hopeful and puts the newspaper down. Maybe I should have talked to Carl first, but he was complaining a few weeks ago. I dump out the remainder of my coffee and head for the bathroom. I need a shower.

The water is
cool over my skin and takes the worst of the shaking away. By the time I get out, I feel pretty normal, but I’m at a disadvantage. I forgot fresh clothes, and my previous ones stink from sweating. I wrap a towel around my waist and march the short distance between the bathroom and my bedroom. Out of the corner of my eye I see Daisy watching me with appreciation; it makes my skin crawl in on the right ways, and all the wrong.

I shut my door and try to forget about her being in my room, on my bed, with fear on her face. I pull on
a pair of jeans with force and pull a shirt over my head. When I’m fully dressed, including a pair of socks, I grab my sneakers off the floor and pull them on. It’s time to clean up my mess from my fit of rage.

The trash can is full
of broken glass and broken pieces of furniture by the time I’m finished, and I’m going to have to get a new dresser. One of the drawers won’t close all the way, and it’s cracked across the front. Plus I have to shove a piece of wood from the face of the dresser under a leg to hold it up steady. In all my life, I’ve never lost control like that. And I don’t ever want to again.

As I come out of my room, I pause in the doorway and watch Daisy sipping coffee, pacing around the room as she reads an article in the paper. Doesn’t she like television? She stops pacing when she sees me
, and she smiles at me. It’s a genuine one this time. I feel my lips turning up to respond to her smile. When she looks away I feel my lips drop and wonder what the hell I’m doing, I shouldn’t encourage her to smile at me.

But in that moment she wasn’t trying to get into my pants, she was just smiling at me as a friend. I could
really use a friend; my fit of rage has proven that. It’s just been so long since I’ve had a woman as a friend, one that wasn’t related to me; I don’t actually know how to toe that delicate line between friendship and sex. Last time I tried that I was seventeen, and royally screwed it up.

I empty the trash can and
glance at the clock on the stove. It’s past four. She’ll have to change and get ready quick if she wants to see Carl today. Maybe I should just take her tomorrow. Before I can tell her that I’ll take her tomorrow, the bathroom door is closing and I hear the water running. She’s not showering; she must be brushing her teeth again. I blow some air into my hand and sniff, nope; I’m still good from my last shower.

While she’s getting ready I busy myself with watching television, and then I glance at the newspaper on the coffee table. It’s a picture of the burly guy in the ring from the night that I picked up Daisy. His face is contorted into
a rage, and his fists are raised in the air, and the headline says that he’s heading to Florida for one of the big league fights. Well at least one problem is gone for the time being.

I fold up the paper neatly and flick off the television when Daisy comes out. My eyes flick up to acknowledge her and then I do a double take. What is she wearing? It’s a top that looks like it wraps down over her breasts, but it’s not dangerously low, just tight. She has on a pair of black jeans without any fancy stitching; I never understood why women wear them anyway. Men don’t like to look at the stitching; they’re attracted to staring at women’s asses no matter what.

“You look,” I search for the right word, a friendly word. I want to tell her she looks
hot
, sexy, doable, maybe just ask her if she could peel off that top and show me something. But none of that would be a ‘we’re just friends’ compliment. “Nice,” I finally finish lamely, looking at my hands for something to do. They’re clasped together in front of me as I lean over.

I constantly feel like my positions are meant to hold something in anymore, maybe the monster that’s always clamoring to get out.

“Thanks,” Daisy tells me breezily. She shrugs a shoulder and grabs her flats that I found her in, pulling them on.

“Ready?” I ask, standing up and grabbing my wallet off the table. I stuff it into my back pocket, and she walks to the door. Daisy pulls it open, and we both walk down the stairs to the bike. My next door neighbor is outside, and she has a strange look on her face when she looks at me.

I realize she must have heard the commotion in my apartment and raise a hand to her. She waves back real small like, grabs her mail, and rushes into her home. Now they’re all going to think I’m psychotic. I wish I could put a sign on my door that says ‘I just lost my best friend
, and I’m flipping out, please don’t call the cops’. But that would probably just fuel the rumors.

When Daisy climbs onto the back of my bike, she puts on the helmet and fists her hands in
the front of my shirt again. She doesn’t look forward, which is a sign of ultimate trust to me. I’ve only had one other girl on the back of my bike, and she’s always looked forward, Delilah. Daisy’s heartbeat is rhythmic on my back as I start the bike, the vibration of the engine moving through both of us. I’ll miss it when I put it into storage. Part of me is afraid I’ll never get it out again, afraid that I’ll always see Ronnie’s face when I’m on it.