Everything for Us
Page 21

“Love you, too.”
When I turn around to find my way back to my seat, it’s to see another tall head making its way through the crowd. This time Nash is heading for the exit. And in front of him, tugging on his hand, is the blonde from earlier. I watch until he’s out of sight and the door is closed. Not once did he look back.
Not.
Once.
I can hardly wait for Olivia to open my present and things to get back to the party portion of the night. Then I can escape unnoticed. And I need that. Desperately. I feel like I can’t breathe, like someone stole the air from the room. From my lungs. From my soul.
When the music is blaring once more and the celebration is in full swing, I cling to the outskirts of the room and make my way to the door.
The cool, quiet night slaps me in the face the instant I step outside. I welcome the shock. It makes me feel alive when so much of me feels dead and hopeless. I’m preoccupied with thoughts of getting to the car and letting loose the ocean of tears that are threatening, so I jump when I hear a voice right behind me.
“Care to give an old man a ride?”
I turn, one hand still clamped over my racing heart, to see my uncle Darrin, Olivia’s father, smiling at me from his wheelchair, his casted leg sticking straight out. Ginger brought him to the bar; I assumed he’d be leaving when she did.
“Sorry. You scared me.”
“Didn’t mean to. I saw you creeping out and I followed. I was just waiting for Liv to finish with her presents so I could ask Ginger to run me home. I’m old and it’s way past my bedtime,” Uncle Darrin says charmingly.
“Of course. I’m parked right over there,” I say, pointing to my car.
I walk more slowly so Darrin can keep up. Thankfully the lot is paved or he’d have trouble navigating it in his wheelchair.
“I would open your door, but this thing gets in the way.” He glances down at the offending limb. I think it’s sweet that he’d even think about it. I’d forgotten what a nice, genuine country guy he is. I’d be willing to bet there’s not an ounce of guile in him. I don’t know too many people like that. I’m related to even fewer.
“How ’bout I open it for you, just this once?”
He sighs loudly. “If you insist,” he says playfully. I hit the button on my fob, listening for the click of the locks before I open the passenger-side door and hold it for Uncle Darrin. I watch as he comes to a stand on his good leg, then expertly pivots, moving from the wheelchair to the car seat.
“Like a pro, right?” he says as he folds up his wheelchair. “Doc won’t clear me for crutches yet.” I nod, having wondered about that. “Think you can slide this into the backseat? Or the trunk? It’s not heavy.”
“Of course.”
Once I get the chair into the backseat, I get in on the driver’s side and start the car.
He’s quiet for the first half of the short drive to his house. When he finally speaks, it’s not the small talk I would’ve expected.
“There’s something different about you. You’re not the spoiled little rich girl you used to be.”
I could probably take offense at that, but I don’t. I take it as a compliment.
“I’m not. And I don’t ever want to be again.”
I glance over at Darrin and he’s nodding, taking it in.
“I didn’t think you’d stand a chance against that damn brother of mine. I’m glad to see you’re stronger than he is, stronger than his influence.”
I look at him again. He’s watching me, like he’s seeing me for the first time. And like he approves of what he’s seeing.
I say what I truly feel. “Thank you.”
“It hasn’t always been easy for Olivia, either, what with her mother giving her such a hard time about who she is and the kinds of choices she makes. I’ll tell you what I’ve always told her. Blaze your own trail in life. Make your own choices and make your own mistakes. It’s the only way you’ll find your own happiness, not someone else’s.”
I say nothing to him, only nod. His words are so profound, they resonate so deeply, that I don’t know what I could possibly say in response. I feel like I’ve waited my whole life for someone to tell me those things, to tell me that it’s okay to make mistakes, that it’s okay to be me, to be my own person. But in my whole life, no one has ever allowed it. And they never will. If I’m to be the Marissa I want to be, it will be away from my family, my friends, from the life I’ve always known. Blazing my own trail means burning bridges with the flame.
And I just don’t know if I’m strong enough to do that.
But I know I have to try.
When we reach the house, I put the car in park, but I don’t cut off the engine. I get out and walk around to get his wheelchair out. I pry it open before pushing it to the now-open passenger door. Like the pro he teased about being, Darrin reverses his earlier movements and stands on his good leg, pivoting and then plopping down in his wheelchair.
I move to the back of the chair, grabbing the handles to push him up the driveway.
“You gonna leave your car running all night?”
“I’m not staying. I think I’m going to head back home tonight. I’ve got some . . . trailblazing to start tomorrow.”
I see him nod. He gets my meaning. He doesn’t speak until we’re at the front door. He wheels his chair around to face me. His smile is pleased.
“Good for you,” he says, a twinkle of pride lighting his eyes. It’s something I’ve never seen before, not even from my father when I graduated law school. It makes me feel like I can leap tall buildings in a single bound.
He digs his keys out of his pocket and unlocks the door. Before I can ask him if he needs help with anything, he cuts me off. “Drive safe,” he says warmly. “And don’t be a stranger. You’re always welcome here. You’re family.”
I nod and smile before I turn to walk back to my car. My throat is so tight with a lump of emotion I doubt I could squeak out a single syllable. When I reach the idling car and slide behind the wheel, I look up to see Uncle Darrin sitting in his wheelchair in the doorway. He waves to me once more. I wave back and put the car in reverse. I pull out of the driveway and into the road. As I’m driving away, I glance into my rearview mirror. Uncle Darrin is still sitting in the doorway, watching me go.
TWENTY-THREE
Nash
My mouth is so dry I could spit cotton balls. I need something to drink, but the blonde from the bar is lying on my arm, pinning it to the black sheets.
Like a magician pulling the tablecloth out from under the dishes, I jerk my arm out fast and roll to the edge of the bed. I don’t bother to look back at her. If she wakes up, she wakes up. If she’s stupid enough to open her mouth, she’ll deserve the cold shoulder she gets.
I left with her last night to make a point. To myself and to Marissa. The only thing I managed to prove is that Marissa is under my skin.
The blonde, Brittni with an i, didn’t seem to notice that I was distracted, nor did she seem to care that I wanted to get some liquor in me before I did more than kiss her. But even then, with a head all fuzzy from a mixture of vodka and tequila, all I could think about was a different taste, a different smell. A different girl.
No matter how much I drank, I couldn’t seem to forget she wasn’t Marissa. Luckily, Brittni drank too much, too. Passed out before I had to tell her I wasn’t interested in doing anything with her but drinking her liquor.
I’ll be gone before she wakes up. After I get a drink of water, that is.
I grab my shirt and pull it over my head as I stumble from the bedroom. I find the kitchen with relative ease. Her condo is about the size of a cracker box.
I open the fridge, hoping for bottled water. But there’s none. Only Diet Coke and beer. Without shutting the refrigerator door, I get a glass from the dish drain and hold it in front of the light. Thank God it looks clean. I run some cold tap water into it and gulp it down. Then I do it again. Water is the best thing for a hangover.
My head is still swimming a little, so I flop down on the sofa until it clears enough to drive. Heaven forbid I get pulled over. I avoid the law like the criminal that I am. Decent people worry about tickets on their record. I worry about someone finding out who I am and what I’ve done and throwing me in prison with no possibility of parole.
I slump down in my seat and lean my head back against the cushion, letting my mind wander for a while. It travels back in time to a night that I’m living to regret, one that haunts me. It’s the night I became a victim of my own game, a victim of my own need to make my brother suffer.
I was in New Orleans a year or two ago. Even now, I can remember the smell of the air with perfect clarity. I breathe it in, just like I did that night, and I remember . . .
The air is balmy and laced with the scent of salt water. I let the loud music and wild celebration flood my mind, rid it of all other thought. For just a little while, I need to forget who I am, what I’ve done and the road ahead. I need to get lost in the moment, and there’s no better place than Mardi Gras.
I’m anonymous. In the French Quarter during this time of year, everyone is. I’m not wearing a mask or costume like most people, but I’m just as masked in every other way. No one knows me here. And that’s just the way I like it.
Girls flash their tits from balconies all along the street, collecting strings of beads for their efforts. The people are drunk, the music is loud, and hedonism is the theme of the night. The same holds true for the luxurious private homes I pass.
This one is no different.
All the French doors are open. Music and light are spilling out into the street, and laughter can be heard as it mingles with the other elements of the party.
Something breaks the monotony of the night. It reaches out to grab my attention and pull me back to the present, to my troubles, like nothing else can.
It’s someone calling my name. It’s a woman’s voice.
But who the hell would know me here?
I look around and see no familiar faces. I hear my name again. This time, I use the sound to triangulate where the voice is coming from.
Then I see her.
She’s standing on the balcony of the house, leaning over the intricate scroll of the wrought-iron railing.
My eyes meet hers and I know she’s talking to me.
“Nash! Ohmigod, what are you doing here? Come on up!”
She’s smiling down at me. Widely. Almost too widely. I think she’s drunk. I’ve seen her only a few times, but I’ve seen enough to know she’s pretty much a cold bitch. But not tonight. Tonight, Marissa, my brother’s girlfriend, is feeling warm. And I’m feeling the warmth of taking a little revenge.
Before I can contemplate the wisdom of it, I turn onto the well-lit sidewalk of the home and make my way to the front door. The knob isn’t locked, so I enter.
In the foyer, a few people glance in my direction, but no one calls me out or tries to stop me when I head for the stairs to my right. I wonder if it’s because some of them think they recognize me, if it’s because they think I’m my brother, Cash. My brother, the imposter. My brother who’s pretending to be me.
The familiar bitterness stings the back of my throat like acid. I revel in the burn. I let it feed the anticipation coiling in my stomach, the anticipation of a little payback.
As I climb the steps, it heats my blood. I know it’s probably not smart to risk giving myself away like this. I just hope everyone’s too drunk to remember seeing me here. Or at least too drunk to question it if the topic should ever come up in conversation later. It should be easy enough to blow off. Especially for Cash. He thinks I’m dead. No doubt he’ll assume everyone was too shitfaced to know what they saw.
When I reach the second story, there’s a hall that extends left and right. It’s a crossroads, much like the one I find myself at. I could leave right now—no harm, no foul. Yes, I would feel cheated out of an opportunity to take a little vengeance, but I wouldn’t be jeopardizing my deceased status.
Or I could go ahead. I could seize this night, this chance, and, for just a few minutes, feel the satisfaction of having a laugh at my brother’s expense.
My choice is a no-brainer. I brush aside the voice that’s telling me this is stupid and I proceed to the right. From the street position, I figure Marissa must be on a balcony in that direction, so I head that way.
There are three doors on the street side of the house. The first is closed, so I don’t open it. The second one is open and filled with people. It’s some sort of upstairs parlor and I can see through it to the other side of the room where narrow doors open onto a balcony. This has to be the one.
I make my way through the tight crush of bodies toward the doors. I hear a couple of people speak as if they know me. I smile politely but don’t respond. I don’t want to draw anyone into conversation. My goal is singular. I can see it standing on the balcony. I can see her standing on the balcony.
She’s wearing a shiny, royal-blue dress that fits her like a second skin. The top pushes her tits up into a luscious heap beneath her chin and the bottom of the dress is split dead center all the way to mid-thigh. It separates into two distinct pieces, giving the appearance of a tail as it flows to the ground. Her long blond hair hangs over her shoulders in thick waves, some pieces braided, with seashells dangling from the ends. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out she’s a mermaid.
I stop to watch her, letting the anger brew. My brother is one lucky bastard. He gets to live a great life, my life. He graduated from law school and got a job at a prestigious Atlanta law firm. He’s got a good name and he’s screwing the boss’s daughter (no doubt with his consent). And the kicker? She just happens to be gorgeous. Cold as ice, but gorgeous.