Page 38 of Over You
“And you’re a perv.”
“But I’m you’re perv.”
The cabinets whizzed by before the frame landed on her face again. No makeup. Hair a mess. And utterly beautiful.
“I don’t deserve you.” I swept a piece of dark hair from her neck. “You know it?”
“You’re crazy.”
“What? It’s true. You’re too perfect.”
Her palm covered the lens when she grabbed the phone from my hand. “Thisman says I’m too perfect.” The camera turned to a younger version of me with short hair—the hair the label said wouldn’t sell. “Please. He’s gorgeous and romantic. He works his butt off.”
I took a bow, laughing when I straightened up and then took a step toward her. “And I’m gonna be a big deal one day. Just for you.”
“Babe, you’re already a big deal to me.”
The video cut off. Back then we didn’t have a pot to piss in, but we had our whole lives ahead of us. Dreams to chase. I had wanted to give Georgia things no one else could, and well, I had.
Some good. A lot bad.
I’d promised her I’d clean up. She had promised she’d never leave.
Drugs and love had made liars of us both.
The lonely chorusof the church bells bounced off the surrounding buildings. Kids in uniforms formed a line on the sidewalk. Mothers sat with strollers in front of them. And I had a bag of coke in my pocket.
I focused on the toes of my Vans as I walked down the sidewalk. Tremors worked from my shoulder to my fingertips, the regrets from earlier had been consumed by the thought of where I could go to snort a line.
The coffee shop bathroom was too full; besides, there wasn’t a lock on the main door. The florist didn’t have a public restroom. I ducked into a clothing shop and bought a few shirts and some jeans but didn’t find anywhere I could take my medicine.
Just as I reached for the door to a little book shop cattycorner to Georgia’s house, the bass of rap music thumped down the street. A sporty engine revved, and I turned just in time to catch a black BMW zip past. Taillights flashed red when it came to a screeching halt in front of Georgia’s townhome.
She emerged from the passenger side, wearing a sky-blue sundress that hit just above her knees. Some part of me died a little when the breeze caught her hair. For a second, I forgot about the cocaine in my pocket. She was like a magnet, drawing me closer to the crosswalk.
The magnetic field went haywire, the connection lost when a dark-headed guy hopped out from the driver’s seat. The toe of my shoe hung over the edge of the curb.
She grinned at him.
There went another part of me. Dead.
Douche canoe followed her up the steps. Pressure built in my chest. Had the pain not been familiar with heartache, I may have thought I was having a heart attack. During moments of self-loathing, I may have said she’d moved on, but I had never believed it. Now I was seeing it.
Funny how a heart can break all over again, even when you think there’s nothing left to shatter.
I ground my teeth together. Every day, I fought a battle, and while she was with me, she had fought one, too. Why wouldn’t she have moved on?
Because I hadn’t. Not one girl, not one model or Hollywood actress could tempt me away from the hope that our broken marriage would eventually fall back together.
The guy inched closer, and I fished for the pack of gum and pen in my back pocket. I placed the foil against the rough side of the building.Your lips taste of whiskey-laced salvation I don’t want anyone else to drink.
Taking a breath, I closed my eyes and thought about what a lucky son of a bitch that cocksucker was. That woman was special. Special enough that the wordsI love youfell from my lips like a sinner’s first prayer, full of conviction and hope for forgiveness. Georgia was theonlyperson I had—or ever would—uttered those words to. By the time I was six, I’d been let down by more people than I could count, and I had decided the best way to avoid the pain of rejection was not to let anyone in. I had managed that for eighteen years. Until I kissed Georgia Anne for the first time.
I had let her in. She had let me in. We were just two fucked up kids madly in love with each other, and now it looked as though it was someone else’s turn. Because I had screwed up. I had lied.
But she had left me.
My brain was on fire, confused over what emotion to grasp: anger, regret, jealousy, acceptance. My hand sunk into my pocket, squeezing the bag in my palm. While I wanted to wail out riffs like Jimmy Rage and possess that guttural vibrato to my voice like Jag, I had never wanted to belikethem. Yet, here I was, my addiction in the driver’s seat while I was bound and gagged in the trunk, trying to kick out a taillight to signal for help.
