Page 15 of Summer Shivers
I tune the newscasters out, sinking to the bed, head hanging between my knees.
What the fuck is going on?
I grab my phone out of habit. Ready to call who the fuck knows.
There’s a missed call notice blinking on the screen.
Seaside number.
Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who the fuck that was.
She’s got to be at their Seaside house if he was killed in Lake Oswego.
Fuck my life.
I text Al asking for the address. She has it back to me in a matter of minutes. I jump on my bike and head out.
The hard part, I realize as I’m sitting at a light waiting for it to change, is going to be coming face to face with her for the first time in four years. When you hate someone as much as you love them—it’s a frustrating feeling—last four years of my life have been filled with both for this chick. I knew she’d be pissed that last time I spun up again. I never figured she’d move out.
That was my mistake.
Hers was never lettin’ me explain.
If you don’t consider she up and disappeared, marrying that douche bag, then leaving Seaside without a word. If she hadn’t married a pseudo celebrity, I’m not sure I would’ve found her.
I’m sure Al could’ve.
The light changes and I rev my bike taking the turn onto Sunset Boulevard way faster than I should. My nerves are already frazzled, and I haven’t even seen her yet. Gotta be the worst idea I’ve ever had.
I could’ve had Al dig deep when I returned from overseas to find her, but I didn’t. Instead, I soothed my wounds with alcohol and women. Including Al. A mistake that almost tanked my working relationship with Mack, given Al is best friends with Daria, Mack’s girl. I drive right past her house, lost in my thoughts. Turn around and cruise back, cut the engine and coast down the drive. There aren’t any other cars around, and the blinds are shut, but I know she’s here. I can feel it.
Still, I hesitate.
What are you afraid of?
I find my balls and head to the front door.
seven
GENEVIEVE
I didn’t sleep welllast night, despite two sleeping pills and a bottle of wine. It’s not anything new that I didn’t sleep, but the reasons are different. Images of Harrison’s body kept invading my dreams. The blood. Bulging eyes. Bloated body. It was him and not him at the same time. It’s like I’m locked inside one of his novels.
My head pounds as if someone is knocking on it.
I rub at my eyes, trying to wake. The pounding continues.
Is that the door?
The ringing of the bell answers my question for me. I peek out the window, fearing fans or the press, but see nothing. The driveway looks bare.
Pounding. Ringing. It’s incessant.
It must be Grant.
I rush to the door and open it. Not bothering to glance in the mirror to see what I’m wearing or what I look like.
Doesn’t matter.
