Thirteen
Riley
Last night, I kicked off my shoes, tore off my strapless bra, and crawled into bed and hid from the world.
Ari gave me a ride home and offered to stay, but I’d told her all I wanted to do was get under a blanket and try to blot out that horrible night.
It’s now 10 a.m. the next morning, and I haven’t moved, except to answer a call from Pete. I owe him that much.
He’s not angry with me. In his typical, gentle way, he explains the situation, and I’m registering about half of it.
“There’s enough money in reserves for this program to last through the end of the year, but after that we’re gonna have to figure out something else,” Pete says.
“Okay,” I sigh.
“It’s not the end of the world, but I’m not gonna lie. It looks bad.”
“I know.”
I eventually get him off the phone, wipe my tear-swollen face, and make some calls to friends down in Asheville. I’d better see if anybody down there is looking for a housemate,because I’m gonna have to get a real job and start paying real rent.
This sucks.
It turns out, Songbird Ridge’s belief that artists shouldn’t be starving might just be a myth. If things are this fragile, then they aren’t meant to last.
I make a few calls, all the while ignoring texts and calls from Rowdy.
I haven’t sorted out my feelings about how he handled the situation. Mostly, I’ve been beating myself up.
But I can’t have him hovering. I need to figure my shit out.
On the other hand, I miss him. It’s been less than twelve hours since he blew up my whole existence, and yet I miss holding his hand. I miss the way he looks at me. I miss his kiss, his hand on my lower back, the way he’s so gentle with me.
It’s my fault for inviting him. I never thought he would blow up while listening to someone criticize me. I should have prepared him for that. I should have told him I can handle it. Yes, it hurts, but that’s art, folks. Not everybody gets it.
I should have told him to let me handle it.
But I never suspected he would lose his cool and actually threaten Wilson Fucking Rogers III.
It’s shameful how my body reacts to the mere idea of Rowdy sticking up for me. I hate violence. I despise it. And yet…
The thought of Rowdy flattening that pompous, beady-eyed overgrown frat boy with no taste…well, it does wicked things to my body.
I hate it.
But I don’t.
But I do.
Here I am, putting my life together, and I sabotaged it all with one fake date.
I take a drink of water that Ari left on the nightstand, along with two Tylenol tablets.
I take a shower, then add the lilac dress to my pile of dry cleaning, hoping that my tears didn’t do too much damage to the silk.
And then I put on a pot of coffee, throw on my favorite smock, and get to work.
If I have to really earn my own keep, I’d better keep working.
