Believe: Not Until You, Part 7. Roni Loren
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tracking device thing down on her?”
“What?” He looked at Pike like he’d grown an extra head. “Of course I didn’t tell her that. We’re not at that point yet, I don’t—”
“Bull. Fucking. Shit,” he said, jabbing his finger at him with each word. “I knew you were an asshole but don’t be a liar, too. You had her apartment painted. You bought her a bed. You made her pancakes.”
Foster threw his hands out to his side. “Again with the pancakes.”
“You don’t do that crap for girls you kinda like. You do it for the ones you are shit-faced in love with.”
Foster simply glared back at him.
Pike pushed off the counter. “And for some unknown reason, she’s got it just as bad. I mean, she had the chance at all this”—he swept his hand down and out—“and went for you. So the question is, what are you going to do about it?”
Foster wanted to punch something, and if he didn’t walk away soon, it might be Pike. “Nothing. I don’t chase women anymore. If they want to be with me, they are. If not, that’s their choice.”
He stalked past Pike, needing his dark bedroom and a dreamless night. And anything but this conversation.
“Coward,” was the last word he heard before slamming his door.
A few hours later, still wide-awake, Foster slipped out of his room and into his roommate’s. Pike was sound asleep on his stomach, all the covers kicked off. Making sure not to step on anything that would alert him, Foster stepped around the bed and grabbed what he needed off the nightstand.
***
The room was too quiet—oppressive. I stared at the ugly popcorn ceiling, mentally making a list of the things I needed to buy to make this room feel like home. I hadn’t unpacked much of anything yet, and I knew I had my bedroom knickknacks tucked away somewhere, but I had the urge to throw it all out and start fresh. I didn’t want anything to remind me of my apartment back in Dallas. Not that this place could ever look like my apartment.
The 1970s decor my aunt had never updated was so awful it was almost back in style. Green carpet, faux wood-paneled walls, orange countertops in the kitchen. It even had a trash compactor, for God’s sake—but no dishwasher. Because apparently, turning trash into a cube was way more important than having something that washed dishes.
But it was free and it was available when I high-tailed it here a few days ago, so here I lay. And really, I didn’t care at this point. I just wanted to keep moving forward so I wouldn’t have to think. I’d kept myself busy with moving related things for a few days, and tomorrow was my first official day at the clinic. As long as I didn’t stop, I was okay. Mostly.
But nighttime sucked. My cable and wireless hadn’t been turned on yet, so all I had was an empty, quiet house, some stale smell I couldn’t seem to light enough candles to cover, and my thoughts. I rolled onto my side, determined to force myself to sleep, but the ding of my cell phone broke through the silence. I flipped back over to reach for my phone, my heart leaping a little bit, as if it had muscle memory from the last time I’d received a late-night text. But of course, this wouldn’t be like that one.
I hit the button on my phone, expecting to see a text from Bailey. She’d been checking on me like I’d just gotten out of rehab and she was my sponsor. But the name staring back at me was definitely not what I expected.
Pike.
Move go ok?
I shifted fully on my side, propping my head up with my hand and typed back. It was sweet of Pike to check on me, but even seeing his name sent a cymbal crash of sadness and longing reverberating through me. Already, it felt like Dallas and everything I’d left there existed on some other planet I no longer had access to anymore.
Survived.
Good.
U realize it’s almost 1am, right?
Sorry, did I wake u? (Musician hours)
No. My new place is too quiet & possibly haunted with the spirits of Charlie’s Angels or The Brady Bunch.
Scary. *Sends exorcist*
I smiled, some of the pressure that’d been crushing me for the last week easing with the relaxed banter.
Not sure the power of Christ would compel them. How’s Monty?
Hardheaded & dominant. Like someone else we know.
I stared at the blinking cursor, a sharp pain digging right through the center of my chest and burrowing deep. I didn’t want to talk about Foster. Couldn’t. I was barely keeping myself together as it was. But before I could think of how to respond, my phone dinged again.
He came home. Nothing happened w/ Bret.
I rolled onto my back, finding it a challenge to draw in a full breath—the elephant-sized weight of everything pressing down on me again.
None of my business.
If ur not happy there, u should come back.
My job is here.
Even if my heart wasn’t.
U know he would cover u while u looked for another job. Even if u aren’t together. He’d take care of u.
I let the phone sit against my chest as I stared up again, the flecked ceiling blurring with fresh tears. Of course he would. And that was part of the problem. It took me a full minute before I could even attempt a response. I lifted the phone.
I don’t need to be taken care of.
I just needed Foster. Not as a bodyguard or a parent or a master. Just him.
But being with Foster meant being with his dominance—all parts of it—and if I didn’t think I could live that way long term, it wasn’t fair for either of us to drag it out.
I’m happy here.
Lie.
This time it was Pike who took a while to respond. I shifted back to my side, wondering if he was going to say anything else when the final text came.
I’m glad ur happy. U deserve to be. Good luck w/ everything.
There was nothing else to say back to that except thanks and good-night. Continuing to lie to him would only make the yawning crack in my heart spread wider.
“Yep, that’s me,” I said aloud to my empty house, my voice hoarse with tears. “So freaking happy.”
I tossed my phone onto the nightstand, curled up around my pillow, and tried to pretend it didn’t hurt so bad.
One month later
“Marcela!” My father’s voice boomed from the other room, echoing through the hall.
“Coming.” I sighed heavily as I scrubbed my hands. I was so not in the mood for that tone. I’d already had two emergencies this morning, plus had been faced with a devastated family when I’d had to put down their beloved fifteen-year-old tabby. The only thing I wanted right now was to take a lunch break and get a MexiCoke from the store next door to drown away my stress with cane sugar.
But I dutifully headed to my father’s office. I leaned against the doorjamb. “Yes, Papá?”
“What is this crap?” he asked with a scowl. “I told you what to order for the Whitcombs’ Rottweiler.”
I nodded at the little tube of ointment he was holding in his hand. “That’s a better treatment. It works faster and he’ll only need a few doses instead of two weeks of applications to clear up the rash.”
“Just because it’s the newest, fanciest