Finding A Way (7 page)

“You only give it up when you want to, Callie! It's bullshit. I'm a man for fuck’s sake. You talk all this game about loving me, but it’s fake!"

He slams back his rum and coke, pouring a second glass not even a moment later. The liquid beads on the side of the frosted glass, dripping onto the skin between his thumb and forefinger before sliding down the length of his tense arm.

"Can you please stop drinking? You said you would stop a month ago and you're still doing it, Derrick! I love you but not when you're drunk."

His nostrils flare, and I can tell his buzz from the first drink already kicked in.

Derrick has a temper when he drinks, and that's one of the main reasons I want him to stop it all together. He runs his hand through his hair frustrated by my calling him out before slamming back the second drink with such force I'm afraid the glass will break.

"You're right Cal. I'm a piece of shit alcoholic and that's all I'll ever be. You're so much better than me. It's clear as fucking day now!"

"That's not what I was saying Derrick! I'm saying you have everything going for you, and you're willing to throw it all away over a cheap bottle of bourbon! I'm saying this because I love you dammit! You're going to kill yourself one of these days!"

His eyes stare daggers into me, and at the flick of the wrist his crystal glass is flying through the kitchen where it hits the wall shattering into pieces around us. It’s metaphorical almost.

Derrick mutters a slew of curse words under his breath, snatching his keys off of the counter quickly. He stalks out of the room heading toward the front door, and in my gut I know he's leaving. This is what he does. He'll leave for a few hours, get wasted at a bar, then come home groveling for me to forgive him. And I will. Because although he's a drunk, he's owned my heart since ninth grade. Because while people think a relationship takes two to tango, all the relationship needs is one person to be stronger than the other. Two can live on as long as one gives a little more than the other. Loving someone is a selfless act, and while movies and books give you hope that there's a prince waiting for you around any corner, the truth is most of the time there won't be a prince to save you. Save yourself, and try to save the one you love in the process. You have to take care of yourself before anyone else will do it for you.

My eyes fly open, my chest heaving under the weight of my dream. Tears sting my eyes like it’s the first time I’ve had to live it all over again. How many times is this going to happen? How many times am I going to wake up in the middle of the night, only to remember the worst day of my life?

Dr. Flynn may have tried to help me with the nightmares and the grief, but nothing will ever actually stop it. I’d do anything to make it stop but for now, it’s out of my hands. So, I glance over at the clock, reading 3:18 a.m. when my body finally lets me slip into the blackness again.

After making peace with Mac last night, I packed up the rest of my things so we could leave as early as possible this morning. When I extended a hug to him, it was my offering of friendship, which is ironic because I thought about him in the shower this morning. That shouldn't have happened. I had to stop myself from getting off on the memory of him. I forced myself to remove my hand from between my legs, knowing he isn't the right guy for me. He has other things on his mind and friendship isn't one of them, but that's all I can give him. That's all I will allow myself to give him.

I figure I might as well call my parents to let them know I'm leaving early, but, of course, it goes to voicemail. "Uh, hey mom, dad. Just wanted to let you know I'll be gone when you get back. Sierra came early and we're leaving today. I got the money you left for me, thanks. If you need me, just call."

I hang up, deciding to get any odds and ends I have lying around packed up. I get dressed, settling for something comfortable to wear on the five hour drive to the apartment. Thank God for yoga shorts. I grab my bag, bringing it out to the living room. Sierra, Evan, and Mac are all sitting on the deck talking amongst themselves. I make my way out to them and am greeted by an excited Sierra talking my ear off about all things “moving”.

"I made the guys load the moving truck a half hour ago. So whenever you're ready, we can get the hell out of here."

I look over toward the banister and see Mac watching me intently. He speaks, making sure no one else gets his attention.

"The lovebirds want to drive the car back together. So, it looks like it's you and me, Red."
Red?
As if he reads my mind, his lips turn upward into a smirk.

"Friends give each other nicknames, right? So now you're Red. You can give me a nickname too, but I don't know exactly what you’d call me."

Trying to figure out where the hell the term
Red
comes from, I realize it must be because of my current hair color. It's more of a deep auburn, but apparently red seems to be what he sees. His demeanor confuses the hell out of me. Last night he was so intense and sexual with every word he said, but today he seems laid back, being as casual as I'm trying my hardest to be.

I give him a small smirk, and let out a small laugh while shaking my head at him. “Whatever floats your boat,
friend
."

He continues smoking, eyes watching me still while laughing. The thoughts of him and I naked float around in the back of mind, but I shoo them away. Friends don't think about other friends naked. End of story.

"Well, I'm ready to head out now if you guys are. I just wanna get to the apartment already."

Half an hour later, Mac and I sit comfortably in the moving truck heading down the freeway while Sierra and Evan follow us in her car. Mac offered to drive, which he claimed was a genuine offer, but if you ask me, he seems like one of those men who think all women are terrible drivers. Lucky for him, it's fine by me because that means I get to control the music for our little road trip. He's in for one hell of a drive with my playlists.

I fish out my iPod and plug the auxiliary cable into the truck’s stereo. I scroll through my music. Mac lets out a loud groan from the driver's side.

"You better not set my ear drums on fire with shitty music, Red."

I hold in a chuckle, looking for the most feminine song in my library I can find. I have to have a little fun with him. After all, he insulted me last night, and although I'm over it, payback's still a bitch.

I can't contain my excitement when I see I still have John Mayer's “Your Body is a Wonderland” saved on it. I tap the screen, hitting play, and the lyrics pour through the truck’s speakers. I watch Mac's reaction turn humorous. He flicks his head in my direction, letting out a hearty, deep laugh.

"John Mayer, really? I haven't heard this song in a long ass time."

Dammit
. He doesn't even seem to mind. What kind of self-respecting man would listen to this? I mean, I just love old music otherwise I probably wouldn't listen to it myself. I let a scowl take over my face, searching for another song.
I will get you, Mac.

As I'm scrolling, I catch sight of what may be Mac's male demise, and I actually scream a little inside. Time to pull out the big guns. I tap play, and Patrick Swayze’s “She's Like The Wind” plays. I figure for the full effect, I might as well lip sing the lyrics to him and make some obscene hand gestures at him.
All is fair in love and war.

I look over, seeing a very anxious Mac trying to bite his tongue, and not complain about my music choice. At least he's not a total cry baby. He hasn't looked my way yet, so I lean over a little farther, motioning with my finger in a “come here” motion. He catches my movement out of the corner of his eye and glances over to look at me. His face is telling all right now as he lets out a laugh while I attempt to perform a full on ballet routine in the small cab of the moving truck. I try to twirl my body for added effect, but the seat belt crushes that dream.

After my pathetic attempt to audition for Juilliard, he reaches for the volume knob, turning off the sweet sounds of Patrick's voice.

"Okay, you win. I can’t listen to that shit for one more second without handing ya my balls on a silver platter, but that was an impressive performance. The sway in your hips is pretty damn seductive." He smiles at me with an amused look, and I laugh to myself, curling my legs underneath me on the leather seat.

The more I listen to him talk, the more I notice he barely has the accent like Evan has, and I wonder why. I'd imagine living in Boston, eventually you'd pick it up when you talk.

"You didn't like it?" I ask, playing innocent.

He glances my way again, his beautiful white smile attracting my attention. "Well, I don't think you have a career as a ballerina if that's what you're gettin' at."

I brace my hand on my hip, scowling at him.

"I'll have to remember that. My dad always said I could be whatever I wanted. So, I was planning on going with ballerina as a career choice. But, now since you stepped on my dreams with your big fat foot, that's obviously out of the question. So, I guess I'll have to go with option number two:
princess
it is."

He lets out a scoff, eyes set on the road. "Are ya gonna hold that over my head for the rest of my life? I shouldn't have said it. Really, it was an asshole thing to say. I thought we pushed it under the rug."

The smile on my face grows wider as I watch him become agitated. "I'm just kidding, macho man. Calm yourself. Friends kid around with one another, right?"

I see the smile slide back onto his lips. He shakes his head at me regretfully. I know it's a silent apology on his end for being a dick, and I silently accept it too.

Scrolling back through my music, I end up settling for a band everyone enjoys, The Goo Goo Dolls. As “Come To Me” fills up the space, I study him tapping his fingers on the leather steering wheel in a repetitive motion. The more I think about it, there is no way listening to music from
Dirty Dancing
could even dent the amount of testosterone which seeps from this man. He's as manly as they come.

I inspect the beautiful and colorful ink that graces his arms. My eyes don't know where to look first; they're all mesmerizing. He must feel me staring because he lets out a gruff noise.

"Ya got any?" he asks, referring to his tattoos.

I've always wanted one, but my parents would die before they let me permanently mark my skin. That would have ruined the perfect family image. I was made to look my best anytime we had company over or attended any kind of social events, not that I went to many.