Charming My Best Friend (Fated #2) (4 page)

I left a trail of wet footprints as I walked down the hall towards
my room.

“I think I heard your phone ring while you were in the shower,”
Fiona said as I squeaked by her door.

“Thanks,” I said, shutting myself in my room. I unplugged my
phone from where it was charging on my dresser. The missed call was from Aiden,
but he hadn’t left a message.

I looked up from the phone and into the mirror, staring at the
drops of water dripping from the ends of my hair to the top of the towel that
was wrapped around me. Then I held my arm out. The straight scars below the
inside of my elbow were red from the heat of the shower and felt fresher today
because I’d had a cutting dream.

Even though six years had passed since I’d drawn my own blood, I
still dreamt about it. They weren’t the kind of dreams where I could watch from
outside myself either. Instead, they were vivid and full of palpable stress.

When I was in them, I could feel the anxiety of being desperate
to find a safe place to cut, the anticipation of pressing the razor into my
flesh, and the relief that came when I dragged it against my skin and started
to bleed.

Then I would wake up, as if seeing my own blood was the proof I
needed to know that I was alive and could still feel something. It had been
much the same when I started cutting myself in the first place.

It was around the time my Mom died. I think the combination of
how curious I was about death and pain mixed with the fact that I didn’t have
the tools I needed to cope with my feelings is what drove me to it.

Eventually, I realized that I was looking forward to cutting
more than anything else, and I grew more afraid of having to do it forever than
I was of trying to stop.

But I still had to hide it.  

After all, it wasn’t a cry for help. It was a coping mechanism, albeit
a fucked up one. I never had any intention of actually killing myself. If
anything, I wanted to feel something, not create the absence of feeling.

There was only one time I ever crossed the line and over did it.
I knew when I started to feel lightheaded that I was in trouble, and I woke up
my Dad so he could drunk drive me to the hospital.

I told him I got snagged hopping a barbed wire fence when my
friends and I were running from the cops after drinking on the beach that night.
It was an elaborate, patchy lie, but he was in no position to father me at the
time. In fact, he was drinking so much then that Alex and I are lucky we didn’t
lose him, too.

But he pulled it together, and so did I.

I don’t think he ever said anything to anyone about what
happened- me included- except for that night when I heard him tell the doctors
where to go when they suggested I might’ve done it on purpose.

Sometimes I wished I’d cut myself in a different place, one that
was less awkward to hide, but I wasn’t even sure where that would be. Even if
I’d cut my thigh instead, I’d still have to pretend I didn’t like to swim or
get my hair wet or that I was terrified of the sun, which was believable enough
because of my porcelain skin.

Someday, though, I hoped to have the kind of intimacy with
someone that would allow me to tell them about my scars without them thinking I
was a head case. Cause I wasn’t. Not anymore than anyone else I’d met was
anyway.

But until then, I was committed to keeping my arm under wraps,
to having short flings with strangers who were more interested in turning the
lights off than they were in figuring out how to light me up. Once or twice, I
hadn’t been careful enough and a guy had seen my scars. However, since my shirt
is always the last thing to go, I’m usually standing there naked already, and
they’re all too happy to believe the barbed wire story and get to the main
event.

I wrapped my fingers around the edge of my towel and opened it
until I could see my naked body in the mirror. I felt neither enamored or
ashamed of what I saw. I’d won a very average prize in the body lottery and was
just grateful I had all the parts I needed to get around without having to rely
on other people.

Unlike my Mom in the last years of her life.

I bent over and wrapped my towel around my wet hair and grabbed
a robe off the back of the door. I was in no hurry to get dressed and had
nothing planned for the day except to lounge around and give Fiona my opinion
on what she should wear to the movies with Peter.

As I tied the belt on my robe, I heard a coin drop in a bucket
and went to read the text.

“Any news on that new futuristic ice cream place?”

I smiled. Aiden was one of the few people whose voice I could hear
when I read his text messages. I knew I should call him back. I wanted to. Not
just because I never blew him off, but because I was eager to make sure things
were normal after the last time we saw each other.

Unfortunately, I was also starting to feel shitty about the fact
that I hadn’t told him about Chelsea, and as a result, I was sort of avoiding
him. Which was terrible. It meant both of the women he was closest to were
mistreating him.

But I still didn’t know how I was supposed to tell him.

Plus, I couldn’t get Fiona’s suggestion out of my head. Was the
reason he hadn’t made a move because he respected me too much?

I mean, when Brad took me back to the hotel, he had slammed me
up against the lockers and pulled my hair and pinched my nipples, degrading me
in all sorts of delicious ways. But I couldn’t even imagine Aiden ever doing
something like that to me. He was too gentle.

Then again, he’d slept with enough of my close acquaintances in
college for me to know that wasn’t always the case, though hearing those tales
always made me uncomfortable. Maybe it was because I couldn’t imagine him going
down on me- much less Sarah Young as graphically as she’d recounted the events.
Or maybe it was because if it was me that he’d hooked up with, I would never
devalue what happened by gossiping about it.

And perhaps that was part of the problem. Maybe I respected him
too much, too.

Regardless, I’d had more fun washing his hair and letting him
look down my shirt than I’d had fucking a guy in years. Which was so stupid.

When was I going to learn that nothing good ever came out of
lusting after my best friend? He didn’t need a lover or a girlfriend. He had
those things already, and he’d never had a problem getting them when he didn’t.

He needed a friend, someone he could rely on to tell him the
truth even when it was difficult, someone who would answer his phone calls and
not blow him off because they were afraid to hurt his feelings.

And I had to be that girl because it was the only way I knew how
to keep him in my life.

So I would do what it took to maintain our friendship.

Unless I figured out how to get him to respect me less.

But I didn’t see that happening.

I was enjoying the calm after the storm of Chelsea
leaving, but I would’ve been enjoying it more if Lucy would answer my damn
text.

I slid a few slices of leftover pizza onto a plate
and made my way over to the couch, trying to figure out why I felt like shit.

Sure, Chelsea was gone, and she’d been my biggest
problem for a while, but as I let my mind wander to the women I’d dated before
her, I couldn’t help but feel that a disturbing pattern had emerged.

They were all models, as Lucy had been all too
happy to point out, but that wasn’t the only thing they had in common. Each one
of them had been extremely vain. Now I realize their jobs demanded that, but
surely there were attractive women out there that weren’t insufferably shallow
about their appearance and how other people looked.

The other thing that was grating on me was that
they all had a sense of entitlement that rubbed me the wrong way. Of course, I hadn’t
realized that when I first started dating any of them, but as I got to know
them, it was obvious that they believed things should be handed to them just
because.

And I was sick of my generosity being taken
advantage of.

Worst of all, I couldn’t get the nasty shit Chelsea
said out of my head. Was I really too nice? Did I make it easy to cheat? Had my
other girlfriends cheated on me without my knowing?

I put my empty plate down on the coffee table and
took a deep breath. I didn’t want to be a jealous guy. I knew that jealousy was
a slippery slope, that it fed on itself. And I knew from experience that dating
someone who was jealous was exhausting.

A few years ago, I went out with a girl who was so
suspicious it made me feel like I was constantly being punished for things I
didn’t do. It made me feel like I might as well give her a reason to freak out
if she was going to anyway.

But I would never cheat. Not after I saw what it
did to my Mom when my Dad strayed back when Claire and I were in high school.
It nearly tore the family apart. We never talked about it then. Instead, we
just watched this crack in the ground get bigger and bigger under our family.

Fortunately, my parents got their act together. It
wasn’t until years later that anyone even mentioned it, and even then, it was only
ever my Mom when she’d had a few drinks.

She never bitched to Claire about it, though, cause
Claire was Daddy’s little girl and refused to indulge her drunken rants. So it
was always me, but I figured if she needed to express her pain to someone, I
was doing the whole family a favor by making sure it was me she opened up to
instead of anyone else.

Meanwhile, my Dad had never breathed a word about
it to me, and I couldn’t help but think he was sort of a prick for that. In my
opinion, he owed us all an apology, but the important thing was that they got
through it somehow.

Even though it took longer for my Mom than anyone.

A second later, the phone rang on the table. I
hoped it was Lucy, but when I picked it up, I saw it was my Mom. I wasn’t
really in the mood to talk to her, but I doubted that would change anytime soon
so I answered it.

“Hi Mom. I was just thinking about you.”

“Aren’t you sweet?”

“What’s up?”

“I’m just calling to make sure you and Chelsea are
still on for dinner next weekend.”

I sighed. What was it about my Mother that made
her able to sense when I had news, especially news I was in no hurry to tell
her? “Chelsea can’t come.”

“Why not? Is she okay?” My Mother asked, as if
only illness or tragedy would keep someone from one of her dinner parties.

“We broke up.”

“What?! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Cause it just happened last night.”

“I thought things were going so well.”

“They weren’t.”

“What happened?”

I couldn’t tell her the truth. It was too much of
a complicated mess and the last thing I needed was her insisting she knew how I
felt. “I just don’t love her anymore.”

“Is she okay?”

I rolled my eyes. “She’s fine. She’s much better
off not wasting her time with me.”

“I don’t know what to say, honey. I thought she
was The One.”

“You think they’re all The One.”

“No, but I mean Chelsea was really sophisticated.
I thought you guys had a future.”

“Well, she’s not as sophisticated as you might
think, and we don’t.” I stood up and carried my plate over to grab the last few
slices of pizza. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“You don’t even seem upset about it.”

I shrugged and returned to the couch. “I’m not
really. It was a long way coming.”

“I had no idea you guys were unhappy.”

“I think it was just me,” I said, “but I’m over
it.”

“Does that mean she’s not going to be your date
for Claire’s wedding?”

“I guess so.” I put the phone on speaker and
separated two pieces of pizza. “And I’d appreciate if you wouldn’t keep in
touch with her.”

When she didn’t say anything, I picked up the
phone and turned it off speaker. “Mom, did you hear me?”

“Sorry, what?”

“I don’t want you to be friends with Chelsea
anymore. I know you guys like the same designers and crap, but it’s not
appropriate. You have your own friends.”

“You can’t expect me to be rude if I run into
her-”

“No,” I said, wondering if I should’ve told her
exactly how unsophisticated she was. “But you don’t need to be overly
friendly.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks.”

“Your father is going to be disappointed.”

“Not if you tell him what a big spender she was.”

“I’ll be sure to mention it.”

“Do.”

“So will you be coming to dinner on your own
then?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m not really in the
mood to socialize.”

“You have a week to get in the mood.”

“I’m not making any promises.”

“But your sister and Dave are coming.”

“They’ll understand.”

“Well, I expect you to be here, unless you have a
date or something.”

I popped the last piece of crust in my mouth.

“Not that you couldn’t bring a date.”

“Thanks, I’ll let you know. I gotta go.”

“One more thing.”

“What?” I asked.

“Your Father said you were very short with him
when you stopped by to see him at the office.”

“You mean when he failed to acknowledge the fact
that I’m opening my own business for the hundredth time.”

“He’s only trying to help, Aiden.”

“I don’t need his help, Mom. I need him to take me
seriously.”

“He does take you seriously.”

“No he doesn’t. Look- it doesn’t matter. The point
is, I wasn’t being short with him and neither of you needs to worry about me.”

“Okay.”

“Bye, Mom.”

“Bye, honey.”

I tossed the phone on the couch and decided to
give Lucy thirty minutes to call me back.

If she did, we’d go get ice cream.

If she didn’t, I’d go get drunk.