The Fallback Page 3

  Me: I need to stop by the apartment and grab some things. I’d appreciate you not being there until after 8.

  My desk phone rings, breaking my focus on waiting for a reply from Gabe. I take a deep breath and purposefully lay my cell phone facedown before reaching for my desk phone.

  “Glitter and Gold, this is Brooke.”

  “Brooke. Thank God you’re there.” Catherine’s distinct deep and raspy voice greets me.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’ve had a horrible morning. Just awful. I was in a car accident!” She sucks in an audible breath, and I begin to ask if she’s all right but pause when she continues. “A car accident!” she screeches when I don’t respond.

  “Oh my gosh! Are you okay? Where are you? What can I do?”

  “They could have killed me!” she cries. “There were two of them in the car, and somehow neither one saw me and plowed right into the side of my car!”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Of course I’m hurt! I was in a car accident! Aren’t you listening to me?”

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath, counting to five. “Where are you?”

  “Home, but I need you to come and get me. I need to see the doctor, and my car is a mess.”

  If this was the first or even the tenth time she was asking me to drive her somewhere, I might be surprised, but it’s not. I grab my purse and shove my cell phone inside before locking my computer.

  “Have you called and made an appointment, or do you want to go to an urgent care?”

  “Urgent care?” Her voice turns petulant. “Have you ever been to an urgent care? They’re filled with a bunch of frauds who can’t get hired on at a hospital or private practice. People who go to those places are begging to catch a viral disease.”

  Eventually, I’ll learn to stop asking questions. “I’m on my way.”

  “I need you to stop for some coffee on your way,” she says.

  “What would you like? A latte or a drip coffee?”

  “Drip, no sugar.” Her antidote for her reliance on gin. “A large one.”

  “Got it.”

  I hang up and quickly forward my calls from my desk to my cell phone, then stand to leave. I have a thousand things I need to be doing—that I should be doing—but for the first time, I’m a bit appreciative of my needy and neurotic boss.

  Catherine lives in a gated community, and though I’ve never been over for a dinner party or for any other social calling, the guards know me by name. I’m waved in without bothering to reach for my ID. Her neighborhood reminds me of something seen off a sitcom—the yards all manicured to perfection, filled with exotic plants and meticulously placed stones that lead to wide porches that surround the impressive homes.

  I pull up in front of Catherine’s, parking on the street rather than going down the alley to her garage. She’ll likely scoff, but today I don’t have the capacity to care. I head up the stone path to her front door and ring the doorbell, knowing better than to knock—a mistake I only made once. The door swings open almost instantly, revealing Catherine in a red dress and excessive amounts of gold jewelry. More than once I’ve been concerned about being with Catherine when we’ve been out late after meeting with clients or looking at a venue and walking through a dark parking lot—her attire always screams money.

  “Brooke! Thank goodness you’re finally here. Was traffic bad?” Her French-manicured nails wrap around the coffee I offer, her glassy eyes tinged red from drinking.

  “No. It’s pretty slow, actually. How are you feeling?”

  “Then what took you so long?” She doesn’t look to me for a response because her question is rhetorical.

  “Which doctor do you want to see? And do you need to bring anything?”

  “We’re not going to the doctor’s. All they’ll tell me is to rest and relax, and I don’t have time for that.” She straightens her flawless dress. “Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

  I shake my head. “Like what?”

  “You keep looking over me like there’s something wrong with the way I’m dressed!” Her voice rises with insult.

  “I’m just… Are you okay?”

  Because I came to take you to the doctor or hospital for being in a wreck, and you look fine…

  “Just losing patience with how late I’m going to be.” Her last words come out in a singsong tone as she shifts her attention to the contents of her designer purse.

  “You have everything sorted? Your car and … everything?”

  “I didn’t give birth. I was in a car accident.”

  “But you need to get your car into a repair shop or something, right?” I wonder if she recognizes the hint of plea to my voice. Knowing Catherine, she will assume I’ll become her personal chauffeur, a role I couldn’t stomach.

  “Oh, I can’t drive it. It’s in terrible condition. The entire passenger side is dented. Someone will think I bought a used car or worse, something from the impound lot. I already called my son, and he’s going to come by and get it after dark and drop it off to be repaired.”

  So many thoughts and unanswered questions dance along my tongue, wanting to be voiced.

  “Why are you staring at me like that again?” Catherine swipes at her dress again, then starts walking toward my car, leaving me to follow.

  4

  “You drove your boss around all day?”

  My attention flicks from Felicity to my apartment building to the large U-Haul I parked beside it.

  “Did she at least tip you?” Felicity laughs at her own joke, but the sound is too forced and loud. She’s attempting to cheer me up and make this experience easier. Maybe she’s just trying to help me make it through the door without tears.

  “She gave me all sorts of tips,” I tell her, heading toward the metal steps. “None of them monetary, but on what color my hair should be, how I should get my eyebrows tattooed so they look fuller, how I should stop drinking coffee after noon…” I pause at my front door. “All sorts of helpful tips.”

  Felicity places a hand on my shoulder, hovering close for support. “Ready?” she asks, ignoring the opportunity to further discuss how rude my boss so often is.

  I expel a deep breath and extract my keys from my purse. Emotions consume me the moment we step through the door. This has been my home for the past four years. It smells, looks, sounds, and feels like home—and yet it doesn’t. Memories of Gabe and the dark-haired woman bleed to the front of my thoughts. And one by one, the emotions that choked me moments ago disperse into a cloud of memories.

  “I don’t want anything.” My voice is garbled and quiet, caught in the final pages of the past.

  Felicity drops her chin, her eyes stretched with disbelief. “What are you talking about? You deserve to take it all.”

  Gabe’s cat, Lucky, jumps down from the couch, meowing as he struts toward us.

  I shake my head, bending just enough to scratch Lucky’s fluffy gray head. “It’s stuff we bought together. Things we compiled to build a life and a home, and I don’t want to carry that stuff with me.”

  “Brooke…” she starts. “This stuff is half yours. You worked your ass off to afford this stuff. You can’t just leave it behind because he turned out to be a brainless, selfish asshole.”

  “But that’s all it is,” I say, looking around the space. “It’s just stuff.”

  Felicity rubs a hand across her forehead. Years of friendship reveal she thinks I’m being unreasonable. “You’ve lost your mind,” she says, correcting my brief assessment of her.

  I grin. “That happened years ago when I agreed to be your friend.” I straighten as Lucky makes a beeline back to the couch.

  “Don’t even get me started,” she says, taking my hand. “Let’s at least go pack your clothes. You’ve seen what my closet consists of these days, and while I’m trying to respect your sudden minimalist approach, you need the basics.” She stalks to my bedroom door with me in tow, her grip tightening, squeezing my fingers. />
  “Did we bring anything to pack stuff in?” I ask, stalling. “I hadn’t even considered this part.”

  “I picked up boxes and packing tape. They’re in the back of the truck. I didn’t know if you wanted to start by sorting or what would work best.”

  My sigh feels heavy, as though I’m being physically weighted to this spot on the floor not only because of reluctance, but the fact my breaths suddenly each weigh more than my will.

  Felicity looks to me, her blue eyes patient as they rove over my face, searching for an approval for her to open the door. “I can go in alone. You don’t have to do this,” she tells me.

  “I do. I don’t want most of this stuff. I don’t want the memory of him and our relationship to follow me, but you’re right—I do need my things.” I suck in another weighted breath and nod. “Let’s just get this over with.”

  With one hand on my back, Felicity opens the door and swings it wide to minimalize the drama. This room, too, looks the same. The bed is made, the nightstands tidy. Everything that’s happened over the past twenty-four hours seems like it was a mere nightmare. The framed pictures of Gabe and me on the bureau further drive this possibility, coaxing me further inside and dropping my shoulders as I eye the bed. The ghost of Gabe and that women appear. Images of his hips moving, her groaning, his hand fisting in her hair—things I don’t even recall seeing replay before me.

  “Let’s get your stuff and go.” Felicity’s fingers thread with mine again, and she moves to the closet. This had been a huge perk for me when we sought a place to live. The closet is massive, large enough to be a small office. Felicity flips on the lights and moves to where our luggage is stored. She grabs the closest suitcase and opens it before moving to the folded clothes neatly stacked in their cubbies and begins cramming them into the bag. I watch her fill it halfway before I move to my hung clothes and gather two large handfuls of them.

  “Should I put these in a suitcase or just in my back seat?” It seems like a tedious question to be asking, yet I truly feel lost on what I should be doing.

  Felicity stops packing and turns to face me. “That’s a good idea. We’ll use the rest of the luggage for other items, and that way we can put those in the car and then just hang them up. I’ll help you.” She abandons the half-packed bag and fills her arms with hanging garments. A few items drop, but neither of us stop for them. We pass through the living room, and though I’m tempted to linger and look around again, I follow Felicity out the front door and to the parking lot, where I unlock my car and pile the clothes into my back seat.

  “Moving?”

  I turn to see a woman around my age. She’s smiling, her question friendly. Reality hits me in the chest.

  I’m moving.

  This won’t be where I come home after dealing with Catherine or my next bridezilla or the next mom who wants her child’s party to be perfect. I won’t be trekking up the stairs with groceries, or waking up early to use the gym at a time when no one else is awake, or receiving holiday packages at this address anymore. This isn’t my home anymore. Gabe isn’t either.

  “Yeah,” I tell her.

  “Good for you. I hope you find a place where they empty the dumpsters more than once a month.” Her scowl proves she’s never looked at this place as her home before, only ever as a stepping stone.

  Still, I take her words, allowing them to filter through my emotions and fears before stowing them like a sheath of armor.

  “Well, good luck! I have to get going. I’m going to be late to my rock climbing class,” she calls, slinging a bag over her shoulder before continuing to her car.

  “You okay?” Felicity asks, placing her hand between my shoulder blades and coaxing me back toward the apartment.

  I nod a couple of times. “I will be.”

  It takes us less than an hour to clear my things from the closet, and then Felicity manages to convince me to pack a couple of boxes, including some old picture albums from when I was a kid, a box of self-help books Grammy has given to me over the years, a vase my brother brought back when he went to Italy after college, and some other items that were either gifts or hold sentimental value.

  “Sorry you got the truck and we didn’t use it. I’ll pay you back,” I say as we shove the final box into my trunk.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad I could help. I still think we should pack it all up and bring it to a storage locker or something so you can decide later if you want it. We could even donate it all.”

  My lips curl into a matching smile. “Does Dan know what you’re capable of?”

  Her eyebrows dance high on her forehead. “Dan’s more afraid of you than me. I think your pep talk of castrating him and putting his penis through a meat grinder so it could never be reattached still gives him nightmares.”

  “Maybe I should’ve given Gabe the same warning,” I mutter.

  Felicity’s lips pull into a thin line, and she shakes her head. “This just proves he never deserved you.”

  I nod, knowing she’s right yet still struggling to believe it.

  “Did you leave your van at the U-Haul rental?” I ask.

  “Yeah, but you don’t have to stop with me. You should get to the house and start unpacking so you can get settled. The guest bedroom is made up. There are fresh sheets on the bed, and I took all the kids’ toys out.”

  “I can’t stay at your place,” I tell her.

  “You can, and you will.”

  “This isn’t high school anymore. You have a husband, kids—a life.”

  “Brooke, you’re family, and we want you to stay with us. It will be fun.”

  Fun.

  The single word pings through my thoughts, never quite settling because it seems so far from a possibility at this time.

  “I know you slept on that pull-out at your grandma’s for years, and I’ll respect your decision if you want to stay there instead—it would likely be quieter—but you’ll have your own room and bathroom at our house, and you’ll be closer to work.”

  “I already feel like everything is such a disarray. I don’t want to become a burden to you guys and strain our friendship in addition to everything else.”

  “You won’t! In fact, you’ll be helping me! Since staying home, I feel like I’m going a little crazy since all of my conversations revolve around Disney characters and differentiating shapes and colors. You’ll bring some sanity to my life.” Her eyes transform from wide and bright orbs to hopeful and pleading, as though she truly believes this is a good idea.

  “I promise it will be short term,” I tell her. “And I can help with chores and pay rent and for groceries.”

  Felicity shakes her head. “You attended all my birthing and lactation classes for Gemma while Dan was taking night classes. This is the least I can do.”

  “We’ll work out the details,” I insist.

  “Sure.” She waves a hand dismissively. “The kids are at my mom’s, so I’m going to drop off the van and then pick them up, so you’ll have probably a good hour to yourself. If you need anything, just call me, okay?”

  I straighten as she does, shifting to retreat back to the U-Haul. “Thanks.” My appreciation is sincere, but my voice lacks the warmth and gratitude I mean to express. I’ve never been great at accepting help, even from those with whom I’m close. It causes me to feel uncomfortable and unbalanced, as though life carries a scoreboard with a constant tally system and right now I’m not giving enough and am receiving too much.

  “How does pizza sound for dinner?” Felicity continues, her voice gentle, making me more uncomfortable because I recognize she senses my unease and constant need to create balance.

  “Sure. I’ll order them to be delivered in an hour,” I tell her.

  Her jaw drops open, ready to protest. I pull my shoulders back, prepared for her excuses and reasoning, but Felicity closes her mouth and forces a smile as she swallows her objections. Instead, she closes the brief gap between us and hugs me.

  5
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br />   I pull up to Felicity’s house and once again find myself questioning trivial details like where I should park. Both she and Dan always insist I park in the driveway when I visit, allowing me a shorter journey and insurance of safety, though their suburban neighborhood is the very definition of safe, lined with double sidewalks, dotted with large maple trees that are beginning to bud as the days grow longer, populated by comfortable homes that all show signs of life and family. I opt to park on the street since I’ve never stayed overnight except for after Felicity had the kids and I slept over for a few nights to help with cooking, cleaning, and allowing them both to catch catnaps. But then their van had been parked in the garage and I had been helping them—not temporarily moving in because my boyfriend was a lying cheat.

  The next-door neighbor steps out as I close the door and reach for the handle of my back passenger door. “Hi, Brooke!”

  “Hi, Mrs. Christiansen.” My heart thrums, preparing for her line of questions.

  “How are you, dear?” Using her cane, she slowly moves up the walk to where it meets the sidewalk and continues closer.

  My stomach twists and knots, and the back of my neck heats. “I’m well, thanks. How are you?”

  Rather than continue toward me, she heads to her mailbox. “We might be in for an early spring,” she says. “I just hope it doesn’t mean an early summer. I’m not ready for the mosquitoes.” She gathers the contents of her mailbox, then closes it as she smiles at me. “You have a good evening, dear.” And then she shuffles back toward her house.

  I sigh, leaning against my car until my breathing evens out. She doesn’t care about my love life. She has no idea I’m moving in, and if she does, she won’t care. She lost her husband twenty years ago; I doubt she’d find my situation to be the tragedy I’m feeling lost in.