Objective (Bloodlines #2)(12)

“You can go now, Brock,” she says while still checking me out. So linebacker dude does have a name. The door shuts softly behind me, leaving Penny and me alone. I wait silently but she says nothing.

“Uh, I guess I’m at a disadvantage since I have no idea what’s going on,” I start.

“Yes, it would seem that way, wouldn’t it,” she quips. Okay, not what I expected.

“Okay.” I try.

“Listen, clean yourself up. I’ll give you a week to pull it together. If you do that, you have a job. It’s not much. You’ll sling drinks to the tables on our busy nights. Your cousin seems to think you really need this job, and I’m inclined to think she’s right,” she chatters.

“What did she say?” I urge.

“She asked where you were and just about blew my eardrums out when I told her. She went on explaining that you recently lost someone important to you and are ‘self-medicating,’ her words not mine,” she explains. “She asked if I would employ you. I feel for you, honey, I really do. I’ve lost people who were important to me. Life’s hard. She said you're twenty-two so you're at least old enough to serve drinks. I said if you could go a week without showing your face in here blitzed, I’d give you a chance,” she finishes rather uneventfully. I’m surprised by the lack of judgment in her expression. She seems to just be a straight shooter. I like that.

“Um, can I have time to think it over?” I ask.

“Honey, if you want the job, stay sober for seven days and come back next Wednesday. If you’re here and not drunk off your ass, be prepared to work,” she answers unceremoniously.

“Right. Okay. So, uh, can I go?” I fumble with my words.

“Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out,” she admonishes while nodding. I push up from the chair, wondering what the hell Aster has gotten me into. I don’t drink that much. Well, I don’t think I do. Maybe it’s true. Maybe I need to slow down a little. But how do I process everything going on inside without drinking myself numb? My hand stills on the doorknob as thoughts swirl through my mind.

“Do you have my phone?” I ask, remembering that I seem to have misplaced it. I watch her open her desk drawer and fish it out. I walk back to her and take the phone from her outstretched hand, careful not to touch her. “Thanks,” I say.

“Don’t thank me yet,” she shrugs. I turn and exit her office. The walk back out to the bar seems to take forever. My brain is going nuts with thoughts. I really want a drink. I’ve sort of accepted that my penance in life is to live; it’s to get up every morning that he can’t. I took that away from him and now I have to wake every day and put one foot in front of the other. The guilt drips into my chest through a pinhole, slowly drowning me. I want to go to sleep and not wake up. I want to drink myself into a stupor and not deal. I’m trying my best to get it together somehow, but I’m unraveling, searching for something that doesn't exist anymore. Screw you, Aster, for being so clever.

I pass the bar, resolving to not stop for the drink I so desperately need. I can always have one at home anyways. “Bye, Brock,” I mumble arrogantly as I pass him. He smirks at me. He’s handsome, with adorable crinkles around his eyes when he smiles. Tugging my keys from my pocket I unlock the car door and plop down into the driver’s seat. What else can I do to keep my mind from him? A job would be good but can I actually commit to that? Jesus, there’s too much to think about. I suck in a deep breath and put the car in reverse to head home. I don't know how I’m supposed to feel right now.





A cloud of dust follows the car into the parking space. I fold out of the car lazily, walk into the trailer and look around. I really need to make this more livable. It’s depressing and mostly empty. Tomorrow, I’ll get up and hit a Walmart or Target. I sit on the floor and stare at the thread-worn carpet. My chest aches constantly for him. The loneliness consumes me. I don’t recognize myself in the mirror anymore. I don’t know who I am without him. I don't know how to be a whole person under the weight of my guilt. I feel like some kind of Frankenstein waiting for a shock to bring me back to life. The pain of that day is magnified by the events that happened before he came home. Why couldn't he have come home when he was supposed to? Why did he have to make that last run for Ezra? The tornado of questions brings tears to my eyes. I drag myself off the floor and push the door open, stumbling out into the Arkansas sun and fresh air. I collapse to my knees and stare at the dirt. Dirt. I hate dirt. I want flowers. I want grass. I want home. My stomach rolls and I throw up into the dry, brown dirt. If I can't have him back I just want what he took from me returned - my heart.

“You alright?” a husky rough voice asks. I snap my head up and wipe the drool away with my forearm.

“Just peachy,” I answer flatly. The gruff but handsome man throws his arms up in the air in mock surrender. My embarrassment crawls up my neck and face in the form of scarlet red. I adjust myself so that I’m sitting on my butt instead of my hands and knees and stare at him.

“I’m Magnolia. I guess we’re neighbors but I don’t like people,” I blurt. I just need him to go away.

“Good to know. Have a great day, Magnolia,” he smirks and disappears beyond the next trailer. Well that went well. He didn't even tell me his name. He also didn't seem to give a shit that I was surly and rude. Arkansas is full of strange people, people who apparently are just like me, just want to be left alone. I lie back, letting my hair splay out in the dirt and stare up at the cloudless afternoon sky. I can’t live like this. I don't know what to do. No one from a normal family, who lived a normal life, can sustain this life. A white streak from a jet is drawn across the sky. I stare at it, unblinking, lost in my thoughts.