Exit Wound (12 page)

The people you thought loved you did something far worse: they pretended to love you despite all your flaws, and with a beautiful and convincing façade, they’d tell you they had your back.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Ben!” I shouted from my bunk.

“What is it, Frances?” he asked, clearly irritated, walking up to my bunk.

“What do you think of this guy?” I asked, showing him a picture of a German model. He gave me a weary look. “Do you think I could win him over?” I asked with an innocent smile.

He shrugged and then whispered, “I think I’m more of his type.” He gave me a wink and walked away without another word.

I burst out laughing, feeling slightly better about everything that was going on. It was nice to know the real side of my brother. I could finally tell the difference, and it was amazing that there
was
such a difference. Things were going pretty well; at least, that’s what I had everyone thinking. They thought the old Bea was back and that nothing in the world could bring her down. I tried to make this so—except, it wasn’t as easy as I had initially hoped. I tried and tried to be happy again, and every time, it felt like I was trying too hard. I guess that’s why they call depression the quicksand of mental health. The more you try to fight it, the further you sink. I sort of felt that way, like I was sinking further into this darkness the more I tried to hide it. It wasn’t fair. I wanted to be happy like everyone else.

There had to be more to happiness than people thought. I wasn’t sure what else you had to do to say you were truly happy on the inside—though, I figured it was something I would have to figure out for myself. Happiness was a subjective thing. It varied for different people. One person could be happy making a living as an at-home mother for the rest of their days, raising babies and taking care of their home, while others would be happier by themselves for the rest of their life. Happiness was something we all had inside us; we needed to find a way to lasso it in.

***

I heard my name being called faintly from farther down in the bus.

“Coming!” I yelled.

I got up from my bunk in a daze and went to the front of the bus. Ben looked somber, and I wondered what possibly could be bothering him. I sat down next to him, and he showed me a picture from Twitter: a picture of his ex and his new beau.

I wrapped an arm around him. “Ben, you’ll find someone better.”

I had to believe that my brother would find someone worth sharing his heart with someday soon.

“You really think so?” I nodded sincerely, and he forced a smile much like mine. Was he doing the same thing I was trying to do? Hide my feelings and put forth a façade that could fool anyone?

“Frances,” he asked, “why are you so sad?”

He saw through me—something I hadn’t anticipated.

I laughed lightly, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m not sad,” I lied.

“You’re a bad liar, Frances.”

Though I laughed again, soon tears ran down my face. “I know I am. I only keep hoping no one will notice.”

“We need to do something to make you feel better, then.”

I wanted to tell Ben nothing in the world could make me feel better.

“Why don’t I pay for your first tattoo?” he suggested.

I couldn’t think of what I would want as my first tattoo. So what did I do? Scroll through Pinterest for ideas. I found I was particularly attracted to the floral tattoos that were made to be shoulder pieces, and when I showed them to Ben, he approved. I liked one that was a half-sleeve best, but I decided to start out small. We went on Yelp to look for the best tattoo shops around, and when we found one, we went in.

It smelled of sterile air, blood, and ink. Ben appeared to be very comfortable there, which wasn’t surprising considering how many tattoos he had. I felt so out of place and nervous. I had never been in a tattoo shop—most of my ear piercings were done in someone’s basement.

When I showed the artist what I wanted, he and Ben teamed up to get me to change my mind of having a small tattoo and getting a bigger piece.

When the artist, Joe, finished drawing up the sketch for what was going to be my quarter-sleeve, I was beyond amazed. He placed it on my right arm, and when I looked at it, I fell in love.

I sat down in a chair, and he passed the tattooing needle over my skin for the first time.

“That’s what it’s going to feel like. You ready to go?” Joe asked. I nodded, and once the ball was rolling—or rather, the tattoo artist was carving a piece of art into the flesh of my arm—I went from nervous and anxiety-ridden to nothing but pure bliss. I was calm, and I was filled with a feeling of happiness.

It took three hours, but when he was done and he had cleaned up my tattoo, I looked at it in the mirror and tears came to my eyes. Peonies symbolized healing and perseverance, and I needed the healing, and the perseverance was something I was hoping to have dwelling within me. Ben took a picture of the tattoo without the blood, and then Joe took a picture of Ben and me standing together, showing off our arm pieces.

Later, when I got on Twitter, I saw that Ben had posted the picture with the caption:

My baby sister got her first tattoo arm piece. #proudpapa

During our dinner break, when the cameras came on again, I explained the little tattoo adventure to them, showing them my freshly unwrapped tattoo.

Splinter came up to see my arm. “Can I get a better look?” he asked. I nodded, pushing back a curl behind my ear. He gently lifted my arm and looked at my tattoo. “It’s fitting and very beautiful.” He let go of my arm and went into the bunk area without another word. He and his man-bun were just plain weird.

That night, everyone seemed to be doing well, and the adrenaline from my first tattoo was wearing off. If I could, I would have locked the remaining bliss up in a jar and kept it in a safe place so it wouldn’t fade so quickly. Unfortunately, things weren’t like that.

You couldn’t bottle up your emotions and preserve them. You had to remember them and hope that you would (or wouldn’t) feel them again one day. I wished I could bottle up the feelings I had when I got my tattoo and stash them away for when I needed them most. Damn, did I wish I could.

The next few days were spent teaching me how to take care of my tattoo while on the road and preparing for the band’s hometown show in New York. While everyone else was excited, Splinter was nervous.
He was okay when it came to playing all the other shows except to play Madison Square Garden three nights in a row was more daunting to him than traveling across the United States and playing anywhere else. Everyone had a different emotion when it came to coming home and displaying their hard work for everyone to see, love, and judge without abandon. Maybe Splinter had anxiety about that. He wasn’t the most popular guy in Brooklyn. Even though we weren’t in school anymore, that popularity shouldn’t matter. But it really did, to a certain extent.

Studies have shown that people that were unpopular in high school move on to having successful and happy lives, whereas the popular kids often hit rock bottom. I tried not to wonder what that meant for me personally—though deep down inside, I wasn’t like all the popular kids even though Splinter would argue the validity of that statement.

That was what was different about him. He would always call me out when I was being a prissy brat or anything unlike myself. I had no idea how he figured he knew so much of what we called ‘the real me’. Maybe it was his ability to see the goodness in people. Maybe he saw what was left of the good in me. I hoped he could.

***

When we played the last show before we headed to New York, I felt a sense of pride. My brother’s music was doing so well in spite of everything that had happened over the summer. His record sales had skyrocketed, and “Femme Fatale” was going double platinum. I was amazed by not only my brother’s talent but by his humble success. No matter how many times I saw him react to the news of something that should have been so mundane to him, he still acted surprised, bewildered, and amazed. Heck, I did too. We would celebrate and go on with the rest of the tour with a feeling of pure joy. At night, we would talk about how different things could be, often left in tears at the thought.

My first semester at Dartmouth was to start the third Wednesday of September. Ben closed on the house, and he was having me pick out color palettes and new furniture. He was doing a few renovations since it was an older farm house (it even had a bright red barn in the back), and he allowed me to make it a Pinterest dream come true. I picked out every little thing, and once he approved, he would send it over to his contractor. I was happy that he held so much faith in my interior design taste—although, I was a bit concerned by his lack of it.

“Frances,” he said one night after a show.

“Yeah?”

“When we get back to New York, we’ll be packing up the last of your room and making your new one.”

He was more excited about this than I was, and maybe that was on account of him refusing to allow me to have any say in what kind of room I could have. It was his special project, and with the way things had been going, I was worried I would end up living in the barn until my room was the way I really wanted it. All he had allowed me to do was pick out a bedroom set. I ended up choosing an off-white upholstered headboard and bed frame and a white dresser and vanity set. He also let me get a desk and said he would take care of the rest.

“What’s your favorite color again?” he asked me.

“Just make the room color some soft, subdued cool color. Like blue, maybe.”

I tried not to pester him about my room and all the things he could do to it to make it horrible. I tried to imagine the best room I could ever possibly have. Besides, I wouldn’t be living in it for long. I’d be living on campus for the first year of college. When we were supposed to be sleeping, we often talked about how much we had grown while he let me pick out my dorm room decorations and bedding. I knew I had a roommate, and once I corresponded with her, she said she liked everything I had in mind. So far, things were going great.

Which only meant that things would plummet downhill again. Such was my life.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Before we could officially go to New York to finish off the tour with a bang, we were forced to do a few interviews, some for magazines and a few others that would be considered press releases. We also had to travel to the ceremony at Ben’s label where they would officially make “Femme Fatale” a double platinum record. We were on what were considered “press days.” They were sort of like break days except all we did was pose, smile, and answer everyone’s questions. I was afraid someone would bring up Everett’s death and my involvement with him—though, Ben reassured me that he wouldn’t let anyone ask such questions. All the while, he hounded me with questions like “Do you like this plum shade or this this duvet cover?” (neither of which really caught my eye) and “What the hell am I supposed to do with only peacock feathers as an inspiration?”

I eventually began to ignore him. If he wanted to keep my room a secret, I couldn’t help him. Despite that, he spent the majority of our six-hour flight asking me questions about this or that for my room. He would show me pictures that had been zoomed in to show me the pertinent details without giving away what it was.

“This is supposed to go on your bed,” he would say or “this belongs on the floor.”

It took a very stern and motherly flight attendant to scare Ben into turning off his phone when we were preparing to land. It made me giggle, and I appreciated Ben’s dedication to his project.

As soon as we hit the baggage claim in the airport, I could see a plethora of photographers and fans with their phones out, ready to catch our every move.

I wore sunglasses, which I had figured out helped with the constant flashing from cameras. I had my hair up in braided French twist and a scarf around my neck that was slightly tucked into my moto-jacket. My outfit was simple and comfortable, and when people recognized me as Ben’s sister, they wanted as much of me as they wanted of him. Even Splinter got some attention. Despite Ben’s pleas, we weren’t able to stay long enough to mingle with the fans; we had interviews to get to. The fans left us alone after Ben’s manager came in and asked them to disperse. He had to work harder to get the paparazzi to leave, though.

We traveled from the airport to the hotel then had an hour to rest up. After that, the boys had to get ready for interviews. I wasn’t going to be a part of them this time. Ben was entirely intent on keeping me out of harm’s way, which included the sharp-tongued journalists who wanted to know everything about me in light of Everett’s death and the photo surfacing on the internet.

Ben took a shower the moment we entered our adjacent rooms in the hotel, and Splinter went off to take a nap.

I sat and scrolled through Twitter, knowing all too well that our arrival into this metropolitan area was all over the Internet by now. I saw pictures of me hiding my face despite the sunglasses and the large scarf, pictures of my brother trying to keep me safe from the intrusive cameras. Then, something caught my eye. I saw a familiar face in the crowd behind us, and after zooming in, I remembered where I had seen the face in the photograph: it was Crosley’s best friend, Kingston.

Kingston had told me on the last day of school he would be traveling before heading off to college. It made sense that all the anonymous texts I had gotten had picture evidence of me doing something the sender thought to be wrong and that the person sending them could very well be Crosley. Within all that swirling mess, I remembered the conversation we’d had before I left for Ben’s tour.

I had been at a party, and the conversation with Crosley had been dying down, much like the atmosphere of the little house party in the center of Brooklyn.

“I think we should call it quits. We don’t even like each other,” I’d said to him.

“I think you owe me, Bea.”

“How do I owe you a damned thing, Crosley?” I’d asked, reaching for more punch. Terribly afraid of becoming my mother, I had tried to stay away from the alcohol.

He’d grabbed my wrist as I was grabbing the ladle from the crystalline bowl.

“Crosley, your grip is a little tight.” I tried to break free. His grip had only tightened, and when I’d tried to get away, my struggling had only furthered his violence.

“Crosley, what is up with you?” I’d shouted, and then he’d slapped me.

“You owe me, Bea, and you aren’t quite finished paying up yet.”

He had pulled me toward the bedroom, and I had taken note that the few people left in the party had been ignoring us. I’d feared the worst. Was this what he’d meant? That I was to pay a debt with my unwilling body?

He’d hiked up the skirt my mother had always said was too short. Chills had run down my spine, and a cold numbness had rolled over me. Ultimately, nothing had happened. Yeah, he’d roughed me up pretty bad, but he wasn’t in the mood. In fact, his mood had rapidly shifted from anger to lust then despair. Crosley had been on the floor sobbing. I’d tried to console him in hopes that he wouldn’t lash out at me again, and he’d only grown increasingly frustrated with me. I’d left the room then the house with him shouting at me the whole way.

“You owe me, Beatrice Morrison! You either pay up, or you’ll die wishing you had listened to me when you had the chance!”

When I’d gotten home, my mother had been missing—though, the scent of her alcohol-infused musk lingered. I’d gone to my room, certain that the scene between Crosley and me at the party had been our official breakup. However, when I’d returned to school the following Monday, as soon as I had entered the main hall, Crosley had come up to me with a big sloppy kiss.

He had been affectionate all day, and even though it was obvious I wasn’t into it, he’d forced me to pretend I was. That was the whole game. I had to pretend to enjoy the things he did, the things he said, and the fake relationship we put on for everyone to show that we were the big bad bitches of Rosewood. I wondered if this was what Mackynsie had gone through and if this was why she was so different when we reconnected. After being away from one another and going to different schools for a year, I could see how drastically she had changed.

Coming back to the picture on my phone, every little thing made sense. Crosley had money and the means for a hire-to-kill. His family probably had the money to hire multiple hit men and multiple attorneys to cover all the murders up if someone displeased them as much as I apparently had displeased Crosley. I never gave him what he wanted—a consummated relationship. He wanted that part of me so he could say he owned a part of me no one really else had.

Yeah, I’d had sex with boys (and the occasional girl), but none of it meant anything. The only time it had meant anything was when it had been with Everett. I didn’t
love him—although, the moments we shared were still special to my heart. I missed him every day. A part of me still felt
guilty that I couldn’t give him the love he deserved when he loved me so recklessly.

Caged up and refusing to experience my emotions, I believed that this was truly the root of my problem. I refused to feel at all; I refused to hurt, to love, to be angered or to be gracious. I refused to let my emotions get the best of me, and it was finally taking its toll.

“Bea, are you ready to go?” Ben called from the hotel bathroom adjoining our two rooms.

“As ready as I’m going to be.”

We grabbed our stuff, rounded up everyone else, and headed down to the lobby. We had an escort to and from the location of the interview. This one was for some magazine, and they would be recording parts of it for a YouTube session. Everyone was obsessed with the idea of getting an interview with Eden Sank since their only drummer had been shot to death and since the lead man’s little sister was a witness to it all. They wanted to know more about me, more about Everett’s last moments and, furthermore, what this meant for the band. Everett had been a drumming prodigy. I doubted they could hire Splinter permanently to take his place, despite how much he favored Everett in the drumming artistry. No one would be stupid enough to let Splinter’s talents go unnoticed forever, though. He was the reason the band was still playing shows and the reason the band was still together at this point.

When we got to the magazine headquarters, we were given lanyards with our all-access passes in them. As we went into the main offices, we were told that we were expected to wear them when walking about the main office and other offices surrounding the building. It was the only means we had to get in and out.

As we walked to our ultimate destination, I scanned every corner we passed. Anything could happen at any time. Crosley or his lackey Kingston could be here. While Kingston wasn’t as wealthy as Crosley, he still had enough to get him into any place he wanted without being on a list.

That meant he could be here watching me like a hawk, waiting for any sign of me slipping up and being unfaithful to Crosley. Crosley must have still felt that we were together. We’d never slept together, so it had never been official, at least in his eyes. For me, being with him had been pure torture, and the fact that I had put up with him for as long as I had made it official enough. The thing was, Crosley was more than a little crazy. I had always felt he wasn’t completely right in the head, and if I was right about this, about all the messages and the stalking, then I had to be right about Crosley from the beginning.

“Frances, c’mon. You’re lagging behind.” Splinter grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the lounge we were assigned to, and I swore I heard the clicking of a camera. Maybe I was being paranoid.

If I wanted to keep myself from going insane, I had to believe that money couldn’t buy anyone’s way into this place, and that the clicking of the camera was from one of the magazine photographers. This
was
a magazine office after all. I didn’t want to believe any of the things that were happening were actually happening.

My phone buzzed then, a text message. With a gulp, I tapped to open it, revealing a picture of me looking away from the camera lens and Splinter holding my hand.

Anonymous: Didn’t think I was going to stay away forever, did you? Looks like you’re slipping up, and you’re just about past due.

I tried to hide my trembling, my fear. I had to know who was behind this, and I was fairly certain I already did. I took a moment to go get a bottle of water, and that’s when I saw him: Kingston.

“Kingston?”

Realizing he had been discovered, he took off. I ran after him, except he was much faster than I. He had gotten a track and field scholarship to Yale on top of a drama scholarship.

I almost caught him, but by the time I reached him he was already out into the main street, blending in with all the pedestrians. My heart pounding, I went back up to the floor where the guys were. They didn’t appear to even notice I had left. No one except for me knew about this. This was a burden I had to carry on my own, and before long, I would be well past overdue with my supposed debt that was owed.

When I returned to the interview, everyone was all laughs and giggles. I remained quiet in the background, watching the interview unfold. Ben was amazing, the boys did great, and so did Splinter. For someone who’d had a curveball thrown at them during his internship turned temp drummer-ship, he was handling the fifteen minutes of fame pretty well.

We would be returning to New York after these few press days that remained. I didn’t know how or when I’d run into Crosley. I didn’t know what he had planned for me if I ran out of time in his mind. I didn’t know a damned thing.