Rebel Rockstar (34 page)

I
usually don’t have
my phone on, but it seems like everyone has to be connected to everyone somehow. I hear it beep and I ignore it, knowing it’s Sabrina but not wanting to check. It could be River. But it can’t be River. It’s not like he’d care enough to message me.

He’s already over me anyway.

My mind flashes back to seeing him in the ring with those girls around him, and I can’t believe I truly thought he would only ever love me.

I’m such an idiot. But I can’t cry.

We’re still in the car, driving. Far, far away. I told Sabrina what I was planning – to leave. To move. To get away from all this. She doesn’t even know where I’m going, and I struggle with everything in me not to tell her where I am. She’s my best friend, and I’ll miss her.

But she’s the one who got River back to me, leaving him clues and everything so he would know where to find me in his desperation –

I shake my head to try and get rid of the tears I feel rising there. I feel sick.

I stop at a red light and look over in the backseat; Dawn’s asleep in her car seat, her head starting to lull to the sides as she rests. The ride is slow. I’m not a dangerous driver like River – I never have been.

I look over at the signs on the street to try to figure out where I am now. I’ve never driven this far before. I don’t know what to expect from driving through a few states… I’ll be so tired.

But my soul is already tired and I can feel the emotional exhaustion lining my bones, so it’s not like this will be much else added onto it. I sigh, waiting for the light to turn green.

Drops of rain hit the window like pixies knocking against the glass, and I’m not sure if they’re angry or sad like I am. The sky opens and tears spill out, the clouds parting and coming together again to turn the sky dark. Darker than normal. Everything is darker than normal, though, and I just want to run away from it all.

I am running away from it all.

I move a hand to the glass in front of me, wiping away some of the fog growing on the windshield from my breath. I didn’t even realize that I was breathing so heavily, or leaning so close to the windshield trying to look out of it.

There’s a playground across the street, and I see a small family there, gathering their stuff and running to get out of the rain. A mother, a father, and a daughter. A little older than Dawn.

I tear my eyes away from them, back to the main road.

And then the light turns green again, and I start my car.

* * *

I
t’s only been
a little over three years since I’ve last been in this town, but everything is so much older. I turn into the driveway of my old house, knowing that no one will ever expect to look for me here… No one will look here.

But most importantly, River won’t look here – as much as I want him to. It’s best for me to be alone. I don’t talk about the past often, so it makes sense that people might assume I’ve moved on from it.

I haven’t moved on from the past at all. My entire life is consumed by it.

The drive here took a few days, interrupted by stops and breaks and sleeping at rest stops. But for all the rest we’ve gotten – and by we, I mean Dawn. I could hardly sleep a wink for thinking the whole time – Dawn is still sleeping when we get here.

I get out of the car, careful not to wake her. Then I open the trunk and take out our bags. We only started with one suitcase but some hurried packing at the apartment left us with…

So many.

I can’t even keep them in my arms.

I set them down on the pavement of the drive beside my feet, hoping that the rain I set them in doesn’t ruin the bottoms too much. I try to find the driest space I can, but there’s no way I can fit all those bags in my hands at once and close the trunk door.

I can’t even carry them at the same time without worrying about it. I slam the trunk closed, and beep my keys so that the car is locked again. Dawn stays asleep. She can stay in there for a second while I put the bags in, and then I’ll take her in so she can be adjusted.

I walk inside and throw every bag on the floor, to the side of the walk-in entrance. I don’t look at anything else. There’s still furniture here, though, and I remember with a pang that my father paid off our debts before his death. This house is ours…

I haven’t been here in forever. I don’t want to look at it. I run back out the door, desperate to escape the growing feeling of something I can’t run away from –

I’m back in the driveway, unlocking the car and unbuckling Dawn from her car seat. I take her into my arms and pick her up, feeling her yawn and mumble something in sleepy annoyance as I bring her into the house.

I can’t bring myself to cook that night. I’m sick with sadness. So I put the food stuffs I bought away and I go through the kitchen, looking for that old drawer Daddy and I used to stuff menus in after we forgot to give them back to the server after our orders. There’s a few takeout menus in there, too, ones we were supposed to take. I flip through the old, ragged papers, and finally find a Chinese takeout place I love.

They deliver. At least, they did, when I loved them as a teenager.

I take my phone out and slide past the texts and calls there, closing my eyes so I don’t have to look at whom they’re from. Then I call the restaurant, praying they’re still in business.

They are. I crumple to the floor of the kitchen, turning the lights off on my way down as I wait for the delivery boy to get here. I count every minute that passes.

Finally, after thirty minutes – busier than I remember, but I might just be noticing time more now that I means more to me – I hear a ring of the doorbell. Sighing, exhausted, and my bones cracking as I stand, I get up. I nod and give the boy his tip.

He’s a teenager. He doesn’t look happy, either, though, not like he should, so I give him a little extra more than I usually would.

And then I shut the door and call Dawn down, and we dig in.

* * *

W
e’re moving
around stuff like we usually do, trying to make the place happier. Just because I’m not cheery doesn’t mean Dawn shouldn’t be, and this dusty relic is no place to raise a daughter – not one like Dawn.

“We could paint your room,” I say, looking down at Dawn as she sits on the floor, trying to lift up a chair so she can dust underneath it. She’s not good at that, though, so she just takes the rag and gets to work on the chair’s legs. She doesn’t look happy. She hasn’t in a while, but we haven’t talked about why. She just shakes her head –

She was delighted when I gave her my old room a few weeks ago. But the excitement has settled in, just like we have. And now no one is happy.

“Dawn,” I squat down so we’re at the same height. One day, Dawn will be taller than me. I know she will. “What’s the matter?”

She crosses her arms over her chest, ever the strong one. “Nothing.”

“Dawn…” I draw her name out, waiting for her to give in and tell me, so I can comfort her, my eyes pleading with hers before she drops her gaze to the ground and breaks out in tears. I don’t expect it and crawl over to her immediately, pulling her into my lap and tickling her, desperate to make her smile, to make her laugh, to make her anything happy.

Nothing works. She speaks, finally, her words so quiet that they come out as mumbles and I can’t hear a word she says. I tease her about mumbling, trying to make the mood lighter, but I can’t do it and she just drops off into silence.

Minutes pass before she tries again, and I wonder if I’m doing the wrong thing teaching her how to deal with her emotions, if my heartbreak is going to bleed into her childhood and mess her up for good.

“I miss River,” she finally says, burying her head in my chest as I hold her.

I put a hand on her head, pushing her closer to me as she cries, and I feel a sob building in my chest, too. But I can’t cry. I have something that might finally make her feel better. I was waiting to show her these – the first dated one is for her fourth birthday, a few months from now.

“I have something to show you,” I tell her, and then we go to the closet by the door together.

I used to keep rain boots and coats here. I will when we get into fall and winter and Dawn needs those, but for now they’re still up in the boxes I’ve left them in. She’s getting older, growing – she’ll have new ones then, too.

The surprise I have for her now isn’t shoes.

We go up the stairs.

* * *

I
t takes
a while for me to find the remote to the TV, and I’m glad Dad finally decided to get a new one in my room before he passed away – or else we wouldn’t be able to watch this. I silently thank River’s parents for helping us out near the end, because indirectly they’re why he was able to do that, and why we’re able to watch this…

If I’d never fallen for River, I wouldn’t be in this situation right now.

Dawn wouldn’t be crying on the bed next to me, sitting silent with her legs out straight as she watches me look through the box. River left the box full of stuff under our bed in the villa, and I’d taken it all out. It’s not in the same box, though, and this one is more a shoebox than…

Whatever he’d put it in. I look at Dawn and smile at her, putting it on the mattress and pushing it towards her.

“Open it,” I nod to her, and she looks at me in confusion before breaking out into a big smile that makes me think she’s actually really happy for a second.

She takes it out and stares in confusion at the envelopes and SD cards. She doesn’t know what the latter is, so she pulls one out and starts chewing on it –

I take it from her in shock and gasp at her. She gasps at me back dramatically, and asks what it is as I explain. I go to the TV and look for the little line to stick the card into, and then I pass the remote to Dawn. I explain the buttons for her – this one is more old-fashioned than the ones she’s used to – as the menu pops up, showing all the files on there. They’re labeled, neatly.

“Introduction.”

“Stuff about me.”

“For Faith.”

It goes on and on and Dawn scrolls down through all of them, and I see that there’s a few hundred in there, at least. I wonder how he got the time to do this over the course of a few days. Dawn looks at me and is about to click on one labeled “your first Christmas” when I shake my head at her and go back to the one called “introduction.”

And it starts, and River’s beautiful face fills the screen, and he’s telling stories to Dawn, and to me…

He’s looking right at us and it’s almost like he never hurt me, but his eyes are full of tears and his voice is breaking as he tries to compose himself. I try to, too, but I can’t. So I just sit by Dawn and wrap my arms around her, holding onto her as I cry silently.

The first video is only six minutes long. And then we click to the next one, and the next one, his voice rolling over us deep into the night.