Warning Signs (Broken Promises #2) (3 page)

The next morning when I was getting ready to go to therapy, I saw the news playing an interview with the driver who hit my mother. He went into detail about how,
yes, this was Ben and Bea Morrison’s mother I ran over. She tried to commit suicide, I didn’t even see her. I definitely saw them though. It’s hard to miss them.

Ben was pacing back and forth in his office, and when he saw me he slammed the door shut in my face.

“What are the Morrisons trying to hide?”
the news anchor asked.
“Whatever it is, we’ll find out. Stay tuned.”

“Dammit, dammit, dammit!”

***

“How does it feel to have told your brother about you and Everett?”

I had obviously discussed my previous relationship with Everett with my therapist. When I told her I blew up and admitted to my brother we had been together, even if it was brief, she seemed pleased. I wasn’t pleased at all.

“It feels horrible. Real horrible.”

“Why is that?” the therapist asked. I turned to look at the fake Monet painting again. It was better than looking at her fake red hair and crooked nose.

“Beatrice—”

“It’s Bea, not Beatrice. I
hate
being called Beatrice.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll call you Bea from now on.” I heard her scribbling notes on the pad of paper she had in her lap, and I could hear the clock ticking ever so quietly.

“I’m going insane,” I told her. Looking away from the Monet and to her crooked nose and mismatched lipstick smile, I shook my head. “I’m going insane. I can’t believe I came back. I should have never come back.”

“If you hadn’t come back, you wouldn’t have healed.”

“Is that such a horrible thing?”

“Have you ever broken a bone?”

“Once.”

“Did it heal properly?”

“Yes, we put a cast on it.”

“Right. You broke your bone, so the doctor put a cast on it and made you do specific things to ensure it healed properly. I’m trying to do that. It’s an invisible cast and it isn’t very noticeable to others; if it heals properly, it’ll be wonderful.”

“What if it doesn’t heal properly?”

“It’ll never be the same.”

I was trying to remember how I had broken my bone in the first place and how we were comparing my brain to a broken bone. It didn’t seem plausible. But she had reiterated that I had Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Anxiety and Depression.

“It also has occurred to me that your mother has bipolar disorder. You may have it too.”

“No way. I’m not crazy.”

“It doesn’t mean you’re crazy. All it means is that your brain is chemically imbalanced. Nothing a few pills can’t fix.”

“I’m not bipolar.”

“I didn’t say you were. I’m saying
if
you were, it would make much more sense to you to take care of your mental health. Anxiety, depression and PTSD sufferers will often think they aren’t really suffering and will go long periods without help. I don’t want you to suffer, Beatrice. Don’t you want to get better?”

With that in mind, I went home to my brother, who sounded like he was arguing on the phone.

“I’ve got to go. My sister is home,” I heard him say. Before he could welcome me back, I went upstairs, and I tried to believe everything that my therapist had told me. Somehow it refused to sink in to my mind. It wouldn’t stick.

CHAPTER THREE

When I woke up the next morning the sound of Ben yelling at someone whom I couldn’t identify from my brother’s overpowering voice made me want to stay in bed even longer. I could tell he was pretty angry by the sound of how his voice carried through the house. I had heard his muffled arguments for far too long, and when I had decided enough was enough, I threw off the duvet and quietly crept out of my room and snuck down the stairs. I tried to hear what he was saying from the staircase, but he was in his office. The door wasn’t completely shut, so I figured he wouldn’t know I was eavesdropping if I came up and listened to him.

Going up to his office door, I pressed my back against the wall and tried to listen in. No one was responding to him, so I assumed he was on the phone.

“I am sure this is what I want. I agree with everyone, it’s too much now. We have lives; we have families to tend to. The tabloids will never leave us alone, but we can try to live normal lives. I don’t care about the risks! I want this to be over. It has brought me joy over many years, but lately it has only brought those I love harm! Everyone agrees that Eden Sank is over. Get over it. We’ll release the last album and…”

I felt faint. I couldn’t listen anymore. I went into the living room and saw a slew of torn-up tabloids. Each of them had something about Eden Sank on the front cover. I knelt down to pick them up, and I saw a picture of Everett and me; we were hugging and smiling. I remembered taking this particular photo, and how it really made me happy to know it was still out there. Then I saw the caption:

Bea Morrison suspected to have had relationship with Everett Thompson, pictured above.

The picture had been taken from Everett’s official Instagram page, and I was wondering what gave them the idea that we had been in a relationship. Only a few people knew about it, and I didn’t know of anyone who would rat me out to the press. When I heard Ben hang up the phone and open his office door, I tried to make it look like I wasn’t reading the tabloids he had torn up and left on the floor. I went upstairs, passing right by him without a word spoken between us. After my morning routine was complete, I changed from my pajamas into some warmer clothes since it was beginning to get chilly outside.

Autumn was coming, and the summer heat was beginning to wane. I decided to have a day to myself and left the house without another word to Ben. I looked around town, taking notice of my new surroundings. It wasn’t New York City; it was something entirely different. When I came across a little tearoom, I decided to stop inside and grab some much needed food. It was small and quaint with its blue painted siding and white shutters on the window. It had the greenest grass on the front lawn that was marked off by a white picket fence.

I entered the yard, walked up the front porch, and entered. There seemed to be a lot of people here eating their lunch. I was hoping no one would recognize me. Sitting down, I heard whispers of
Eden Sank
and my last name circulating around me. I tried to ignore it, but when I heard the familiar sound of an iPhone snapping a picture, I turned and looked to find a group of teenage boys dressed in sweater vests and cardigans. Just a bunch of preppy kids that wanted to look cool. I did my best to ignore them, since I didn’t really want to cause a scene. The last thing I needed was more attention, but it was hard. Once I ordered my food and began sipping on my drink, it was obvious that these kids weren’t going to quit taking photos. My irritation was quickly escalating. I decided to try and reason with them after they made it obvious with their sneers and their unnerving laughter that they wouldn’t stop taking photos of me anytime soon. When I approached them I counted at least five boys, all in their preppy country club attire with the latest iPhone sitting in front of each of them. I had little faith in them before, and based on appearances I was losing faith quicker than before.

“Please delete those photos you took of me.” I must have startled them; when they saw me at their table they didn’t do anything but act like they had witnessed Jesus’ resurrection.

“Can you please delete those photos of me? I don’t appreciate you taking photos of me without my permission.”

“What if we don’t want to delete them?”

“Look, what are you even going to do with those? Delete them. Please?” The group huddled together, as if they were consulting each other about what move to make next. Doing this they left their phones unguarded. I took the nearest phone and when they noticed, they became outraged.

“C’mon, that ain’t right. Give him his phone back,” one said.

“Delete every photo you took of me, and maybe I will.”

“Maybe? Bitch, you’re crazy!”

Of course, this did nothing to calm me down and the ruckus summoned the manager over. The police were called, because of course, why wouldn’t they be? Soon enough I was in the city jail waiting for Ben to come bail me out. Of course the preppy brats had made bail before I did and I was sure the story was now hitting various news outlets. This was not going to end well for me at all.

When Ben met me in my cage (okay, jail cell) he looked like he couldn’t be any more disappointed. The police released me with only a stern look and Ben didn’t speak until we got into the car.

“Did you destroy their phones?”

“Every last one.”

“SD cards too?”

“Demolished.”

“Good. Don’t do it again.” I looked at him with surprise and shook off the feeling of shock and tried to prepare myself for the worst to come out of his mouth next.

“You need to do something. You can’t stay at the house all the time doing nothing productive.”

I couldn’t bear to argue with him again. It weighed too heavily on my heart to do so. “What do you propose I do then?”

“Talk to the one person you trust and will listen to. Because you don’t trust me, and you refuse to listen.” I knew who he was talking about. He was only wrong about one thing: I barely listened to anyone other than myself. And lately, I hadn’t followed my own advice very well. Maybe if I called Splinter, he’d help me find a way out of this rabbit hole I was falling into.

***

“So, what are your options?” he asked after we had talked about almost everything except the problem I was having.

“School, work, or drop dead.” He didn’t laugh at my joke.

“Right. School or work. What do you want to do the most?”

“I don’t even know Splinter. I just want to do
something.
”

“I get it. What do you love the most?”

“Well…” The obvious was music. But did I want a career out of that?

“Okay, obviously wrong question. What are you most passionate about?” Again, the answer was music. It was the one thing I ever truly knew.

“Damn, do you not know anything except what your brother taught you?” He knew me too well.

“I guess not.”

“Perfect. Go to community college. Find something that speaks to you. Get
away
from him.”

“What are you saying? Run away again?”

“No, I’m saying you should move out.”

“What about Dartmouth? I worked hard to get into that school!”

“Yeah, but is it really want you want?”

I didn’t say anything because we both knew the answer.

“There’s a community college in Hartford, Connecticut. Far away without being too far. Apply, do something with yourself. Stay with Ben until you can afford a place of your own and then move to Connecticut.”

I sighed.

“What is it, Bea?”

“I feel like I’m betraying my brother. I don’t want to leave him again.”

“Well, from what you were talking about earlier…”

He didn’t finish his thought because I knew what he meant. I had been complaining about my brother’s attitude toward me. It had changed so drastically I didn’t know what to do with myself in order to keep him happy. To be fair, I didn’t think there was anything I could do to keep him happy. Splinter was right about this. I had to do what was right for me, even if it made Ben unhappy. For whatever reason, I kept thinking he wouldn’t like my new choice even though everything he did suggested he wouldn’t care. Sometimes the people who seemed like they didn’t care cared far too much. For once, I was hoping I was wrong.

***

During family therapy it was only Ben and me. Mother was doing therapy at the hospital, and we hadn’t visited her yet. I was beginning to wonder when we would, but I had a feeling it wasn’t going to be any time soon.

“Bea, you told me you had something you’d like to tell your brother.” Ben looked at me expectantly, and I tried my best not to shrivel up inside.

“I’m going to school in Connecticut. I’ve got a job, and I start tomorrow. Once I make enough money, I’m moving out to be closer to school.”

The therapist nodded approvingly toward me, and now we were waiting for Ben to react or respond.

He reclined back in his seat. “You’re leaving me?”

“You told me to get a job or go to school. I’m only doing what you asked me to do.”

“I never asked you to leave!”

“You never had to ask! You made it obvious that I wasn’t welcome!” We began shouting at each other to the point our therapist had to blow a whistle to silence us.

Once the session was over, we rode home in silence. It wasn’t a comfortable silence; it was a sort of silence that made you want to jump out of the moving car to get away from it. It made it impossible to say anything, but staying silent was worse than dying. That’s how I felt in that car. Once we stopped at a red light, I unbuckled my seatbelt and got out of the car, slammed the door shut, and wove through the traffic to get onto the sidewalk. Ben didn’t seem happy about it, but once the light turned green he sped off.

I sat at a patio table that was placed outside a little flower shop, and I tried to avoid crying. I knew people could recognize me even with the shortened hair, and it seemed like no matter what I did they would snap pictures of me.

I found myself looking around at all the people walking by and having a good time, wondering if they had tweeted about seeing me, or if they were taking pictures. It drove me insane. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. After a few deep breaths and a nice brisk walk, I found myself back at Ben’s house, and I was able to sneak back in without another word. He was yelling on the phone again, but this time I heard multiple voices yelling back. He must have been arguing about the band, and I knew not to bother him. I went up to my room, slammed the door shut, and waited until it was acceptable to go on about my day.

I had found myself walking around on eggshells with him lately; losing the band was a battle for him and it was taking its toll. He hadn’t told me yet, but I was sure he knew I wasn’t oblivious. It was plastered everywhere, and soon enough the band would issue a formal statement to solidify any rumors made about them, and to bring down everyone as gently as possible. I didn’t want to make him talk about it, but it hurt me. He was breaking up something that wasn’t broken. I could only wish he would see that. However, he was pretty oblivious. It would take the second coming to make him see that. If we were only so lucky.

***

Work had kept me pretty busy the last few weeks. When I was in my room at Ben’s I took the time to look through my classes so I could finalize my schedule for school. When I heard a knock on the door, I didn’t bother looking up from the screen. I was totally invested in the choices I had to make. Each choice cost hundreds of dollars and then some. It was tough to pick and choose when that much money was involved.

“Come in,” I finally said when I heard a second knock due to my delayed response. Ben entered, and he looked either drunk or extremely sleep deprived. There was a good chance he was a bit of both. Things hadn’t exactly been smooth sailing for us lately. Putting his hands in his pockets, he leaned against the doorjamb.

“When do you start school?”

“August 30
th
,” I told him. It was currently June.

“Dang, alright. What’s your work schedule look like?”

“It’s picking up.” Being a cocktail waitress at a college campus club had its ups and downs. It was right before the beginning of the fall semester, and people were beginning to trickle in, making more business for the bar and more tips for me. However, Ben never once asked about my work schedule. I told him when I was leaving for work and gave him an approximate time of when I’d be back, and left without another word to be exchanged. So his question filled me with concern.

“Why? What’s up?” I finally took my eyes away from the computer, and focused them on him. He looked worse than I had originally thought. Only glancing at him couldn’t possibly give me the full devastation that he was composed of.

“I wanted to see if there was anything I could do to help.”