Beautiful Failure Read online

  I don’t answer. “Can you turn on the heat?”

  He presses a button and turns the windshield wipers up a notch. “How long have you been dating your boyfriend?”

  “From Faulkner and alcohol to ‘How long have you been dating your boyfriend’? You couldn’t think of a smoother transition?”

  “Figured I’d get straight to the point. Is it serious?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It does.” He slows the car as the yellow light in front of us turns red. Then he faces me. “I want you, so I need to know how hard I have to work to make you see that your boyfriend will never compare to me.”

  I cross my legs. “How charming.”

  “Is it serious?”

  “Very.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “The light is green. Drive.”

  He puts the car in park. “Tell me his name.”

  “Brian. Drive.”

  “How old is he?”

  “What?! None of your business.”

  “Because he doesn’t actually exist or because you don’t want me to know?”

  “I don’t want you to know.”

  He’s silent for a while, but then he leans back. “Your boyfriend—Brian, let you sit in a diner for hours so you could wait for your friend to get off work and take you home?”

  I don’t answer.

  “Even if he does like to be rough with you, the marks on your wrist look like he’s hurting you. Doesn’t seem like boyfriend material.”

  “This is exactly why I don’t get in cars with strangers.” I sigh. “I made him up. He doesn’t exist, and the handcuff marks are from being arrested last night. Don’t ask me what for because it’s none of your damn business, and I would really appreciate it if you gave me my e-reader so I could go back to enjoying the ride home.”

  “I’ll think about it. How long have you been living in Blythe?”

  “If I didn’t answer that question on the first day we met, what makes you think I’ll answer it now?”

  “Because you want to.” He pauses. “And because as badly as you want to deny it, you’ve been thinking about me since we first met.”

  I can’t help but laugh. Hysterically.

  I shut my eyes and toss my head back against the seat, holding my sides because they haven’t experienced laughter like this in years.

  By the time I calm down, I notice that he’s turned the car off and is looking at me with his eyebrow raised.

  “What?” I ask.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You are. You think I like you just because you’re sexy?”

  I notice him slightly clenching his jaw and decide to take advantage of this moment. I need to set the record straight. “You think I’m going to open up to you and tell you shit I’ve never told anyone else before because you’re sexy? Because you think I’m a lost soul who’s turned to stripping and need a Prince Charming or a knight in shining armor to save me? If you do, you’ve got the wrong fucking girl. And if you think for one second that giving me a ride home will change any of that, let me know so I can walk the rest of the way. I don’t need you, and contrary to whatever is going on in your mind, I don’t want you.”

  He blinks. Then he shakes his head before looking directly into my eyes. “For the record, Emerald—I’m not trying to be your Prince Charming or your knight in shining armor. You’re too fucked up for me to even think about saving you. I don’t have the wrong girl, and I don’t expect you to open up and tell me shit except what I already know. You’re definitely not from Blythe and I’m just interested in knowing where you came from.”

  Silence.

  I sigh. “My grandparents are from Blythe. I’m from New Jersey. I moved in with them several months ago. However, I honestly have not thought about you at all. I just think that you’re extremely attractive. That’s about all I can—”

  He presses his lips against mine and runs his fingers through my hair, whispering, “Shut up” as he kisses me.

  Slipping his hand behind my neck, he pulls my head even closer to his, softly biting my bottom lip.

  Besides the pelting raindrops on his hood, the sound of his tongue softly exploring my mouth is the only sound I can focus on.

  He slowly pulls away from me, leaving me wanting more, but I don’t let that show.

  “Don’t worry,” he whispers. “I’ll still work hard to show you how much I want you.”

  I immediately face my window and pretend to be fascinated with what’s going on outside.

  As he drives the car back onto the road, I silently scold myself for allowing that kiss to happen, for liking it.

  We don’t speak for the rest of the drive—except for when he asks for my address, and when he pulls up to my house I murmur goodbye.

  Anxious to get away, I pull on the door handle as soon as he parks, but it doesn’t open.

  “Going somewhere?” he asks.

  I don’t turn around to look at him because I know he’s smiling.

  I hear him getting out of the car and within seconds he’s standing outside my door with an umbrella.

  Opening the door, he reaches for my hand. He slips an arm around my waist and pulls me close to his side, walking me down the driveway and up to the porch.

  I look down into my purse—searching for my keys, but he tilts my chin up.

  “What happened to your car?”

  “It’s...I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Do you need a ride to work tomorrow?”

  “What?”

  “Do you need a ride?”

  “You know I work at a strip club, right? One that’s two hours away from where we’re currently standing?”

  He grins. “I’m well aware.”

  “I’m actually off tomorrow but...” I look into my purse again.

  “But what?” He cups my face in his hands, brushing his thumbs across my cheeks.

  “If your offer is on the table for two days from now, I might take you up on it.”

  “It is.” He slips his phone into my hand. “Give me your number.”

  I save the digits into his phone and hand it back to him.

  “Not Your Cinderella?” He reads what I saved my number under and rolls his eyes. He calls it and my phone rings inside my bag. “Feel free to save it under Not Your Prince Charming.”

  I smile and finally find my keys.

  He stands on my porch until I’m safely inside, looking me over one last time.

  I say thank you and shut the door in a rush, but I peer out the window and watch him walk out into the rain, smiling as he looks over his shoulder.

  Chapter 10

  “Emerald?” Tim snaps me out of my latest dream, forcing me to see that I’m not in Carter’s car kissing him anymore. I’m in a room full of drunks.

  “What?”

  “How often did you used to drink?”

  I sigh. “Almost every day.”

  “And how much did you drink?”

  “Is that really relevant?”

  He nods and everyone turns their eyes towards me.

  “As much as I could handle,” I say. “It depended on what type of day it was.”

  “Did you ever tell your mom or your dad about your drinking problem?”

  “How many times do I have to tell you that I’ve never had a fucking drinking problem?” I really don’t feel like being here today and I’m seconds away from leaving. “I never had a father to talk to and my mom was drinking right there with me. All the time. So I’m pretty sure if I had a problem, she would’ve been the first person to point that out.”

  “Your mom was your enabler?” He sounds shocked.

  “Fuck you.” I stand up and grab my purse. “I don’t need this.”

  “Emerald...”

  “Call the judge. Tell her I’d rather do the jail time.” I ignore the “Don’t go” and “Come back” pleas of my classmates and storm out of the room.

  I head straight for the parking lot. The
n I remember that I don’t have a car anymore.

  Sighing, I consider going back and apologizing, but I’m too angry right now and I don’t need him or anyone else judging me.

  I start walking down the side streets, deciding that I’ll go to the fire department and wait for Henry to get off and take me home.

  I feel my phone vibrating in my purse the entire way there and know it’s Tim trying to figure out where I’ve gone, but I ignore it.

  The second I arrive at the fire station, the recruits who are sitting outside smile and wave at me.

  Any other day, I would smile and wave back, but I simply nod and head inside.

  “Good afternoon, Emerald.” The station’s receptionist beams as soon as she sees me. “How are you today?”

  “Good. Is Henry in?”

  “Not right now. He took a team out for lunch. Do you need me to call him?”

  “No, that’s okay. You think it’d be okay if I waited in his office?”

  “Of course it would.” She smiles and points down the hall. “You know the way.”

  I return her smile and lock myself into his office, opening all the blinds. I need to get a good look at the sunshine every chance I can get over the next few days since I’ll be confined to a jail cell soon.

  Pulling out my phone, I prepare to erase all of my missed calls, but there aren’t any. Just text messages:

  “Emerald, I’m so sorry for offending you at today’s meeting, but I think you’re on the verge of having your breakthrough moment. Thank you for opening up. I’ll tell the judge we’re finally making progress. I expect to see you at the next session (early) so we can dig deeper...” Tim.

  Ugh...I was actually looking forward to tasting prison Jell-O...

  I save his message and notice there’s another one. Carter.

  “Do you own a swimsuit? Not Your Prince Charming would like to know.”

  “Tell him he needs to ask my evil stepmother.” I text back.

  “Yes or no, Emerald?”

  “Or.”

  “In that case, it’s a date. I’ll come pick you up later. Wear jeans.”

  “Can’t you tell that I’m trying to blow you off?”

  “I look forward to you doing that in person someday. Six o’ clock.”

  I don’t text him back. I just smile.

  As I mentally go through which swimsuit I should wear, Henry unlocks his office door and steps inside.

  “What happened today, Emerald?” He sits at his desk, looking concerned. “Your counselor called me half an hour ago and told me you walked out of a session.”

  “He pissed me off.” I shrug. “I’m not an alcoholic and I don’t belong in there. I was just drunk that night and got out of hand. You have to believe me...”

  He sighs and clasps his hands. “Do you remember the first week that Virginia brought you here to Blythe? Back when you were seventeen?”

  “Yeah,” I say, but it’s a lie. I can’t remember anything about the first month I came here, except for Leah’s funeral, and a few months after that I was at NYU.

  “You slept the first few days, which we figured was pretty normal.” There’s worry in his eyes. “But then you...You would pass out every night in the middle of your dinner. You screamed at either of us if we asked you something as simple as how you were feeling, but then you slowly shaped up. For the next few months you seemed okay, so we figured it was just a phase and sent you all the way up to NYU...”

  “Me being upset about my mother’s death proves I’m a drunk?”

  “After Virginia brought you home from NYU—the very next day, we had to call the medics to pump your stomach. One of my recruits found you passed out in the backyard.”

  I shake my head, refusing to believe that. “That’s not true. I would’ve never drank that much and you didn’t have to call the medics. I would’ve woken up. I was just depressed.”

  “There were empty beer and vodka bottles in all of your drawers. I started to count them as we threw them away, but I stopped at fifty...” He’s on the verge of tears. “We’ve been lenient and hands-off because we love you and don’t want you to leave us like Leah did, but... You have a problem, Emerald. You have to stop denying it.”

  He averts his gaze from me and looks out the window. I notice him wincing and wonder if he’s waiting for me to storm out of his office in anger, but I don’t.

  I look out the window too, trying my hardest to remember those blacked out months, but I can’t. I want to tell him that there’s no way I can be an alcoholic because I don’t need alcohol to function. I can live without it.

  Furthermore, I don’t always drink when I’m sad or angry. My first thought when I’m pissed isn’t to grab a drink and sleep the day away, and I don’t depend on liquor to help me cope with my feelings. There have been days when I haven’t had any alcohol (the past few weeks to be exact) and I haven’t woken up craving it, wanting, needing it.

  I’ve served it to men at The Phoenix without yearning for a sip, without wishing I could slip into the bathroom and sneak just one gulp. Even yesterday, when the other girls finally started talking to me and ended my silent treatment with a toast (they gave me a bottle of water), I didn’t want any of the top shelf champagne that was in their glasses; I was completely happy with my water.

  That last lie hits me like a wrecking ball.

  I am an alcoholic...

  In complete shock, I sit silently for several seconds—playing back the parts of the last few months that I do remember.

  Rejection letters. Shots. Rejection emails. Shots.

  Rainy morning. Half a cup of vodka. Sunny morning. Half a cup of gin.

  My heart hurts like hell. “Why didn’t you say something to me about the drinking before, Henry?”

  “You’d started working and you were a little more upbeat.” He turns around, looking surprised that I’m still here. “At least you were until you got into that accident. I just couldn’t say anything because I really didn’t want you to...” His voice trails off and I can tell he still harbors guilt for letting Leah run away. “Promise me you’ll keep going to rehab and no matter what any of those people say, you won’t storm out again?”

  I nod slowly. “I promise.”

  “And you’ll try and come to church with us sometime?”

  I give him a blank stare and he laughs.

  “I thought so.” He laughs even harder and walks around his desk, hugging me as if he doesn’t want to let me go. “Are you sure you want to keep working at that diner all the way out there? Is the pay really worth all those bus rides?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Henry pulls into our driveway hours later and tells me he’ll be at the church shut-in for the night.

  “I love you, Emerald,” he calls out to me before putting his car in reverse.

  Numb, I think about the past two hours that I spent in his office, the hours when he hugged me and didn’t let me go, when I didn’t want him to let me go.

  It’s five thirty, and as much as I want to see Carter, I send him a text: “I don’t feel like going out today... Can I have a rain check? Let me know if you’re still willing to take me to work tomorrow...”

  There’s a sudden knock at my door and I roll my eyes. If it’s Carter I’m going to threaten to call the cops—after I stare at him for a while.

  Annoyed, I open it and see my probation officer. He’s six foot five, at least three hundred pounds, and his low buzz cut and usual USMC shirt boast the fact that he’s a former Marine.

  “How are you today, Future Convict?” he asks.

  “Does the judge know you call me that?”

  “Of course she does.” He pushes his way past me. “Who do you think named you?”

  “Beautiful.”

  He walks towards the bathroom and pushes the door open, holding out an empty cup. “Let’s get this over with shall we?”

  I sigh and take the cup, allowing him to pat underneath my arms and between my thighs before letting me st
ep inside.

  “Don’t flush. Don’t turn on the tub or the sink, and if you take more than sixty seconds—”

  “It’s an automatic negative test.” I roll my eyes. “I’m aware. Although, aren’t those rules pretty pointless since you keep the door open? Wouldn’t you hear me flush or turn the water on?”

  “Hurry up and piss, future convict.” He turns so his back is to me.

  I pull my skirt up and position the cup right under my pee stream, deciding that these random intrusions will always be humiliating.

  Once I’m done, I set the cup on the counter and screw the cap onto it. “I’m done.”

  He turns around and grabs my sample, saying, “You can wash your hands now,” before walking down the hall.

  I take my time washing my hands, staring at myself in the mirror.

  Today I look exactly like Leah—from my hair, to my lips, to the uneasiness that hides behind my dark green eyes. Sad, I yank the band from around my bun and make a makeshift side ponytail, but that still doesn’t make the woman in the mirror look any different.

  I shake my head as a lump starts to crawl up my throat. Before it can send a signal to my tear ducts, I open the cabinet and pull out a tube of ultra-thick mascara.

  Carefully applying pressure to each row of my lashes, I blink a few times to make sure it won’t smudge.

  “Future Convict!” The officer calls from the kitchen. “Get out here right now!”

  I take a deep breath and walk out to join him. “Yes?”

  “Anything you want to tell me before I test it? Anything you want to get off your chest?”

  “White shirts don’t look good on you.”

  He laughs and puts on a pair of plastic gloves, opening the cup before sticking five separate strips inside of it. As usual, he keeps his eyes on the strips, humming the refrain of Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison Blues” until three minutes have passed.

  “All clean!” He closes the cup and sticks it into a red biomedical bag with what I can only assume are other urine samples.

  “Does it bother you that you literally get paid to carry piss around all day?”

  “It bothers me that I have yet to arrest you and send you to jail, where you belong.” He pops his gum. “You’ll slip up one day. It’ll be the happiest day of my life.”