Beautiful Failure Page 13

  Grateful that the door is unlocked, I slip inside and find myself face to face with my grandparents and several other people who are all staring at me.

  “Oh, Emerald!” Virginia claps. “Everyone, I’m sure you all know my granddaughter. She hasn’t been around much since she’s working at the Florentine’s diner in Tallapoosa, but Henry and I couldn’t be more proud. She’s been working like crazy and I know she got her job because we all prayed about it weeks ago.”

  “Praise Jesus!” They all say.

  Oh god... “Thank you all for your um, prayer requests.”

  They smile—not saying anything, just continuing to stare at me.

  “I’m going to go upstairs now,” I say to Virginia. “I’m tired.”

  “Of course! Of course!” She motions for me to go and turns her attention back to the group. “Now, where were we? Oh, right! Condoms are for sex, and sex is only for married people!”

  “Praise Jesus!”

  I grab a can of Coke from the fridge and run upstairs to my bathroom before I change my mind about getting myself off.

  Sighing, I toss all of my clothes off and step inside the shower—scrubbing away the smoke of The Phoenix, the softness of Carter’s touch.

  I try not to think about him—him and his lips, him and his ‘I’m-fucking-you-with-my-mouth’ kisses, him and his—

  Stop it!

  Turning off the water, I put my robe on and grab the candles Sarah and Robyn bought for me last week. They’re dark red cubes with crushed white roses pressed into their wax and they supposedly “set the mood like [you] wouldn’t believe.”

  I light them all and place them along my desk and my mantle, immediately noticing how potent their black cherry scent is.

  I turn my lights off and slip underneath the covers, thinking of the only person who can turn me on instantly. The one person I shouldn’t be thinking about.

  Shutting my eyes, I picture what it would be like if we actually did have sex, how—

  My phone rings.

  UGH!

  I groan. I already know it’s Virginia. She wants me to come down and partake in the final prayer of the night, which suddenly makes me feel dirty.

  Putting the phone up to my ear, I sigh. “Yes?”

  “Have you fucked yourself yet?” Carter.

  “Have you? Clearly that’s what you prefer to do every night.”

  He laughs. “You left without saying goodbye.”

  “It was implied, and I meant what I said. I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

  “Then why haven’t you hung up?”

  I’m silent.

  “Are you touching yourself?”

  “Goodbye, Carter.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Yes,” I admit. “I am touching myself because the man I was dating is gay and I was the last to know.”

  “He’s far from gay.”

  “Does he have erectile dysfunction?”

  He laughs again. “No. Not at all.”

  “Well, can you explain why he doesn’t want to sleep with me? Why he leaves me high and dry—literally dry, every chance he gets?”

  “How wet are you right now?”

  “Desert wet.”

  “The guy you want to fuck doesn’t do desert wet.”

  “He doesn’t do anything.”

  “I stopped doing things tonight because I knew if I started fucking you I wasn’t going to stop. And when I finally fuck you, you’ll feel exactly what I mean...”

  Silence.

  “Are you still desert wet?”

  “No...” I murmur.

  “Did you pick the man that was sitting next to me on purpose tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “To make me jealous?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t find that cruel?”

  I close my eyes. I don’t want to have a conversation. I just want to hear his voice as my fingers strum my clit.

  “Say something, Emerald.”

  “If you were jealous, you should’ve done something about it.”

  “You stood up before I could do that.”

  I move one hand up to my breast and pinch my nipple, picturing Carter biting it with his teeth—keeping my other hand busy. “What would you have done?”

  “Before or after you fucked with me by picking the wrong guy?”

  I don’t answer.

  “You confused me, because when you stepped on that stage, you looked directly at me and whispered, ‘I can’t wait to fuck you.’”

  I gasp. I didn’t realize he’d read my lips.

  “But then you picked the asshole sitting next to me.”

  “It wasn’t...It wasn’t like that...”

  “Are you sure?” he asks. “Because it seemed like you wanted him more than me.”

  “I’m sure...”

  “Maybe it’s good that you picked him.” He hesitates. “I’m not sure if I would’ve let you finish your routine if you opened your legs for me like that, if you put what I wanted right in front of my face.”

  “Liar...” I whisper.

  “No.” His voice is firm. “When you arched your back and said, ‘You can tip me wherever you like,’ I would have tipped you with my dick.”

  I tilt my head back and sigh.

  “I would’ve made sure that everyone in that building knew that you were mine.”

  My fingers slide deeper and my breath catches in my throat.

  “I don’t like games, Emerald.” His voice is low. “And trust me, the next time you invite me to watch you perform and you pick someone else to touch you, I’ll jump on stage and fuck you against the pole.”

  “Carter...”

  “I’m going to remember this shit...” He sounds upset, but then a smile returns to his voice. “I’m going to make sure you regret it in numerous ways.”

  “I...I do...”

  “Do you regret it enough to let me hear you cum? Are you almost there?”

  I nod as if he can see me.

  “Is this what you’ve been doing in bed since we met? Fucking yourself to sleep?”

  I don’t respond. My thoughts are all over the place and I’m seconds away from coming. I hear him asking me to say his name again, him telling me to promise that I’ll never pull that stage shit again, but everything around me begins to blur together and my body starts to tremble.

  “Ahhhh....” I let a moan escape as he whispers, “Next time I’ll make you cum personally.”

  It takes me several minutes to calm down, and I knock my phone onto the floor when I stretch my arms out. Rolling off the bed, I grab it and hold it up to my ear again.

  He’s still there.

  I’m not sure what to say.

  “Do you still think I’m gay?” he asks as if nothing happened seconds ago.

  “No, but you could be bi-sexual.”

  “Next time I see you, I’ll make sure you never question my sexuality.”

  “Looking forward to it.” I climb back into bed and hug a pillow to my chest. I’ve never been a fan of talking on the phone—or having phone sex because I’ve always had to fake it, but with him? I don’t want our conversation to ever end, and I enjoyed listening to him get me off.

  “Are you going to be busy tomorrow?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I admit. “I have AA.”

  “All day?”

  “More than likely.” I pause for a second and debate whether I should tell him more. “It’s ‘look into our pasts’ day so it usually lasts for at least eight hours.” I stifle a groan. Everyone in the group is only supposed to get twenty minutes to talk, but they always go over and we always end up being there past midnight.

  “You’ll call me when it’s over.”

  “What? I didn’t hear the inflection. I believe you meant for that to be a question.”

  He laughs. “The next time you get out of my car without me opening the door for you, I’ll chase you down.”

  “And tickle me?”

  “
I’ll do more than tickle you.” He pauses. “You should go to sleep now.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because you don’t live alone, and if I stay on the phone with you I’ll be tempted to come by and do everything I should’ve done to you hours ago.”

  I can’t help but smile.

  “Good night, Emerald.”

  “Good night, Carter.”

  Chapter 12

  For the past two weeks, my mind has been picking the worst times to meander down memory lane.

  Whenever I want to think about things that make me happy—things like Robyn and Sarah inviting me to Georgia to shop, it decides to remind me about “Amy fuckin’ Houston,” as if it doesn’t want me to completely give in to the idea of having friends.

  When I want to think about things that make me “feel”—things like talking to Carter on the phone a few nights a week and him bringing me to my knees with a single kiss, it shows me what happened the last time I dated a guy, the last time he screamed his girlfriend’s name mid-climax.

  And today, when I want to think about how I’m not like the other alcoholics because my mom did love me, it chooses to play a memory I don’t want to see—a memory I could’ve sworn I forgot.

  “Em?” Leah steps in front of me, waiting for me to look up from my homework.

  “Yeah?”

  “What do you think about this dress?”

  I watch as she twirls around the room, showing off the soft and airy fabric of her yellow and blue sundress. Her hair is pulled back into a curly ponytail, and as usual, she looks beautiful. Too beautiful for words.

  “I like it,” I say. “It looks good on you.”

  “Okay.” She rolls her eyes and stops her fashion show. “What’s wrong with you this week? First you don’t feel like drinking with me Monday, you bail out of a trip to the Versace store with Vincent, and now you’re using the word ‘good’? Like, that’s it? You usually hit me with one of those ad—um...One of those—”

  “Adverbs.”

  “Right.” She shrugs. “What’s wrong?”

  I put my pencil down and lean back in my chair. “Do you think I’m pretty?”

  “You’re fucking gorgeous. You look just like me.” She laughs, then she stops once she sees I’m not laughing back. “I’m sorry.”

  “I got nominated for homecoming queen last Friday.”

  “What? Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I would’ve taken you shopping for a dress!”

  “I pulled out of the competition...”

  “What? Why?”

  “When they passed out the ballots, everyone else’s name was right but mine. Somebody got a hold of them and crossed my picture out...Then they wrote ‘Fugly Slut’ where my name should’ve been.”

  The principal had apologized to me profusely and swore to have the ballots changed by next week, but I’d told him that it was okay, that clearly I wasn’t meant to run. Even though he swore he’d get to the bottom of it and punish whoever did it, the damage had already been done.

  At least in my eyes it had...

  “Slut?” Leah wrinkles her brow.

  “I’ve slept with two guys and I’m only sixteen.” I try not to cry because I know crying is pointless. “And everyone knows who those two guys were...One guy is understandable, but TWO? No one is going to vote for the school slut, Leah. I wouldn’t even vote for me...”

  She crosses her arms. “Let me get this straight. You pulled out of the competition because some stupid bitches were jealous of you and jacked up the ballots?”

  “I also don’t have any friends. You need friends to win. It’s a waste of time—especially if people already think I’m a slut.”

  “First of all, having sex doesn’t make you a slut. The only people who believe that are the frigid virgin bitches who hold on to their cherries until they get married and realize their husbands can’t fuck for shit. Then they wish they had sampled around so they try to shame other women into sharing their misery by calling them sluts. Fuck them.”

  I nod as she hands me a tube of mascara.

  “Second of all, you’re putting your name back in that competition and we’re going to make sure you win, friends or not. I don’t need to see any of the other girls to know that you’re the prettiest one out of all of them.”

  I don’t say anything. I just listen.

  “Looks will always help you win, Emerald.” She pulls out her phone. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”

  I’m not sure who she calls, or what’s up her sleeve, but she steps out of the room for twenty minutes and then she comes back.

  “Okay. Let’s go get the dress for your big night.”

  Two weeks later, my name is called at halftime and I’m crowned as the homecoming queen of Teaneck High School. The principal—a new one since our old one suddenly resigned for “marital issues” days ago, puts the crown on my head and I wave out to the crowd.

  I expect Leah to be the loudest clapper. I expect her to wave back, especially since she went through so much trouble to get me back in the race, but she doesn’t.

  Because she isn’t there.

  When I arrive home later that night, I walk in on her sniffing a line of cocaine off our table.

  “What’s up, homecoming queen?” She smiles.

  “You said you were coming.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Em! I got a last minute call from Arnie and—he was really depressed, so I figured I could take him for double. But guess what?”

  “What?”

  “I got triple!” She stands up. “Looks like we both won tonight! Beer or wine? We have to celebrate!”

  “Wine.” I sigh. There’s no use in being upset.

  “Great choice! Oh, and I got some leftover weed from this morning. Could you roll it up while I look for the corkscrew?”

  I shake my head, stopping it right before I tell Leah that I received an early acceptance letter from NYU, right before she tells me that I’m too pretty to go to college and should pursue modeling instead.

  Opening my eyes, I realize I’m in Alcoholics Anonymous. On a Saturday.

  It’s part three of “Share our Past” day since the last two sessions ran over by two hours.

  I’ve admitted that I’m an alcoholic to myself, but I still don’t feel like I belong here—with people who just cry all the time. Nonetheless, I’ve gotten better about coming early to these silly little sessions. I’ve been setting out the chairs hours beforehand, writing words of inspiration on the dry erase boards, and buying refreshments for the group with my own money.

  Last month, I asked everyone what their favorite coffee was, so I always stop by Starbucks and pick up personalized orders. Unfortunately, that nice and expensive gesture isn’t enough to get me out of coming.

  I’ve already asked. Several times.

  “So...” Our newest member, a girl who’s a few years older than me, starts to cry like she’s at a funeral. “So, my mom was my best friend. We did everything together. Parties, drugs, drinking—especially drinking...”

  “Calm down,” Tim says. “It’s okay. Take your time.”

  “She gave me my first beer when I was thirteen and it was gross, but after I had a few more I got hooked. It wasn’t bad for the first few years, but when I turned eighteen it got even worse. I had to drink every day...I needed it. We both did. Alcohol got us through when life was kicking our asses...”

  I roll my eyes. I don’t want to hear this crap.

  “She got me a fake ID at fifteen so I could join her at smoke bars. She encouraged me to lose my virginity to this guy who didn’t care about me just because she said it would feel good, because she said I should go ahead and get it out of the way. She said guys really liked the experienced girls...”

  “Did you two ever talk about anything serious with each other? Your feelings?” Tim passes her a Kleenex.

  “No.” Her chest is heaving. “Every time I came to her in tears, she would try and distract me. She never held me. She
never consoled me. She’d just tell me to suck it up and pass me a beer...Or she would tell me to dry my face and put on more makeup.”

  I stand up and grab my purse.

  “Going somewhere, Emerald?” Tim looks up at me.

  “Restroom,” I murmur and make a dash for it. I check all the stalls before locking myself inside and splashing my face with cold water.

  I decide to stay in here for at least twenty minutes because I don’t want to hear the rest of that pathetic girl’s story. As a matter of fact, I’m going to suggest she join the secondary AA group once today’s meeting is over; that’s where all the cry-babies with mommy issues belong.

  Forty more days...Forty more days...

  There’s a sudden knock at the door and I take a deep breath before opening it.

  It’s the crybaby.

  “Hey...” I let her in.

  “Hey.” She sniffles. “Tim just wanted me to make sure that you hadn’t left early.”

  “Of course he did.”

  She walks over to the sink and pulls several Kleenex from a box. “How come you never share anything with us, Emerald?”

  “You’ve only been in the group for three weeks. How do you know if I share or not?”

  “Everyone knows you don’t share. After every meeting someone always says, ‘I wonder when Emerald is going to share,’ so that clearly means—”

  “It means it’s no one’s goddamn business.”

  “I wasn’t trying to offend you.”

  “Well, you did.” I roll my eyes. “Since there’s an AA gossip group, you can tell them that I don’t share because I’m trying to actually take responsibility for being a drunk in the past, unlike the rest of you. No one forced you to drink. Your mom didn’t hold a gun to your head and force you to down those beers. You chose to, and the sooner you wake the hell up and realize that you are the reason why you’re here, the sooner you’ll get out.”

  “I’m not blaming my mom for anything.” Her voice is suddenly cold. “She was lost and she didn’t know how to help me, so she did the best she could. Her best just wasn’t good enough. That’s why she’s in prison and I’m in here. With you.” She steps closer to me and narrows her eyes. “It was your mother wasn’t it? Is that why you walked out during my story? Did it sound too familiar?”

  I swallow.

  “I bet you can relate.” She nods. “I bet your mom was your best friend just like my mom was, and you don’t want to talk about her flaws because you don’t think she had any. Because you don’t think you have any.”