Wilde by Abby Brooks

Chapter Nine

Leo

Is Amy suggesting a friends-with-benefits thing by inviting me to her place? Personal history says that won’t end well.

Or does she genuinely want to get to know me? Personal history says that won’t end well either.

But, considering we jumped ahead in the process and made a person together as step number one, I should probably learn more about her than her spectacularly bad taste in men.

“Okay, yeah. Let’s get to know each other. I guess that’s a thing two soon-to-be-parents should do.” I laugh at myself for the statement. Fucking ridiculous situation. “I’ll follow you.”

“Great. It’s not far, but you might have trouble following, because I walked.”

“All right, then you may have the pleasure of riding with me. In Jezebel.”

“Oh, Wilde…” Amy looks at me, disappointed. “You named your car?”

I slide out of the booth, dropping a twenty-dollar tip for the waitress even though we never placed an order. We did, however take up a booth in the middle of lunch. Our problems aren’t her fault and she shouldn’t lose out on money because of them. “How many things have you ever truly cared about that didn’t have a name?”

When Amy stands, she nods her concession. “Okay, but why Jezebel?”

I smile. “You’ll see, Skippy. You’ll see.”

* * *

Following Amy’s instruction, we come to a stop in front of a white, two-story house situated on a corner lot in a cozy neighborhood. “This is yours?” She seems young to own a house this nice, though maybe she rents. Then again, I seem young to own a house and I most definitely do.

“It’s my Dad’s. I’m…uh…I moved back home for a bit.”

Hmm…

Dumped her boyfriend. Moved back in with her parents. Pregnant with a stranger’s baby. Things don’t seem to be going all that well for my little Skipster.

“You grew up here?” I ask as she rummages through her purse.

“Yeah. Just me and Dad. Mom passed when I was young.” Amy stops digging and triumphantly holds up her house key. “He’s at work though—my dad. He doesn’t usually come home until after six.”

Again I wonder, is this a friends-with-benefits situation? Or does she instinctively know Daddy’s not going to care much for a guy like me?I file the thought away under things to deal with later.

Amy unlocks the front door and guides me up the stairs to her bedroom. A neatly made daybed littered with too many pillows lines one wall. A desk is situated below the window, with an old iMac anchoring one side. The closet and a small TV stand make up the other wall. Like the bed, the desk is neatly stacked and organized. The closest thing to a mess is the laundry in her clothes hamper, which she promptly slides into the closet and pulls the door closed.

“Tidy.”

“An organized life is an organized mind.” The words slip off her tongue like she’s spoken them a thousand times.

“I think I got that in a fortune cookie once.”

Amy rolls her eyes and plops onto the bed. “I feel like I’m learning you have a quick wit, and sometimes use it to joke in otherwise awkward moments.”

I nod as I notice a drawing on the wall and move closer to inspect it. It’s not bad. A little childish, but there’s talent there that just needs polishing. “Monet?”

“Oh my God, that’s so embarrassing. It’s this stupid project I did in eighth grade art class. I had the biggest crush on the art teacher, and he was really encouraging about my talent,” she says, standing behind me, studying the work over my shoulder. “I guess it just became part of the background. I haven’t noticed it in years.”

I turn on my heel to study her. “So, you’re saying your room hasn’t changed since you were a kid? Which means you’ve always been this…uh, organized?”

She smiles and nods. “Dad says I’ve been like this since the day I was born, because I came on my due date. Right on schedule.”

I study the room again. Eighth grade artwork. Daybed. Ancient iMac. So much pink I almost feel sick to my stomach. “This room doesn’t look like you. At least not the you I’m coming to know.”

“This room says a lot more about teenage me than current me. Dad didn’t bother to change it when I moved out. He said he always wanted me to feel like I had a place to come home.”

“So moving back home is either a recent development or you don’t expect to be here long. Otherwise, you’d have started making changes.”

Amy gives me a nod of appreciation. “Perceptive.”

“It’s part of what makes me a good artist.”

“And egotistical.”

“Also part of what makes me a good artist.” I perch on the edge of the bed. “I’m getting the sense this is all part of some quarter life crisis. Break up with the golden boy. Sleep with the much better looking bad boy. Move home into this time warp of a room.”

“You forgot drop out of college and get pregnant by a stranger.”

I nod slowly. “All solid life choices.”

Amy laughs sadly as she shifts to face me. “They were supposed to be solid choices. To break me out of this…I don’t know. Boredom?” She shrugs. “I had a wakeup call and I took a long hard look at my life and hated everything I saw.”

“So you tossed a couple grenades and thought that would help?”

Her jaw drops. “I came home to find myself. My purpose. That’s not tossing grenades.”

“How’s that working out for you, Skippy?”

She stares at me. A tiny gasp escapes her lips. And then she’s off the bed and pacing. “Obviously it’s not working out for me, but neither was my current life trajectory. I mean, can you see me as an accountant? Dying at my desk while fighting numbers all day just to go home to a man who expects a warm meal on the table and a hot body in bed? A man who can’t respect my boundaries enough to leave me alone when I ask him to?”

Her voice is quaking and her hands are shaking and I stand, gripping her wrist to slow her down. “Hey, now. Breathe…”

She stops pacing but won’t look at me. “I’m sorry for that. I might be wound a little tight lately.”

I put a finger to her chin and force her to meet my eyes. “Don’t be. Sounds like you needed to get that out. Maybe a long time ago.”

“Definitely a long time ago. Dad was the one who suggested accounting. I wanted to do something with art, but he was so worried about how I’d support myself as an artist that I changed my trajectory to please him.”

“What about your mom?”

Amy shakes her head. “I was really little when she passed away.”

“Shit. That’s right. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Me, too.” She holds up her hands and forces a smile. “Enough about me. What about you? What makes you tick, Wilde? Other than hot messes with her hands full of grenades…” She grins and fuck, she’s pretty.

“There’s not much to tell.”

What am I supposed to say? That I’ve never been afraid to take risks? That my brother made fun of me for my art, but I didn’t let that stop me? That my dad died in a car accident when I was little, so I know what it’s like to grow up missing a parent?

“You gotta give me something here.”

I lift an eyebrow. “Do I, though?”

Her shoulders slump and her smile deflates. “I can’t figure you out. Just when I think we’re getting somewhere, you shut down. What’s so bad with getting to know each other?”

The answer to that is easy. No one, and I mean no one, thinks about anything but themselves. What they want. What they need. I can see it as clear as day. I let Amy in, she gets what she wants out of me, and then starts trying to change me.

I’m part of her rebellion, not her reality.

She just said it herself.

“Come on, Wilde. I want to know.”

“And I want to know more about this artwork of yours. Show me something recent.”

A blush pinks Amy’s cheeks. “Oh no. I can’t show my little doodles to someone as talented as you.”

“See…it’s uncomfortable to share the hard stuff with someone you don’t know.” I could show her my art all day long, but vulnerability? Sharing and caring?

That just isn’t me.

She twists her lips and frowns, her brows furrowing as she studies me. “Okay. Fine. I’ll show you my sketchbook, but you gotta be prepared to share something in return, Wilde. Give and take.”

I know exactly what I want to take—her—but I’m going to be good and leave her be. For now. Maybe. We’ll see how the day goes.

Amy pulls out her sketchbook and perches beside me on the bed, eyeing me nervously before cautiously pulling back the cover. “I’m really not that good…”

The strong lines and beautiful colors on the page before me would say otherwise. I hold up a hand. “Shh. I’m perfectly capable of deciding if I like what I see or not.”

And I do. I like it a lot.

Amy’s good. She hasn’t settled into her style yet. Hasn’t found that one thing that makes her work recognizable as hers, but she’s talented, no doubt. I flip through page after page of her drawings, commenting on the contrast, the shading, the perspective. I ask her what inspired each design. Sometimes, she shrugs off the question with something vague like, “I just started drawing and that’s what happened.” But others? Her answers show me that underneath whatever’s going on that caused her to upend her life is a woman who lives and loves with passion.

“So Daddy doesn’t think you could make a living off your work and you decide to major in accounting.” I shake my head as I look up from the last page of the sketchbook. “What would you have done with your life if you lived it for you?”

Amy scoffs. “That’s part of why I’m here in the first place. I quit school and dumped Avery because I realized I haven’t been living it for me. I…I’ve wondered about graphic design?” A noise downstairs startles Amy out of her seat. “Shoot! What time is it?”

I check my phone. Six fifteen. How did the entire afternoon disappear?

“This isn’t great.” Amy paces in front of me. “But it’ll be fine.”

“Is that your dad? Is that what you’re worried about?” I laugh. “Don’t sweat it. He’s going to love me.”

Looking me over, Amy sucks in her lip and shakes her head. “Yeah…you haven’t met my dad.”

I stand, placing both hands on her shoulders to stop her pacing and focus her attention. “It’s fine. I was supposed to be in Denver fifteen minutes ago. I’ll just slip out. No need for any drama, or confrontation, or whatever. Though I don’t really understand what the issue is here. You’re an adult. He doesn’t have to love that you’re pregnant, and he can offload all the blame onto the tattooed asshole who got you that way. But at the end of the day how is any of it his fucking business?”

Especially because if he would take the time to get to know said tattooed asshole, he’d realize that appearances can be deceiving.

Amy drops her chin. “It’s not the tattoos that’ll cause a problem. It’s that…what you just said.” She looks into my eyes. “And the way you said it. You don’t care what people think and have no filter. My father is very much the opposite. How you dress isn’t gonna be an issue. But making a living as an artist? And that being your plan to—” Amy makes air quotes “—provide for his grandchild. That’s what will cause him to kick you out and tell you to never come back.”

That right there? Judging the way I make my living without knowing I bring in more money than the majority of the fuckers in this small town? That makes me see red. It’s the kind of shit Chet pulls…deciding I’m defective simply because I don’t see the world his way. Besides, Amy doesn’t have a plan to ‘provide for his grandchild’ at all. The hypocrisy is nauseating.

“All right then. Looks like we’re going with confrontation.” I roll my neck from one side to the other. “Let’s do this.”

With a deep sigh, Amy opens the door and we head downstairs. The first step practically howls under the weight of my size twelve boot.

“Amy?” a voice calls from the kitchen. “That you, honey? Hey, come down here and look out the window. You’ve got to see this Mustang parked on the street. She’s a real beaut! You know I always wanted a sixty-eight myself. I just loved that…” Her father’s voice stalls when he stops at the bottom of the staircase and looks up expecting to find Amy. Alone.

“Glad you like her. I did the restore myself. From the frame up.”

Amy slips past me, placing herself on the stairs between her father and me. “This is my…friend. He was actually just leaving. He has a meeting in Denver that he’s already late for.” She turns back to me, subtly shaking her head as she speaks. “Maybe he can come back over when he’s got time to really let you take a look, or something.”

Amy’s father sneers, all the excitement he held a moment ago gone, replaced with anger. “Is this the guy?”

“Is this…?” Her eyes go wide. “How do you know?”

“Avery told me and thank goodness for him. At least someone has some sense around here.”

The look on his face is too much to let slide. I’ve seen it from my brother all my life.

“Fuck this.” I push my way past Amy down the stairs. “You don’t know me from shit. So let’s not get fucking judgmental just yet.” By the time I finish, we’re standing toe to toe and I’m very much invading his personal space. We might’ve been the same height if he was still in his twenties. But now, with me wearing boots and him withering from age, I’ve easily got two inches on him. And he knows it. Amy’s father steps back to reestablish a buffer between us, fumbling for his footing as he speaks.

“You have no right to speak to me like that in my home.” He walks to the door and throws it wide. “Get the hell out of my house. And don’t you ever come back.” He doesn’t stop yelling until I reach the car.

Be careful what you wish for, old man. You might just get it.

I yank open the door and meet Amy’s eyes over her father’s shoulder. “That. Right there. That’s why I didn’t participate in your little care and share. Thanks for sticking up for me.”

She steps past her dad, her eyes wild as she dashes down the porch steps. “Wilde! I’m sorry!”

I have nothing to say to that, so I climb into Jezebel and slam the door.