Willa
This bedroom will never feel like mine. I don’t think I’ve had a bedroom since Mom died which really felt like mine. Even at Grandma’s, my bedroom felt like some other girl’s. I always felt like an intruder as I lay down, even with my posters around me. I never quite felt like I could relax. It’s the same in Peter’s place. My bag with my clothes is pressed against one wall. I wash the clothes, dry them, and then put them back into the bag. I guess it’s so I can tell myself I’m leaving here soon. Everything else is how it was when I moved in. A bland, normal, run-of-the-mill guest room.
I lie on the bed and stare up at the ceiling, wondering what I’m going to do. Outside, one of the rarest occurrences in living memory is happening. It’s raining in LA in the summer. It’s a light downpour, pitter-pattering against the window, but it still has all the news stations in an uproar. When it started this afternoon, the phone lines went crazy. LA people can’t handle the rain.
But the rain isn’t what concerns me. Diesel is. He’s an arsonist; he’s the only man I want to be with; he’s a criminal; he’s the father of my unborn child. These are all facts I can’t ignore, even if they don’t fit well together. I want to be with him. I can’t be with him. Why does life have to be so confusing?
The knock startles me. I sit up. “Yeah?”
“It’s me. I made pizza.”
“I’m not hungry,” I reply, already lying back down.
“Please, Willa, just have some pizza. I made it for both of us. I’m not going to eat it all.” The whining note in his voice is too much to take. I try and ignore it, but he goes on. “I let you live here without paying any rent. I let you ignore me, treating this place like a hostel. The least you could do is—”
I walk across the room and throw open the door. I haven’t got the energy to have a battle of words with him. He jumps back, holding his hands up, and then smiles. “You scared me,” he says.
My chest drops a mile when I see what he’s done. He’s set up a circular dining table in the living room, cleared the couch and the chair, and put a candle on it. And he’s wearing a suit. Oh God, and now he’s leaning across to kiss me on the cheek. I dodge out of the way.
“Peter, what is this?”
The corner of his lips twitch. “I’m trying to be romantic,” he says. “I know women like you need romance, Willa, so that’s what I’m doing.”
It’s like a scene from a movie, without any of the magic. I imagine him watching some movie and thinking to himself: ah, this will get her! What does he expect me to do, crumble at the sight of some a candle? Does he expect me to become the woman he desperately wants me to be? I feel guilty for ever moving in here. It was a mistake. I should’ve let myself become homeless instead of coming here.
“Aren’t you going to say something?”
“I don’t … I don’t think I can be here anymore.”
He tilts his head at me as if I am speaking a language he doesn’t understand. “What do you mean? Look.” He gestures at the table, at the candles. “Look what I’ve done for you. And then you say that? What’s the matter with you? Look, look.” He softens his tone, stepping forward. “I know it’s been hard for you, getting over that biker, but that was a long time ago now. It’s time for you to forget him. It’s Peter’s turn.”
“It’s Peter’s turn,” I repeat. Did he really just say that?
“Oh, just come here.” When he leans into me, I smell the beer on his breath, strong, overpowering. He grabs the back of my neck and tries to force his lips against mine. I squirm, wriggling out of his grip. He catches my wrist and pulls me to him.
“Get away from me!” I snap, bringing my knee up into his groin.
He gasps, leaping back. “Ow!” he whines. “Ow! Ow! Ow! What’d you do that for, Willa?”
I massage the back of my neck. “You’re a fucking creep!” I scream, my neck throbbing with pain. “Don’t you ever touch me again!”
I march into the bedroom and pick up my bag, slinging it over my shoulder, and then kick on my sneakers. Peter hovers in the living room as I make for the door. “I didn’t mean anything by that,” he says. He sounds like he’s crying, but I won’t look at him to check. “I just wanted to be close to you. That’s all. You can’t be angry with me for that! You fucking cock-tease! Walking around like that, you fucking whore!”
I turn on him just as I’m about to leave. His insult dies on his lips.
“You need to learn to read social cues,” I say. “Because you’ve got some serious fucking problems.”
I leave the apartment building, walking out into the rain, not sure where I’m going or what I’m doing. That’s been a theme in my life, I reflect, not being sure of what I’m supposed to be doing.
I walk for an hour until my thin hoodie is soaked through, my jeans plastered to my legs, and I’m standing outside my old apartment building. It’s still a husk. They haven’t even started rebuilding it yet. Maybe that has something to do with the Chino connection. I’m pretty sure that’s why the insurance people are screwing me around, too. Rain dripping down my nose, from the bridge of my eyebrow, I walk down the street toward the bar where Diesel and I first talked. I want to go to Diesel’s place, but I know that I’m not calm enough for that. I’d end up doing something I regret.
The Princess is just as much of a dive bar as I remember it. I’m about to order a vodka and coke when I remember my baby, so I order a Diet Coke instead, sitting in the corner near the radiator and waiting to dry off. I don’t have to make any plans just yet, I tell myself. All I need to do is get dry and then I can figure it all out.
After an hour and two Diet Cokes, I start trying to figure out what my next step is. A roof, obviously. That’s priority number one. I think back to college, wondering if any of my so-called friends would be willing to help out. But I know that’s just wishful thinking. It’d be a stranger showing up on their doorstep. They’d smile politely and then ask me to leave. Brittany is a no. I can’t go back to Peter. Diesel, then … But then I come back to the main problem, which is that he’s a criminal. He hasn’t stopped being a criminal since I left him.
I go to the bar to get another Diet Coke. Even my small change is nearly spent.
“Hey there, pretty lady.”
The man’s a Skull Rider. I can tell because his jacket is slung across his shoulder, the sigil visible even if it’s crumpled. Maybe this is dumb chance, or maybe this is a Skull Rider hangout. Whatever the case, I don’t want anything to do with him. He’s short, very thin, with one of those handlebar mustaches. His black hair hangs down to his shoulders in greasy-looking curtains.
“I’m just getting a Diet Coke,” I mutter, gesturing to the barman.
The Skull Rider slides up the bar. “Why’nt you let me do that for you?” He nods at the change in my hand. “It don’t exactly look like you’re swimming in cash now, does it?”
“I’ll get my own drink, thank you.”
“Now come on, missy.” He coughs out a laugh. “Don’t treat a man like that—”
“Get out of my fucking face!” I scream, turning on him. “I said get out of my fucking face!”