Taming the Storm

“Have I called who?”

Shannon gives me a look while tugging hard on another strap and fastening it. “You know who—Tom.”

“No. Why would I?” I shift in my seat, averting my eyes.

“You know why. There.” She fastens the last buckle, sounding out of breath. “I thought I was never gonna get those fuckers fastened. Stand up,” she tells me.

I get to my feet, wobbling on the ridiculous heels.

“Walk for me. Let’s see how you look in them.”

“I thought I was a singer, not a catwalk model?”

“You’re not tall enough to be a catwalk model, so shut up your moaning and start walking, sista.” She grins.

I stick my tongue out at her and then start to make my way up the aisle, heading toward the mirror in front of me. I look like a complete tool. The shoes actually do look hot. I just can’t walk in them.

They even look good with my cutoffs and the Angry Birds T-shirt I’m wearing, the one Tom bought for me.

Okay, I like to torture myself by wearing the gift he bought me. And I also might keep his leather jacket in my bedroom, so I can wrap myself up in it at night. I hate myself for holding on to him when he hurt me so much.

“I look like an idiot,” I complain.

Shannon comes up from behind, looking at me in the mirror. “No, you don’t. You look hot. We’re getting them. Now, sit your ass back down, so I can take them off.”

I take a seat. As she works on getting one shoe off, I work on unfastening the other. With my leg hitched up on my thigh, I start unbuckling.

“So, remind me why you haven’t called Tom.”

I let out a sigh, trying to put on a pretense of being bored by her question, when really, all I’m attempting to do is stop my pain from bleeding out all over the floor of this store.

“I have no reason to call him.”

You and me…we end here.

“Bullshit. You miss him.”

“I really don’t.”

I do. I miss him so badly that I feel like I can’t breathe most days. And at the mere mention of his name, I want to scream out the pain tearing at my insides.

Aside from torturing myself with his leather jacket, I also go to bed every night listening to “Thought I’d Died and Gone to Heaven” on loop because he told me that’s his song for me. Analyzing those lyrics, wishing that he had meant those words in the way I wanted him to and not just to serve as a reminder of a time when he once screwed me under a stage.

Steeling myself, I say, “Even if I did, what does it matter? Tom doesn’t miss me.”

He can’t stand the sight of me.

“Yeah, he does.”

My head snaps up, my mouth instantly dry. “He does? Has he said something to you?”

“No. But it’s that right there.” She lets go of the shoe to point at my face. “That look on your face when you thought he missed you—it’s relief. And now, crushing disappointment because you know he hasn’t said that to me.” She grabs my foot again and starts yanking at the buckles. “The two of you need to sort your shit out.” She stops pulling at the shoe and stares me in the face. “Tom might not have said that he misses you to me, but I saw him yesterday, and he looked like shit. I’ve never seen Tom look like shit. And he looked fucking awful. So, I made a point of mentioning your name, and when I did, he looked like I’d just shot his puppy, and then he was out of there a minute later.”

I can’t hide my care anymore. “He looked like shit?” Is it wrong that the thought of Tom looking like shit makes me feel a little better?

“Yep, he was unshaven and well on his way to growing that fucking beard back. Unlike last time though, it doesn’t look hot. It looks gross, like he hasn’t washed for a week. Same with his clothes. And he stank of whiskey. He had dark circles under his eyes that even I wouldn’t be able to cover. He looks like total shit, and I’m guessing it’s because he misses you.”

“He doesn’t miss me.”

The sooner I’m out of here, the fucking better.

My lips turn down at the corners.

Shannon sits up on her haunches and grabs my hands, holding them together on my thighs. “I don’t know what happened between the two of you. I only know the tidbits you’ve given me over these last two weeks, but it’s clear you care about him, and he cares about you. Just call him. What have you got to lose?”

I slide my hands free and move my eyes down. I start on those damn buckles again.

“Pride. I’m not calling Tom. The last time I spoke to him, he made it abundantly clear that he doesn’t want anything to do with me. Anyway, even if he has changed his mind, it’s too late. I’ve moved on.”

“Bullshit,” she mutters. “Stubborn, the both of you.” She grabs my foot, yanks it over to her, and finishes removing that damn shoe.

Thirty Minutes Later—Robertson Boulevard, LA

“You wanna grab a coffee?” Shannon asks as we walk toward my car.

“Sure, let’s just dump these bags in the trunk first.”

I unlock my car and pop the trunk. I throw the shopping bags in and shut down the lid.

“Shit,” Shannon utters.

Lifting my gaze to her, I follow her stare across the street, and my eyes land straight on Tom. He’s standing by a black town car parked outside a swanky restaurant.

I can see from here that he looks tired, not his usual pulled-together self, and the beard is definitely making a comeback.