What's Left of Me Page 4

  I kick my shoes off, needing to wiggle my toes from the cramp that formed during my orgasm, as Parker pulls out and makes his way off of me. I follow his naked body as he walks into the kitchen to dispose of the condom. I’m not sure what comes now. Are we supposed to talk? Share our likes and dislikes? This one-night stand business is all so new to me.

  When I’m about to open my mouth to say something, Parker comes back into view.

  “Sorry, had to toss that out. Where were we?” He smirks as he climbs back onto the couch, positioning himself behind me. I feel his warm breath on my neck as he reaches behind him to grab the throw blanket on the back of the couch. “Here,” he says softly as he wraps it around us. Positioning himself on his side so that he’s against the back of the couch, he pulls me against him, so I follow, turning to my side and leaning into him. I just lie there, my eyes open in disbelief. That answers my questions.

  I can feel the sun coming through the window before I even open my eyes. Shit. My head hurts. I guess that will teach me to drink so much again.

  I’m on my side with my back pressed against Parker and his arm still securely around me. However, I’m not on the couch. Lifting his arm off of me, I scoot out of the bed I’m now in. Parker rolls onto his back. I hold my breath at the sight of him moving, willing him not to open his eyes.

  He must have carried me in here last night. Wow, I must have passed out hard. I quickly move my hands over my hair, smoothing it into place.

  Looking back down at Parker sleeping so peacefully, I let my eyes scan over his body in the daylight. Last night didn’t do his body justice. He’s more beautiful now than before, and I didn’t think that was even possible. I let my eyes linger over him, tracing every ripple, outline, and curve that forms below his hips into that one hot, muscular V. So hot. I reach out and slowly trace it with my fingers. He’s a lot tanner in the light. It matches his blond hair and blue eyes perfectly. He’s textbook perfect. Well, maybe if he had a tattoo or two he’d be textbook perfect. But, with or without them, he’s pretty damn close.

  I step quietly out of his bedroom toward the living room, looking for my clothes. Once I find my thong and bra, I quietly put them back on, while looking for my dress that Parker tossed aside. I find it on the floor where one of my shoes fell. I bend to pick them up. When I start to step into my dress, I check the clock on the TV stand. 8:26 am.

  Holy shit!

  I finish getting dressed at lightning speed. I find my other shoe just in time for me to panic at the thought of not finding my purse.

  It’s not that I have anywhere to go, but the sudden need to get out of here before Parker wakes up comes over me. I don’t think I could face him after last night. Awkward.

  I turn in circles, looking for my purse. I blame the alcohol. Okay, that’s a lie. But the alcohol did play a factor. I find it sitting between the living room and dining room. I don’t remember putting it there last night.

  I don’t remember much of last night aside from Parker: kissing, tongues, our bodies moving together, and God all mighty, having the best orgasm of my life.

  With my shoes in my hands, I walk over to pick up my purse.

  The kitchen is off to my left. I take in the granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. There isn’t anything on the counters. Not even a piece of mail. His apartment is modern with gray and blue tones throughout. Turning to head toward the door, I notice a picture of him on an end table. He’s with two older people: a man and a woman. His parents? I wonder how old he is. Maybe late twenties? Early thirties?

  Okay, Aundrea, move along. Stop thinking about how old Mr. Handsome is.

  I decide not to put my shoes back on so I don’t wake Parker. I think about leaving my number, but then remember what this was supposed to be. A one-night stand. Nothing more.

  I bump into the corner of the wall as I walk toward the door and drop one of my shoes onto his hardwood floors.

  “Shit!” I hiss. I hear Parker stirring in the bedroom, which causes me to move faster. Picking up my shoe, I keep walking forward.

  “Aundrea?” Parker calls from the bedroom.

  I don’t look back. I open the door and close it too loud, heading for the elevator. I push the elevator button multiple times, willing it to reach my floor as if continuously pushing it will make it go faster. When I hear loud movements and banging coming from inside his apartment, I can only speculate he’s getting dressed to come after me. I see a door under an exit sign by the elevators with another sign reading “Stairs.” Opening it, I take two steps at a time. I make it to the ninth floor where I stand and wait in the stairwell. I stand there for minutes before I walk the rest of the way down crossing my fingers that I don’t see Parker in the lobby.

  Or ever again.

  Chapter Four

  Exiting Parker’s building with no sign of him anywhere, I make my way back toward Max’s Bar where my car is parked. I search through my phone to call Jean. After six rings it, goes to voicemail. I just leave a quick message, letting her know I am heading to the car and to let me know if she needs me to pick her up.

  I feel so embarrassed walking the street in last night’s clothes. I can hear the thoughts screaming out at me from the pedestrians walking by. Walk of shame! I still haven’t put on my shoes in hopes of reaching the car faster. I don’t even think about what I may be walking on. Keeping my head held high, I walk the last block to the car when my phone beeps.

  Jean: Shannon will drop me off at the car in ten. She has to meet her family for brunch.

  Me: Ok. See you in a few.

  Waiting in the car for Jean, I think of Parker and last night. I wonder if he does that sort of thing all the time. Pick up random strangers at the bar. With my heart racing at the thought of Parker doing that, I can only hope he doesn’t think I do that all the time.

  Of course, he probably does!

  Shannon’s red SUV pulls up behind me. Jean gets out, making her way to the car. She’s smiling. Queue the squeals and questions in three … two …

  “Spill it!”

  “What? No, ‘how are you this morning?’” I tease.

  “Umm, no! I want the dirt! Spill!” I roll my eyes as I watch her buckle in.

  With a soft laugh, I pull out of the parking lot. Once I’m out onto the main road, I tell her all about the night, from meeting him at the bathroom, twice, the walk to his apartment, the conversations, and small details about us having sex. By her wide eyes, I think she gets the idea of just how amazing my night was.

  “So it was good?”

  “Better than good.”

  “Hot?”

  “Way hot!”

  “You made him wrap it up, right?”

  I roll my eyes. “Yes, Mom. He used a condom.”

  “Good. Did you get his number?”

  I turn to face her with my mouth open. After a split second, I close it, turning back toward the road. “No. Last night was all about just sex. It was me letting go.”

  “Well, you could have gotten his number. Especially if the sex was as hot as you made it sound.”

  “You’re the one who said to have meaningless, sexy, one-night sex. Now you’re saying I should have gotten the man’s number?”

  “You don’t always have to listen to me, you know.”

  “Oh my god. You’re so frustrating sometimes!”

  She bursts out laughing at that. “But that’s why you love me!”

  “Yeah, that’s it,” I mumble sarcastically.

  “Well, did you at least have another round with him before you left this morning?”

  “Are you kidding me? No! I ran out of there so fast after I scrambled around looking for my clothes. Do you know how embarrassing it was to walk the streets looking the way I do? This is not a church outfit!”

  She laughs even harder now, tears coming to her eyes.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing. It’s just…” She pauses to try to control her breathing. “It’s just, I can see y
ou running around his place, frantically trying to pick up all your clothes before he woke up!”

  I have to admit, it is pretty funny now that I look back on it. I start to laugh with her.

  After we calm down, I ask if Shannon mentioned talking to him last night.

  “No. She didn’t say anything. Just talked about the guy she met on the dance floor and how she got his number. We pretty much passed out the second we walked into her place.”

  Okay. So, he didn’t leave a lasting impression on her then. That’s good, right? I try to convince myself that I don’t care because it’s not like I’ll ever see him again. I make a mental note to never go to that bar again on the off chance that I might run into him.

  When we get back to Genna’s, I notice the garage door is open. Her maroon G6 is gone, but Jason’s in there waxing his newest toy: a crotch rocket. I let out a soft laugh remembering when Genna called me to bitch about his purchase. She was so upset. Something about them being too dangerous and how he’ll just be reckless on it. Personally, I find it rather hot.

  We both wave at Jason before heading into the house.

  Once back in my room, I get into cotton shorts and a tank top before helping Jean gather her things together.

  With the last of her things tucked into her suitcase, she gives me a sad smile. “Aww. Come here, I need a hug!” She wraps her arms tightly around my lower back, pulling me into her. The sudden impact turns the dull ache in my hip into a sharp pain.

  Thankful for the space once she releases me, I lean back against my dresser for support. The pain takes my breath away, so I just stand there motionless for a minute, waiting for the tingling sensation to go away.

  “Are you okay?”

  Blowing off her words, I make my way to the bed where I can sit down for a second. “Oh, yeah. I’m fine.”

  “You sure?”

  Giving her a hopeful smile, I nod.

  “I had a lot of fun, Dre.”

  “Me too. Make sure to text me when you get to your place.”

  “Of course.”

  “Love you.”

  “Ditto.”

  I walk her down to the front door. Standing in the open doorway, I wait until she gets into her car and drives away before I head into the kitchen. I can smell the fresh pot of coffee and pour myself a large mug. Genna is just as obsessed with coffee as I am. I swear her coffee pot is always on. I add cream and sugar. I like my coffee white.

  With my mug in hand, I make my way back up the stairs to take a shower. I hate the smell of sex, and it’s all I smell on me, with a hint of Parker lingering. His smell is good. Really good.

  Setting my hot cup of coffee down, I strip off my clothes, then clip my hair back to wash off the remainder of my makeup. I hate that no matter how I try to pin it back, pieces always seem to find their way out when I wash my face. With my head still leaning over the sink, I reach blindly for a bobby pin to pin back the long pieces that keep falling into my eyes.

  I stop.

  Instead, I bring my hand up, brushing the top of my hairline and gently undoing the clips in my hair. I remove my chin length wig, letting my scalp breathe. I set my wig on the mannequin head I have sitting out, taking a quick glance at myself in the mirror as I do so.

  Sighing, I take in my disheveled, thin strawberry blonde pixie cut. It’s short, just reaching the tops of my ears. I hate it.

  I miss my hair. A lot. It used to be long, thick, and naturally curly. I never thought it would be a big deal to lose it. I mean, it’s just hair, right? It’ll grow back. Wrong. I haven’t seen my long hair in four years.

  When I first found a clump of my hair on my bed after one of my chemo treatments, I panicked. Like, really panicked. I don’t know why, but I thought, after the first couple treatments when my hair was still present, that maybe it wouldn’t fall out.

  I cried the entire time my mom shaved my head. She wanted to cut it shorter and wait, but I wanted to be in control. I needed to be in control. I was going to make the decision of when my hair got to leave my body. Not someone else or my cancer.

  People don’t realize how much their hair is a part of who they are. I didn’t realize how much my hair was a part of me. A part of my identity. How I’d wear it up when I wanted to look and feel sophisticated, or wear it down to hide behind when I’d have a bad day and didn’t want to face anyone. Flip it when I’d try to flirt with a cute boy, or have big, bouncy curls when I’d feel as if I could take on the world.

  Over the last four years, I’ve gotten used to seeing my hair come and go. It got easier with time, if you can even imagine that, but no matter how many times I try, I still can’t go out in public with a bald head, a wrap, or short like it is now. People stare. They don’t say anything, but I know what they’re thinking.

  “Oh, that poor girl. She must be sick. Maybe she has cancer.”

  I don’t want anyone’s pity. I get enough of that from my family. They’re constantly watching my every move. Making sure I’m eating right, taking my medications, or resting frequently. When I go out in public, I just want to feel like and be seen as me. That’s why it’s so hard to go without my wig: because then I’d have to face the world as a woman who has cancer rather than a woman who is just trying to fit in.

  I clip my wig back on after my shower and spend the remainder of the afternoon napping and reading. I hear the soft knock on the door before my sister's words come through the small crack, breaking my concentration from the pages I’m reading. “Dre, can I come in?”

  “Of course,” I reply, not looking up from my Kindle.

  I see movement out of the corner of my eyes as she makes her way around the boxes of my things. Scooting over, I make room on the bed for her, setting the Kindle down next to me.

  I can tell by the expression on her porcelain face that she wants to have one of those heartfelt talks. Like the ones from an episode of Full House that end in happy tears, soft music, and hugs after discussing a life lesson. My sister means well, but in this moment the last thing on my mind is talking, especially about whatever she has in mind.

  “Did you have fun last night?”

  “Yeah, we had a really good time.”

  “I gathered.” She laughs. “You two stayed out all night.”

  I don’t respond. Normally I tell my sister everything, but I don’t feel like telling her about my one-night stand.

  “Did I tell you I love that color on you? It suits you.”

  I look down, taking in my pink tank top and black shorts. I turn to face her, raising my eyebrows in question. Reaching out, she locks a small strand of my hair and twirls it around her finger. “Your hair. You look beautiful as a brunette.” She gives me a soft smile before letting my hair drop back against my chin. Turning her head away from me she focuses her attention back on my room.

  I hate saying that. My room. It doesn’t feel like my room. It feels more like a prison.

  “Are you going to unpack?” It’s been eight days since I moved in.

  “Soon.” I’m not sure I’m ready to unpack every box, making my stay here permanent.

  She nods in agreement, frowning at the boxes stacked on top of one another. Genna is a neat freak, so I doubt she’s fond of my decorating style.

  “We can paint it if you'd like.” She gestures toward the beige walls, still not looking at me.

  Beige. It’s such a mundane color. This is the only room in their three-bedroom house that is lacking in color. The rest of the house is filled with vibrant colors, making the rooms feel full of life. Maybe that’s why she gave this one to me?

  “It's fine,” I reply, looking around at the walls.

  Genna sighs softly, but she doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. I know she knows that it’s not fine. We’re women. Women don’t use the word fine literally.

  “Genna, thank you.” I feel as if I should say more, so I add, “For everything.” For some reason, I think I should also say some words of encouragement to take that sad look off her f
ace, but nothing more comes.

  She leans her head on my shoulder as she takes my right hand into hers, lacing our fingers together. “Dre, whatever you need, or want, just tell me. I want you to be comfortable here. Don't feel like you can't make any changes. This is your room and your home, despite what you say or think. Jason and I want you to be comfortable. You can decorate this room, paint it, or do whatever you want. We just want you to be happy.”

  I don't respond. I don't have the heart to tell her that I’m trying. I’m trying to be happy, but I don’t know how. Not anymore.

  Genna has the most positive outlook on life, and sometimes I think her heart is truly made of gold. She’s seven years older than me and has always been my protector. My parents tried to have a baby for four years before they looked into adoption. It was almost two years to the date when the agency called, saying they had a newborn baby girl for them, in China. My parents wanted a fast, smooth adoption, and the agency told them China would give them that. It was more expensive, but money was no object when it came to them wanting a baby.

  After they’d gotten the news, they’d hopped on a flight and returned three weeks later with Genna. My parents had thought their dreams of being a family were complete until the day my mom found out she was pregnant with me. To this day, my parents call me their miracle baby.

  Despite not being blood related, Genna is my big sister in every way. We don’t need to have the same blood to be family, which is why we have matching tattoos on our feet. Sisters by Chance, Friends by Choice.

  “Come on.” She stands up from the bed, gesturing for me to follow. “It’s time to get dinner started. You can help chop veggies.”

  Standing, I follow her downstairs to the kitchen. She’s a fantastic cook. I don’t know why she didn’t go to culinary school to become a chef, rather than a substitute teacher. Genna is the perfect wife. She spends her free time volunteering or baking.