CODY’S PLAYING GUITAR AGAIN.
The sound is distant, but if I sit with my ear glued to the door, I can make out the melody. It sounds like Hozier’s “Movement” today. Cody doesn’t sing, and with two doors and a hallway between us, deciphering the title is not always easy.
Still, I try. I’m growing attached to the soothing strum of his guitar. He’s played every day since he moved in, and when he didn’t last night, after taking Ana home, I was so disappointed I couldn’t sleep.
He didn’t mention Ana when I stepped out at the same time he did this morning. This time it wasn’t planned. I was pushing out a box full of clothes I decided to donate after the endless boredom drove me to reorganize my wardrobe.
I said hi.
I promised myself I wouldn’t, but when he glanced at me over his shoulder, the word bypassed my brain and sprung out without permission.
He didn’t reply. Obviously.
He’s been giving me the silent treatment for a year now, unless he has a reason to scream like the time he kicked me out of his Halloween party.
He didn’t say hi back. He didn’t say fuck off or stop talking to me or do you need help…? but he did grab the box I was struggling with, hoping to push it all the way down the corridor, into the elevator, then outside, and somehow load it into my car.
Without a word or a backward glance, holding my box, Cody marched away. I followed, my heart beating a wild rhythm. I half expected him to toss the box—and me—down the stairs, but no.
Cody isn’t spiteful.
He holds grudges, hates me, and makes it known, but he’s not spiteful. He wouldn’t hurt me for the sake of it.
Not wanting to jinx this tiny progress, I quietly asked if he could load the box into my car, pointing out my Porsche to save him asking. I opened the trunk, and once he deposited the box inside, he walked away, without so much as a nod.
Progress is progress.
Helping me is a gesture louder than hi, so I took it as a good omen. I also stood watching his biceps and triceps shifting and pulsing as he yanked the door to his Mustang open.
Now, with a heavy sigh, cradling a cup of hot tea in both hands, I slide down my door until my butt hits the cool marble floor. Eyes closed, I listen to the melody.
He’s good. I’ve imagined what he looks like with that guitar in hand a thousand times. I never knew he played until I moved here, but during the past week, I learned many things about Cody Hayes.
He plays guitar and he’s damn good at it.
He hums along to music when he’s got earphones in.
Metallica is his favorite band judging by how many of their songs he plays.
Oh, and let’s not forget the obvious—he has a stalker.
Not me. Though I admit, I ponder timing my condo exits to run into him again, but my intentions are not to earn a night.
As hot as Cody is, there’s too much foul history and hatred between us to hope he’d ever look at me like anything but a waste of space. What I want is a chance to apologize. Really apologize, not just throw him a quick sorry. Forgiveness would be best, but it’s a stretch. I can’t expect people to forgive me when I can’t even forgive myself.
I’ll take civil from Cody, as Brandon described it. If we can be civil, maybe somewhere down the line I’ll have a chance to apologize to Mia too. So far, all attempts have been futile.
Even with that goal in mind, I am not stalking Cody. Ana is.
She was here again today. Or maybe she still is. When I came home an hour ago from my therapy session, she stood by the door, scrolling through her phone, large shades concealing half her face. She didn’t ask me to let her in, so I guess she decided to ambush Cody when he leaves. Which I’m sure he will.
It’s Saturday. He usually hangs out with his brothers, but they don’t meet until seven or eight in the evening, so Ana has a good six-hour wait ahead.
The notes Cody plays right now grow angrier with every strum, but it takes nothing away from the melody. If anything, it gives it a raw, gritty edge that sends shivers down my spine.
My fingers twitch as I spin a pencil between them. I’ve been sitting on the floor, back against the door, sketchpad in hand every day, but the pages are blank. I’d love to sketch him with his guitar, engrossed in the music, but I can’t seem to start.
I shouldn’t be thinking about Cody at all. I shouldn’t imagine how he looks right now. I shouldn’t listen to him play.
He’s not said one word to me in over seven months—since the Halloween party—but now we live across the hallway and I see him daily, the stupid crush has resurfaced.
I know I’m just trying to break the loneliness somehow, and I know Cody’s the last person I should lust after but it’s hard not to think about someone you see every day…
A loud knock on the door almost has me spilling tea all over myself. I know that knock. It’s so distinct there is no mistaking who stands on the other side.
KNOCK knock-knock-knock-knock KNOCK-KNOCK.
My muscles pull taut when, a second later, he knocks again, an angry boom. Before I scramble to my feet, a tight ball of nerves settles deep in my stomach.
He knocks again, measured annoyance reverberating through each thump of his fist as if I’m purposely making him wait.
I cast a quick glance in the mirrored coat closet doors, making sure I look decent. I purposely leave the scrunchie holding my hair up intact—a tiny blade in his back. Mom always wore her hair up and he hates that I remind him of her so much.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, stepping out of his way as he strolls inside, loosening his tie as if it’s choking him.
Stopping in the middle of the living room, he assesses the space, delaying the moment when his gaze will inevitably land on me. He has no problem using me, but looking at me when I’m not playing a role is a hard pill to swallow. Even standing ten feet away, I notice his breathing hiccup when our eyes lock.
It doesn’t last long.
After a fleeting glance, he returns to the safety of scrutinizing my new condo. “You’re not dressed,” he clips, two angry creases lining his forehead. “And this place is a fucking mess, Blair.”
Other than my sketchpad on the breakfast bar and a single Victoria’s Secret bag hanging over the back of the stool, nothing is out of order. He could eat off the floor it’s so clean.
“I didn’t have time to put the sketchbook away. I was—”
“Excuses,” he snaps, his eyes quickly appraising my body as he pinches the bridge of his nose in clear exasperation. “What is this?” He points at a wooden stand housing a few plants I bought to give this place a less clinical vibe.
This is my father’s idea of small talk—belittling me and finding faults in things I enjoy to reinforce the sky-high wall between us. Not that it needs reinforcing.
We barely speak unless I’m required to play a role in his schemes. Outside that, he usually contacts me through his assistant.
During the past year, I’ve seen him a dozen times at the many banquets and business meetings he organizes, but only twice outside the “work” environment, even though we lived in the same house the whole time.
I saw him at my mother’s funeral, then again when he handed me the key to this condo. A subtle way of saying I can’t stand having you under my roof any longer.
I share the sentiment. Spending my days alone in his house made me feel lonelier than I already was. Here, the space is smaller, no echo from my solitary footsteps in the grand entryway, no deafening silence.
I’m still on my own, but the sounds filtering in from outside keep the loneliness at bay.
Dad met a woman not long ago—something I learned from Brandon. Our fathers do business together, and apparently, Dad introduced his new girlfriend to them three weeks before handing me the key to this place.
It must’ve been increasingly inconvenient, avoiding his mansion to keep me away from her, so I was evicted.
“They’re plants,” I say, crossing my hands over my chest, my tone emotionless. It’s my only line of defense.
His eyes snap to me again, and I shrink in on myself under his belittling stare. “Why aren’t you ready?”
“Ready for what?”
“Lunch with Mr. Anderson!”
Lunch means it’s starting all over again. My father’s voice booms in my ears, drowning out the melody Cody’s playing. An invisible hand grips my throat, tightening the hold. This is why I hate seeing him. Because in nine out of ten cases, it means a few weeks of crying myself to sleep.
Lunch is the first meeting. Casual but professional so Dad can test the water. Three hours of polite conversation tinged with weighted questions to figure out Mr. Anderson’s weaknesses and the most effective bait.
And then, if he considers it the best strategy, he uses me to reel in the catch. Bait and hook. Keep Mr. Anderson coming back to discuss business until he’s in my father’s grasp, dancing on his strings like a lifeless puppet.
“Are you listening to me?” Dad barks, and my stomach tightens, coiling around my spine. “I told you yesterday that I’d pick you up at one o’clock sharp.”
He didn’t tell me. I’ve not spoken to him all week but he’d never admit he forgot to mention the meeting or instruct his assistant to do so. It doesn’t matter who’s at fault.
He’s right, I’m wrong, and end of story.
I play along.
It’s easier that way. Less painful.
“I’m sorry. I’ll be ready in five minutes, I promise.”
“Three. Not a minute longer. Red dress, high heels…” He leaves the remaining demands that I know off by heart hanging in the air unspoken.
His hands are clean if he doesn’t voice them. He can pretend it was my initiative to wear a slutty, revealing dress, even though Dad was the one who bought all my red dresses. He can pretend I purposely chose one that doesn’t accommodate a bra.
That it’s my idea to flaunt my body in Mr. Anderson’s face so Dad can gauge his reaction.
He can pretend I’m a slut, happy to tease older men until they sign contracts, making my father richer and richer and richer…
As if the millions he makes aren’t enough.
That’s all we’ve been doing in the Fitzpatrick household for years—pretending everything is fine. Normal.
Nothing about our family has been fine or normal since my mom was diagnosed with schizophrenia when I was five.
She started having random episodes even earlier. My earliest clear memory is from when I was about four. Mom and I were sitting in the living room watching a Disney movie late into the evening. Dad wasn’t home; it was just us two there when she started talking to herself. Her hands shook as she looked at things I couldn’t see, and when I tried to get her attention she yelled at the wall.
I remember how scared I was the louder she screamed. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get her to look at me. I couldn’t understand what she was yelling. Words jumbled together, her face paled, eyes turned bleak and fearful. She sprang to her feet, frantically pacing the room until she collapsed to her knees by the coffee table, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Why did you kill your daddy?! You killed him!” she accused.
She said I stabbed him in the neck. Kept yelling about blood. Kept pointing at the floor as if Dad lay there bleeding out.
I begged her to stop. I cried and promised that I didn’t do anything, that Dad wasn’t home, that she was wrong…
She wasn’t listening.
Scared, I ran to my room and hid under the covers until Dad found me hours later. Mom had stopped screaming by then but never came looking for me.
Dad didn’t believe me when I told him what happened. He said I made it all up because I watched too many cartoons.
He witnessed one of Mom’s breakdowns firsthand not long after.
From then on, the episodes were more and more frequent. Once she was diagnosed, after months of psychiatric evaluations, the real battle began: testing different medications to find a combination that worked, changing them because of side effects, hallucinations, delusions, screams, tears…
I was alone with her for days on end. Dad quickly withdrew from us. He still came home every night, but slept in a separate bedroom from Mom, and fled before we woke up in the morning.
There were weeks when I didn’t see him at all. Days I spent crying under the bed, hungry and scared of the one person I should feel safe with.
I was just a little girl. I didn’t understand that my mother had no control over her delusions, that she didn’t mean to scream or accuse me of doing awful things. She was sick, Dad was absent, and I felt utterly powerless for years.
My home became hell, but it wasn’t always bad.
There were good moments when the doctors found the right meds to keep Mom relatively sane. She was functioning better. The delusions subsided if she remembered to take them on time… until my father realized the potential of her disease.
“Fucking move, Blair. You’re running out of time!” He barks the order, shoving me toward my bedroom.
One foot after the next, I move. I pull out one of the many red dresses he bought me for the events I attend on his arm—the only color I’m allowed to wear and the one I despise most.
The dress is tiny: two delicate silver chains acting as shoulder straps and a bit of fabric circling my ribs. It just about covers my ass, so there’s that. It’s ludicrously, inappropriately short. Backless. Deep cleavage.
Most women at my father’s “work” events wear beautiful cocktail dresses, whether long or short. They’re elegant, exquisite, and I… I’m dressed like an expensive hooker. The dress is a gold label, and the soles on my heels are red.
Cheap whores don’t wear Louboutins.
Not even the escorts my father’s associates bring with them tip the scales as far to the expensive side as I do.
Shitty consolation, but I grab what I find.
“Wear bling,” Dad’s voice booms. “Lots of bling. This is an important meeting, Blair. You need to do good.”
All these meetings are important. He always tells me I need to do good, or he’ll cut me off. The last time I misbehaved, slapping an old man’s hand away when he squeezed my butt hard enough to leave a bruise, Dad took away my car.
I was sixteen. Untouchable. Illegal.
But inconvenient facts didn’t matter to my father, the great Gideon Fitzpatrick. Consent was a meaningless word while he paraded me around, using my young body to taunt sleazy businessmen, melt their perverted brains, and close lucrative deals while they salivated at my every move.
I rebelled the first few times. I cried, begged, and threatened him with the police, but he quickly found a way to cease my tantrums—as he called them—by confiscating Mom’s meds whenever I caused any trouble.
Watching her succumb to the hallucinations was worse than feeling the heated gazes of much older men roving my body.
I gave up fighting pretty quickly.
Either play along or be played.
Dad prefers option three, one not available to me: play them. Play everyone. That’s what he does best: manipulates people until they chase the carrot on the stick using any means available, and while that’s not always me, it happens often.
Though not nearly as often as before I turned eighteen. It’s been a while since the last event. A month at least. Enough that I started hoping, yet again, that maybe I’m too old to appease the degenerates he feeds off.
Apparently not.
“Ready,” I say, joining him in the living room, the tight dress rolling up, showing off too much skin. I tug it down every few steps, or else my ass will be on display.
Which is kind of the point.
“Hair down,” Dad clips, looking me over like a piece of meat. “And do your makeup darker. You have one minute.”
Obeying the order, I retreat into my bathroom, do a quick smokey eye, and fan my hair out so I don’t remind him of Mom as much as I do with my hair up.
“Red lips!” Dad yells, his voice shaking the door.
He must’ve forgotten I no longer live in his mansion. I still can’t believe he let me move out. I begged him for my own place since I started college, but the answer was always a resounding no until three weeks ago when he gave me the key to this place.
I find my red lipstick, coat my lips, and grip the sink with both hands, hanging my head low. Time for a quick pep talk.
I can do this. I’ve done it many times. This is the last stretch. Just one more year before it stops.
Once I’m independent, once I can access my trust fund, I’ll take my life into my own hands. No more relying on Dad. Even if I don’t get my dream job, I’d rather do anything else than play the lead role in Dad’s puppet show.
I could find a job now. Work as a cleaner or at a retail store. I could sleep in a cheap motel until I save enough for rent. It’s plausible. Doable.
The problem is that the friends I’m slowly earning back will turn on me if I’m broke. I won’t fit in their circle once I can’t afford pointless shopping sprees or late-night cocktail bar gossip sessions—something I hope they’ll soon invite me to join. Though if I’m driving anything less than my Porsche I can’t see that happening.
No matter how much I hate meeting my father’s expectations, I’m stuck for another year. I came this far already… throwing away the long struggle to keep my head above water wouldn’t make sense now that I almost see the finish line in the distance. One more year in exchange for a condo, stuffed bank account, and a trust fund isn’t that high a price.
Survival of the fittest.
Exhaling all the air from my lungs, I glance at my reflection. “You’ve got this,” I whisper, pushing away from the sink.
