Fade Back (A Stepbrother Romance Novella) (7 page)

T
hree long weeks
passed before Becka could handle the thought of facing Fitz again, and as the days stretched on interminably, she barely recognized herself. 

The old Becka, the one from before she ran into Fitz and got a glimpse of what love could be, would have gone out every day and night until she'd forgotten that guy's face. She'd have danced and strutted and preened in the wide mirrors of every club in town, rub up against strangers and for all intents and purposes used her dismay as fuel for getting over him. A break could, under the right conditions, be the greatest fun a gorgeous young thing like Becka could have.

But not this time.

Her apartment was pristine at first. The adrenaline from her confrontations with her father, first via that phone call and later via an in person conversation at their scheduled brunch, and that brief but heartbreaking talk with Fitz, drove her to herculean efforts of hygiene. She cleaned everything she could get her hands on, and when the whole house shone and gleamed like an Ikea catalogue photo shoot, she sat down, and the anxiety, the apprehension, and misery immediately started lapping at her feet. That was when the cleaning stopped, and Becka became mired in her own sloppy unhappiness. 

She didn't dare call Jerome or Mick, despite her friends leaving one rambling message after another, at first oblivious to Becka’s pain and then probing and then outraged at the radio silence. While she couldn't absorb her friends’ wise words of reassurance before hurricane Fitz tore apart her life, she was all too aware of them now.

Jerome would help you, he's your friend
, she kept telling herself.
Mick too
. But despite this perfectly reasonable argument, Becka froze when she picked up the phone. She knew Jerome would immediately offer his services to relieve any physical tension, whether that meant punching someone or help her clean her place once again. Mick would be all cerebral and pick apart her predicament till there was nothing to pick apart. But the act of swallowing her internal turmoil and staying strong enough to endure her friends’ advice was too much for her battered resilience.

In the meantime, she couldn't bring herself to take any action. She just knew she wanted Fitz back—to feel him, to smell his hair and the warmth of his breath against her cheek. And since he was on her dad’s side in all of this, Becka just felt miserable.

She watched daytime TV, and late night TV, and dozed in between, fretfully dreaming of Fitz. She’d wake up sticky and strangely sad, surrounded by pizza boxes and delivery containers in the same pair of sweatpants over and over. She took days off work, for the first time ever, and when she went back in, she was a shadow of her former self, smiling like an automaton, yet nobody there noticed. With this fresh perspective on the scene, Becka realized how shallow her interactions were. She may be one of the golden goddesses of clubland but it was lonesome up there on the pedestal.

Becka thought about grad school. About changing her job. About geometry. She didn't look in the mirror much lately, and she didn't try to read the lines of ink on her torso like Braille any more. She didn't do much of anything for those long, miserable weeks.

Eventually, her friends had enough. Jerome called Mick, and Mick dragged the normally belligerent Karen along to Becka’s apartment. They brought air fresheners, garbage bags, and a salad. Jerome brought a bottle of Bacardi. All three of them turned up outside Becka’s door one afternoon, banging away and shouting at her from her talk-show induced stupor. She peeked through the peephole, even though she recognized their voices instantly, and considered pretending she was out until she heard Jerome grumble through the thick wooden door: 

"We know you're there, and we don't care how pasty and gross you look. I can smell you from here.”

And for a split second, Becka smiled, the first expression beyond a pained grimace she'd managed in all that time. She opened the door, and like particles filling a vacuum, her friends swarmed in, even Karen, who beyond the confines of the tattoo parlor was more than capable of dropping her scowl. The sight of her holding Mick’s hand, her assorted rings and bracelets chiming, their casual intimacy... it made Becka want to cry. And worse, she remembered how things like that used to make her sneer and scoff with derision.
Love is for cowards
, she'd proclaim to anyone listening,
for the wimps, ugly, and dull
. She realized all those times she'd simply been describing herself, or her worst fears for herself. 

Mick noticed Becka wiping off a tear as he swept arm-loads of detritus from the surfaces, while Karen and Jerome together tackled the clearly two-person job of fixing a round of Bacardi, lime, and sodas. He left the two tattooed freaks to argue the finer points of lime wedges vs slices and sat himself down beside his friend. Rumpling her caramel-colored hair, he didn't make a face when he felt its greasy lankness. He wiped a tear from Becka’s face and sighed while he rocked her gently.

"You party girls are really shitty at this stuff, huh?" he coaxed in a voice he normally reserved for dealing with children and dogs. "Come on Becka, is this really the first time you've been in love? You’re used to have all these men at your feet every day.”

"I don’t know. I guess I just thought I was... you know, tougher… than anyone else because I never let anyone close.”

"You didn’t! You were the queen of never letting anyone close!” Jerome trilled merrily as he rammed a mason jar of foaming cocktail in his hands like it was succor for a bombed-out family in the blitz, and Becka received it in that spirit. 

"Yeah, well, I guess I realized there wasn't anyone who was worth it. I just liked all those guys because I wanted to feel hot and admired, but there was never any love."

"Well, now that you know what it's like, I guess you've got a couple of choices," Karen said. She sat down in the armchair opposite Becka and crossed her illustrated legs under her miniskirt, resting her chin on her palm and cradling her cocktail in the other like some punk psychologist. "You can either make a resolution to heed your parents’ warnings. Or you can say 'screw it' and just do the nice, safe, casual flirty thing you've been enjoying up until now. Or, and this is my personal recommendation, girlfriend: you could get your god damn tattoo finished and talk to Fitz like a god damn adult." She nodded resolutely and took a long drink, then leaned back and let loose an extravagant 'ahhhhh' of satisfaction.

Mick raised an eyebrow at her and sighed, receiving a playful slap on the knee for his trouble. Becka wanted to weep again, but instead Mick started talking. "Karen may be a bit glib about it, Becks, but she's right. Those are pretty much your three choices, and whatever you want to do, we'll help you do it.”

"Hear hear!" Jerome interjected saucily.

"Not that kind of help, Jere. Not more going out till you pass out. I mean we'll help you talk to Fitz, or your dad, or we'll help you find a new job, or whatever it is you decide needs to change after this. But one thing is for sure: you are too bright, too sweet, and way too cute not to bounce back from this. He's just one guy, and you will meet more of them in your life, trust me.”

Becka’s eyes spilled over with tears again, and after much cooing and patting of the kind that always made her feel pathetic, she shook it off and haltingly put her muddled thoughts into words.

"I know I don't know him that well—not that I ever new him—but whatever. Part of me is sad because of that, more than anything else. I wish I’d just kept in touch with him, you know? Over all these years? Since he’s my stepbrother, you know? Then I wouldn’t have this problem on my hands. I suck at doing all that kind of mushy stuff. I regret all the people I didn't bother to really connect with because I was too busy being, well, hot."

"But
so
hot!”

“Jere!” Mick scolded his friend. “Go on, Becks,” he said, turning back to Becka.

"I guess I'm worried now that I was actually an asshole to everybody. What if I'm no better than that Wendy bitch?” 

"Eeeeeew, no. No. I promise you, you're not like Wendy. I mean, maybe there are teeny tiny little germs of similarity between you, but trust me on this one if nothing else." Jerome could not sound more confident, and it made Becka feel a smidgen better.

“Wendy?” Karen asked disbelievingly, "That redhead with the bod and the attitude? Yeah, that psycho didn't leave Fitz alone for a month after he gave her that little bit of ink. She kept drifting around the store like we were frying her bacon. She’s the reason Fitz doesn't sit at the front desk anymore. That little bitch is the worst." She stopped when Mick patted her knee and made the kill sign. 

Becka buried her head in her hands and whimpered gently. Mick stroked her back, and Karen, after a moment's hesitation, started up again.

"So your parents are married to each other. Big whoop! It’s completely legal for you two to date, did you know that? You can even get married. Fitz can be a little too sensitive sometimes. He’s a bit freaked out by the idea of having slept with his little stepsister, but he’ll get over it. He's an old-fashioned kind of guy, and it just doesn't occur to him half the time that a lot of people aren't on that wave-length. Hell, a lot of people. Fitz thinks everything is supposed to be candy boxes and roses and no kissing 'til the third date."

"Well he sure blew that with me."

"He did. He really, really did. And he’s freaked out that not only did he break his normal routine, but he did it with you of all people, his stepsister. I bet you anything, that big old tat-covered softie craves a little old-timey style romance.  Or at least, y'know, he’ll tolerate a conversation. And also, seriously, get that tattoo finished before he starts slapping it on every pretty girl who reminds him of you."

"
You
could finish it?" Becka ventured, and Karen shook her head and grinned broadly.

"Nope! You've done your wallowing, girl. It's time to take your medicine."

Becka groaned and drank from her fizzing glass. 

"So, that salad looks great, guys, but I for one am going to need to eat it on top of a pizza,” Jerome said, bouncing into the kitchen with his empty glass and phone, dialing on speaker before wailing down the receiver: "Yeah, a large cheese pizza, stuff that crust from both ends, and if there's any olives, I will destroy your world, ohhhhhhh and extra sausage? You know I'm going to need extra hot thick sausage..." 

The other three looked at each other and smiled, and then they laughed.

"You gays,” Karen snorted at Jerome when their giggling finally subsided. "Always with the god damn sausage cracks. That pizza place must be so over it."

"Oh, come on, Karen, it's the highlight of their day! Who doesn't want to hear fifty cracks about thick sausage pizza from drunk gay guys?"

"Well if it get's them through the day, then well done, Jerome!"

"To Jerome!" the man himself called out from the kitchen, and the three started laughing all over again, clinking their glasses and draining the cocktails therein, toasting to dear Jerome and his bottomless reserve of penis jokes. He returned bowing and bearing the bottle, dispensing with the niceties of lime and soda in favor of the simpler slugs of white rum as required. Becka was at the warm heart of their group, cradled by the couch and her dearest friends, and she thought that maybe all this wouldn't turn out so bad after all. But rather than think of the future, she simply sat there, and just let herself enjoy the moment.

B
ecka inhaled sharply
and took the first few steps toward Dickie’s Emporium. She thought about stopping for a chai latte but she didn't feel like facing the cute guy behind the counter. Alex? Yeah, Alex. Becka was determined to start using names if she knew them. Her old habit of discarding every detail of her conquests didn't seem so fun anymore from her new perspective.

She’d finished the Bacardi and ate pizza and salad with her friends, as they did a full inventory of their bad habits and vowed to be better. Becka knew Jerome wasn't really going to stop scaring people with outrageous proclamations, and Karen wasn't going to be nicer to customers, and Mick wasn't going to call his mother every week. But even beset by these minor issues, to Becka, her friends were perfect. It was she who needed to change. 

She started by booking an appointment through Karen. She kind of hated that she wasn't strong enough to just call Fitz and get things going again, but she really wanted to be face to face the first time she spoke to him after their forced fall-out. She didn't want to hear that doubt-tinged voice, the hints of sadness and dashed hopes; she didn't want to hear Fitz tell her
No
over a tiny little speaker. 

So she kept her appointment. She showered and dressed. She didn't bother trying different outfits, or twiddling with her hair. She knew she looked a little sallow in the reflections of the store windows and sleek cars lining the curb. She was here to get her tattoo finished, and maybe, maybe, convince the love of her life to ignore their parents and start things afresh. Her palms were sweating, and she wiped them on the flanks of her black jeans. Her heartbeat rang in her ears as she wrenched the door to Dickie’s open, and the familiar scene beckoned her further. She and Fitz had kissed leaning against this desk, under that light, on that couch. After her first session, they'd kissed their way to the door, unable to extricate themselves from their passionate grip. It felt like a movie now, or a cartoon. Two grown people making out like lovestruck teenagers. It dawned on Becka that everyone was like a lovestruck teenager: that's what love does. Young or old, everyone is as fresh, and new and vulnerable in love as the very first time. Some just hid it a little better. 

Karen greeted her with a wave and a finger pressed to her lips. 

"Hey, Fitz, your two o'clock is here."

Becka waited in silence while the sound of utensils dropping and stools scrapping raw linoleum wafted through the curtain. Then shuffling footsteps, and then—Fitz. He looked drawn, too: but Becka was convinced his straggly hair and gaunt cheekbones looked infinitely more heroin chic than her own pink puffy baby face. 

They stood there in silence, just looking at each other. A thousand words seemed to pass between them over six feet of space, the distance felling non-traversable. But somehow, when Fitz eventually sighed and, with an air of futility, waved Becka through the curtain, shaking his head sadly, Becka managed to cross that distance. She waited, shuffling from foot to foot while Fitz dug out his design, annotated with ink color codes and shading notes. He gestured, still silent, for Becka to lie down. Becka pulled off her t-shirt bashfully, a far cry from the proud peacock who shed her coat so readily a month before. She knew her flat abs weren't going to get her through this. She didn't want to push Fitz.

"So you trust me with this thing?" Fitz said, a hint of levity and zest under the hard-baked crust of his uncertainty.

"You're a professional. I trust you,” she replied, wrapping the towel he handed her under her bra again, just like she did last time.

Fitz grunted in reply, and Becka lay on the table silently. The smell of the leather made her nostalgic, and she remembered the pleasure she had experienced the last time she was here. But she was too nervous for the memory of fleeting encounters to rouse her. 

"Remember, no wriggling,” Fitz murmured, and Becka smiled in a way she hoped wasn't too pitiful. She was just glad to feel his touch on her body again, the new yet comforting feel of those rough palms spreading against her burning flesh. Even the biting sting of the tattoo pen didn't seem to hurt like it once did. Becka felt anesthetized to everything except the heaviness in her heart, and the desire—no, the need—to make this man happy.