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What can I say to that?
Sitting on my tractor tire, I stare up at the window to our room. I ache for Fi.
It’s fairly cool outside, the air laden with humidity. I feel it in all my joints and along my shins. My phone buzzes in my back pocket. It’s Drew calling.
“Hey, man,” I say as I answer.
“Hey. How’s Fi?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Not great. She’s listless, not interested in anything. It’s like she’s just…slipping away, you know?”
“Sounds like she’s depressed.”
“I know that, Battle,” I snap, then sigh. “I just don’t know what to do about it.”
I gave a press statement, saying Fi was my serious girlfriend and someone I admired and cared for. The implication being that all the Fi-haters needed to fuck off. It did precisely dick.
Drew’s voice is low. “You need to get her out of the house.”
“She won’t go.”
“Tough love, Dex. Be the guy who kicked my ass every time I moped. You’re the anchor, our Big Daddy, and so on.”
I laugh without much humor. “I really don’t want to play Big Daddy for Fi.”
He laughs too. “Yeah, okay, not that. But the other shit.”
I glance up at the window again. “She’s fragile right now. I don’t want to hurt her anymore.”
“You won’t. But that’s kind of the point of tough love, isn’t it? You do what has to be done no matter what.”
No matter what. I push off from my seat on the tire. “I gotta take care of some things,” I tell Drew. “Call you later.”
“Good luck, man.”
I’ll probably need it. I hang up and head into the house.
Fiona
For the most part, I avoid the phone. I answer Violet’s call because I know she won’t give up until we talk, and it’s rude to leave her worried.
“I am going to fucking rip this fucking company wide open,” she promises, her voice shooting through the phone like street justice.
“No, you aren’t,” I tell her sternly. “I won’t have you risking jail time for me. Revenge doesn’t get my pride back.”
“It’s a start.”
“No, Violet. No,” I repeat again because I need her to hear me. “Promise me you won’t touch them. I’ll just worry and be upset if I think you’re breaking the law.”
She huffs, loud and sharp. “Okay. Fine. But I have to do something.” I can hear her nails clack on her desk. “I know! I’m sending you a kickass bag.”
“A bag?”
“A new handbag always makes me feel better. Oh, Prada has the cutest little turquoise clutch. I’m sending you that. My cousin works at Vogue. She can get anything.”
We chat for a while but it exhausts me. I beg off by saying Ethan is home. A lie. But it sounds better than telling her I just don’t have it in me to talk anymore.
A text follows a short time later, one that I can’t ignore. It’s from my old co-worker Alice.
AliceW: Thought this might cheer you up. Elena’s out. Felix gave her the boot this morning.
Me: Get the Papa Smurf out! Why?
AliceW: Apparently her designs for Cecelia Robertson’s apartment ended up being an exact copy of Janice Mark’s new penthouse. Cecelia was humiliated. Which means Felix was too. He’s in the shit now.
I blink at the phone, my mouth hanging open. Holy fuck. Elena used the designs anyway. I’d told her they were bad. Then again, I hadn’t exactly explained why they were bad. Maybe she took my words to mean bad quality.
I wait for the guilt to hit but it doesn’t come. I can only shake my head. Part of me hopes she’s learned her lesson. The other half of me doesn’t give a good ripe grape what happens to her. Once a thief always a thief, I guess.
I answer Alice.
Me: I am agog.
AliceW: Take care of yourself, kid. We (and by that I mean all of us lowly workers) are giving Bloom the finger on your behalf.
Me: Thx. Give everyone (and by that I mean all of you lowly workers) a big hug.
After that revelation, I drift off for a while. Then I call my mother. I can’t help it. All I want to do is sleep, hide under the soft protection of the covers, and I know it isn’t healthy. I know this, and yet I can’t stop doing it. I’ve pushed Ethan away, ignoring the pain in his eyes. Ignoring everything, even the thoughts in my head.
My eyes are gritty from too much crying, and my skin feels swollen, as if I’ll soon split down the middle. I know I’m being maudlin and dramatic. I can’t keep on like this. So I call my mother.
Even as the line rings, I sweat and wonder why I had to turn to Mom. She answers before I can gather the courage to hang up.
“Fiona, darling girl,” she says by way of greeting.
“Hey, Mom.” My voice wobbles, and my eyes smart.
“I was going to call to tell you I’ve booked a flight to see you.”
I clutch my phone. “No. Don’t do that. Please.” I suck in a breath. “It’s harder when I have to face you guys.”
Silence ticks for a beat. “Sean told me you gave him his walking orders. He was quite put out.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt his feelings, Mom. I just couldn’t deal with…anything.”
“You don’t want to be coddled,” she says. “I understand. More than you know.”
An ugly memory stirs, of Mom taking to her room after dad’s numerous affairs became public. Which was kind of a joke because his cheating surprised absolutely no one, including her. But the public humiliation was too much.