65 - Everybody's Broken

She recited Einstein’s Theory of Relativity twelve times during the twelve block walk home.  She was just finishing the thirteenth run through when she arrived at her front door.  Unlocking it, she stooped to pick up the big brown box that was propped in the hallway and went into the apartment.  The door slammed behind her and both the box and her jacket landed on the couch.

I made it. 

Glancing at the return address label on the package, she saw that it was the dress and boots from Richie.  Suddenly, she was very grateful to have a distraction looming in her future.  It made things seem a bit less bleak.  At least she didn't embarrass him.

She sniffled. 

Stop it.  Don’t be emotional.

Her vision blurred as she fell to the couch, draping her arm over the brown box.  She couldn’t help it.  No matter how much she denied it, the truth was that she was in love with a man that was ashamed of who she was.

The first hot tear splashed onto her cheek, and she bit down on her lip to keep it from trembling. 

He’d chipped away at her.  He’d convinced her that he wanted to know who she was.  Hell, he’d shown her who he was, and that was no small concession for him.  Jon was nothing if not a private man.  But he’d let her in, and she was foolish enough to think he was softening toward her.

She pressed a fist to her chest, the pain inside achingly familiar as she bent her knees and pulled her feet onto the shocking pink sofa that usually made her smile.

She’d been eight years old.  Eight years old the last time she’d let someone do this to her – crush her feelings. 

A group of little girls were playing outside on the playground, and Petey was sitting off to the side, as usual, just watching.  Inside, she was secretly hoping that they would ask her to join them.  She wanted nothing more than to have a little group of friends.  Even one friend.

The pretty little red-haired girl named Tiffany liked to jump rope at every afternoon break, and her best friends, Amber and Heather, were always her rope turners.  Tiffany thought she was the best jump-roper in school, but she always stumbled on the tenth pass of the rope.  Petey had counted.  She’d also analyzed the situation to see where the flaw lie in Tiffany’s method. 

It turned out to be relatively simple.  The girl began to drag her toes once she’d jumped nine times, allowing them to dangle too low and get caught in the rope.  She just needed to keep her toes up.

That particular day was no different from any other day, and the girls were laughing and giggling over something she couldn’t hear from where she sat against the fence.  The next thing she knew, they’d all stopped and turned to look at her.  Tiffany beckoned for Petey to join them, and she’d eagerly scrambled to her feet, silently rejoicing that her wish for friends may be coming true.

When she’d reached them, all three girls held their hands behind their back and wore matching angelic smiles.  

“We want you to join our club,” Tiffany announced with what Petey now knew had been a vicious smirk.  “But you have to hold out your arms first, so we can see if they’re long enough.”

“Long enough for what?” a pint-sized Petey had asked innocently.

“Just long enough,”  Heather snapped, her blonde ponytail flipping behind her shoulders.  “Stick them out.”

Uncertain, yet desperately wanting to be accepted, Petey obligingly extended her arms in front of her, palms down.  

Tiffany’s hand emerged from behind her back, wielding a large chunk of sharp green glass – a broken soda bottle perhaps. 

“What are you going to do with that?”  Petey asked with a genuine curiosity, never dreaming that anything was amiss.

“Hold her still!” Tiffany ordered her cronies, and the other two girls each grabbed Petey’s left arm, holding it steady while Tiffany sliced it open with the jagged glass.  She didn't stop until there was a good two-inch gash in Petey's forearm.

Petey screamed as the blood flowed freely, and she would never forget the horrible sounds of the little girls’ laughter as Tiffany crowed smugly, “Told ya so!  If she was an alien, she’d bleed green, not red.  She’s human, she’s just a freak!”

The other two girls began chanting, “Run away freak, run away!”

Mortified and in pain, Petey had done just that.  She’d run to the nurse’s office, but by the time she'd gotten there, she'd been in the throes of such a severe anxiety attack that she couldn't say anything.  The older woman had held direct pressure on the cut until she could get Petey calmed down, attempting to soothe her by saying the cut wasn't all that bad.  Naturally, she'd assumed Petey’s heart-wrenching sobs were due to the pain, or maybe the sight of all the blood. 

The sobs had been due to pain, but not the pain in her arm.

Grown up Petey’s shoulders heaved with the sobs of what felt so much like that childhood betrayal, only deeper.  She still bore the scar of that day on her arm, but had diminished to a tiny white line.  This scar was going to be invisible to everyone else, but she would know it was there and it was going to be so much bigger.  She wrapped her arms tightly around her legs and rocked herself back and forth while the tears poured down her face.

This was why she shut herself away from the rest of the world.  She wasn't equipped to deal with relationships.  Even her relationship with Daniel had been more of an arrangement than a relationship.  There had certainly been no emotions involved.

Emotions were nothing but a tool of destruction.

The ringing of the phone loudly pierced her anguish, and Petey gulped back the tears, trying to regulate her breathing as she dug it out of her pocket.  Wiping the inky wetness from her face, she saw that it was Richie.

She let the call go to voicemail, and rested her forehead against bent knees, sniffling and feeling very much alone. 

You’re going to live through this.  You’ve got a month before the tour starts.  The hurt will scab over and your heart will be tougher than ever.  You can go back to being the bitch he thought you were at the beginning, and he’ll steer clear.

Another call came through and she checked the screen, finding that it was Richie again.  Taking a deep breath, she decided that dwelling on her hurt feelings wasn’t accomplishing anything besides giving her a headache.  Richie usually lifted her spirits.  At the very least she knew he wasn't calling to fight with her.

“Hello?”  Dammit, she still sounded stuffy.  She cleared her throat and wiped her face against her pants leg.

“Petey?”  He sounded unsure if he'd dialed the right number.

“Hi, Richie.”  She dredged up all of the good cheer that she could muster, trying to infuse a lilt into her words when saying, “I just got your package, but I haven’t had a chance to open it yet.”

“That’s okay.  I was just checking email and saw the delivery notice.  I thought I'd call and make sure it was actually in your hands.”

“Yeah.  It was waiting in the hallway when I got home.  I can’t wait to try it on.”  She couldn’t seem to get the thickness out of her voice, and she cleared her throat again.

Richie was quiet, and all Petey could hear was the sound of traffic in the background. Rubbing at her gritty eyes, she wondered if something was wrong.  “What’s the matter?”

“That’s what I was getting ready to ask you, Darlin’.”

“I’m fine,” she lied, even as the tears threatened to resume.  His gentle concern was enough to start the waterworks all over again.  God, when was the last time she’d felt alone?  Even when she was alone, she didn’t feel that way.  She was an independent person.  She had her books and her computer.  That was always enough.

“Baby, don’t try and bullshit a bullshitter,”he drawled softly.  “Are you at home?”

“Yes.”  She picked the frayed lace on her right boot.  Maybe she should get some new laces.  Pink ones.

“I was on my way to see Jon, but I’m coming to your place instead.  No arguments.  I’ll be there in ten minutes, and you can model the dress for me."  

Petey sucked in a horrified breath, but had no opportunity to refuse before he’d disconnected the call.  What was he doing in New York, and how did he know where she lived?  She distinctly remembered declining to give him her address. 

She then turned puffy eyes on the box.  That was weird, too, now that she thought about it.  He was supposed to have sent it to the studio.  How the hell did he get her address?

It was a moot question at the moment.  She had to wash the waterlogged makeup from her face before he got here.  Scrambling for the bathroom, she peeled her false eyelashes off, did a slapdash wash job and was drying her face when the buzzer rang.  

Boots clomping on the floor, she pulled her shirt so that it came down over the waistband of her pants.  A quick glance out the peephole confirmed that Richie was standing outside her door, twirling a ring on his pinky finger.  Taking a deep breath, she gave herself a quiet pep talk and opened the door.

He immediately inspected her from head to toe and frowned, even as he stepped into her living room.  “You’ve been crying.”  It wasn’t a question, it was a statement.

She shook her head in denial.  “I just washed my face.”

“C’mere.”  He reached forward, gently grasping her elbow and towing her toward him.  Without her permission, he slid his arms around and pulled her into his chest.  “You don’t have to lie to me,” he murmured against the top of her head.  

The tenuous grip on her control slipped, and she clutched at his jacket as the tears came spilling over.

“That’s okay, Darlin’.  You cry your heart out if you need to.  Then you can tell Uncle Richie all about it.  It’s okay,” he crooned over and over, rocking her gently.  He stroked her back, whispering words of comfort until the sobs slowed and she was physically drained, incapable of shedding another tear.

“I’m sorry,” she hiccupped, easing away and embarrassed to find that his jacket had a big damp circle from her histrionics.  “I never… cry.”  Petey sniffled in a very unladylike way and wiped at her eyes.  “I guess when you bottle it up for thirty years, there’s a lot to come out,” she feebly joked.

“Come.”  Richie curled her hand into his and guided her to the couch.  The parcel was placed on the floor, and he sat, tugging her down beside him. “Nice place, by the way.  It’s very you.”

“Thanks,” she mumbled, easing away from him.

“Just stay right there,” he ordered softly, leaning back against the sofa and tucking her into his side.  “It’s not going to kill you let your guard down a little.”

“Feels like it,” she sighed, unsure as to why she was letting this gentle giant push her around.

“Who is he?”

Her purple, red-rimmed eyes darted to his chocolaty brown ones.  “What?”

Unfazed by the sudden tension zinging through her body, he stroked her bare arm with lazy fingertips and regarded her intently.  “In my vast years of experience, a woman doesn’t cry like that unless a man is involved," Richie casually observed.  "Who is he, pretty Dark Angel?”

She sat up and rubbed her fingers in a firm, circular motion on her forehead.  Her head was now thumping.  That was another reason she hated to cry.  Not only was it unproductive, you still felt like crap afterward and had a headache on top of everything else.  She couldn’t think clearly enough to lie.

“Just a guy."

Since she'd slipped out of his embrace, he took to rubbing a consoling hand up and down her back. “And what did this assmunch do to make you cry for the first time in all those years?”

Nodding, she sighed as though the weight of the world were on her shoulders.  “Nothing.  He didn’t do anything.  He is who he is – a man who is a little too refined to be seen hanging out with the likes of me.  It’s my own fault that I let my feelings get hurt.”

“Wait.  Whoa, whoa, whoa.”  He sat up and spun her around with a look of incredulity.  “Some guy – apparently that you’re involved with – doesn’t want to be seen with you?  What the hell is that about?  How did you get hooked up with this dipshit anyway?”

His indignation made her feel just the tiniest bit better.  Petey allowed the ghost of a smile wisp across her mouth.  “A mutual acquaintance, and it was just that – a hookup.  It was never meant to be anything else.”

“But…?” He waited expectantly, clearly not about to let it drop there.

What difference did it make?  He’d never find out who it was, and she was tired of being an island unto herself.  She was feeling fragile and alone.  Just this one time, she wanted to feel connected to somebody.

“But I fell in love with him.”  Damn tears.  She dashed them away and rolled her eyes in disgust.

“Stop it,” he ordered.  “The dipshit isn’t worth the tears you’ve already shed.  Don’t give him any more.”  Anchoring her chin so that she was forced to look into his eyes, she saw the anger simmering within them when he vehemently stated, “Sweetheart, if he can’t see you for the truly beautiful woman and person that you are…?  Well, the dipshit doesn’t deserve to breathe, really, but he sure as hell doesn’t deserve you.”

She couldn’t help but laugh.  If he only knew who this ‘dipshit’ was.  Talk about an awkward situation.

“Don't laugh," he ordered with a frown before declaring, "I promise you one thing.  I will be very proud to have you on my arm come Saturday night.  Hell, I may go looking for the paparazzi just to show you off.”

She leaned in to touch a fairy kiss to his jaw. Doubtful, but he was very sweet to say it.  “You’re nuts, you know that?”

“No.”  He studied her somberly, lifting long musician's fingers caress her cheek.  “I’m nuts about you."  His overly warm palm slid around to cradle her neck.  "If life were fair, I would live in New York.  Then you could have fallen in love with me, because, Darlin’, I could easily be head over heels for you.”

Petey pulled away, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.  “You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough,” was his quiet response.

She fidgeted uncomfortably for a moment before he took pity on her, releasing her neck and adopting a  friendly smile. "But what I don’t know is how you look in this…”  Richie tapped the brown box still sitting on the floor.  “…exclusive creation for the fabulous Petey Diehl.  Model it for me?”

“Sure, but that reminds me.”  Petey frowned up at him.  “How the hell did you find out where I live?”

His friendly smile expanded to an unrepentant grin.  Petey noticed that his dimples weren’t as pronounced as hers, but they took years off of his fifty-something age.  “I bribed Tony.  I can be very persuasive."