Page 42 of Break You

She was right, it wasn’t her business to tell me what to do with my life, but that didn’t stop me from being curious about what she said.

“I’m sorry? What do you mean?”

She turned her attention back to her machine and tapped away again. “I mean the brand-new BMW i8 registered to you just this morning, ma’am.”

I looked at her again. She didn’t seem like the kind who’d be drunk or high at work. In fact, everything about her screamed sensibleness and utility. It also screamed “Zero fucks given about every jerk coming in here with their sob stories.” But, if she thought I had a brand-new i8, and was also crying about a beat-up Buick Century that was older than me, she must have been smoking crack, or drinking neat vodka under the desk.

“You have me confused with someone else. Without this car—the Buick I mean, I’m roller-skating around the city and taking the subway. I wouldn’t be upset if I’d just bought a brand-new i8. Look at me, do I seem like someone who has over one hundred thousand dollars to spend on a car? Hell, do I look like I have one thousand dollars to spare?”

More tapping from sensible Susan. “I learned years ago in this job that you can’t judge a book by its cover in this business. You are Rukiya May Gordon, correct?” I nodded slowly. “And your date of birth and address details are...” She rattled them both off, and they were correct. By this point, coherent speech wasn’t an option, so she was gifted with another mute nod. “Hmmm… It’s all here in black and white.” She turned the screen toward me to prove her point, and indeed, there it all was.

I left the DMV reeling. Skating back to the train, I was almost killed on the road several times, because I just couldn’t keep my head straight. I knew there was no way I could’ve accidentally bought a car, and then forgotten about it. Not only did I not have any money, apart from the cash from the mysterious and increasingly creepy Mr. Cob, now burning a hole in my pocket, but I had been at school all day. I had witnesses, including one extremely irritating, but also infuriatingly hot, Xavier Cross. Even if I’d had the funds, there was literally no physical way I could’ve bought a car in the time since leaving the campus and getting to the DMV.

So the options were that there had been a technical mix-up and somehow my exact details had been added in with someone else’s purchase, or my entire morning, including Dr. Reylton's lecture and the run-in with Xavier Cross, was a dream, or a total figment of my imagination, and I’d somehow won the lottery and bought a car without realizing it.

Or, maybe, there was an alternate and parallel reality in which a duplicate Rocky had enough cash to be able to buy a luxury car, and somehow the two realities had collided, and now the Rocky who was too poor to even buy a burrito for lunch had somehow intercepted wealthy Rocky's life. Or there was something weird and sinister going on, and someone was fucking with me, and playing hardcore mind games. My non-existent money was on the latter.

I arrived home exhausted, and not just from the physical exertion of skating everywhere, but more so from the mental load of the day. What with dealing with Xavier, and the ridiculous anger and tension between us, then all the crazy shit at the DMV, I felt wrung out and strung out. As I walked into the apartment, I decided all I wanted to do was shower, then curl up with a grilled-cheese sandwich. It was my go-to comfort food—one of the few positive associations with my childhood.

That thought brought my mind back to Reylton’s assignment and what a royal clusterfuck it was contemplating completing it with Xavier Cross. However, positive associations was one in the list of common psych questions he’d put together for us to answer for each other and given that grilled cheese was on my mind, it seemed like a good place to start.

After my shower and wolfing down my sandwich like I’d never eaten, I opened up a voice memo on my phone and started talking.

“Question #5: What are your positive associations from childhood? I didn't get many treats when I was small, but one of my best and strongest memories from being a kid is of one of the rare occasions my mom had money she was willing to spend on me. She took me shopping for an early birthday present. I must have been five or six years old, and we went to FAO Schwarz, where I got to choose any toy I wanted. The funny thing is, you'd think that would be the treat, and it was—at the time.

“But in years to come, the thing that really stuck with me was that afterwards we went to Market Diner, and Mom ordered me a grilled-cheese sandwich and a milkshake. I remember it because it was fun, and she wasn’t drunk or high, or angry. In fact, she was present and attentive, like other moms, and I just remember looking up from my sandwich, which by the way tasted like edible gold, and thinking that it was the best day, the best time, of my life. Ever.

“Now, whenever I smell grilled cheese, and especially when I eat it, it takes me back to that day. It was one of the few times where I felt safe and loved and protected. And, to this day, grilled cheese is still my comfort food of choice. It’s what I turn to when I feel down or alone, or when I just need a hug from my mom.”

I lay there for a while thinking whether or not to send the memo. I kept oscillating between completing the assignment because I really had to, and pulling the pin. I needed the grade for sure. If I wanted my bills to carry on being paid, I couldn't afford to flunk any class, especially not one I was good at.

On the other hand, the idea of sharing my most personal thoughts with Xavier Cross, of all people, especially with whatever was going on between the two of us, made me feel sick to my stomach. I’d never told anybody about the grilled cheese, not even Pixie, but the fact was, that in order to do the assignment properly, I was going to have to share a whole bunch of shit with him I didn’t want him, or anyone else, to know.

I was so torn about what to do. In fact, I was torn about everything in my life at that point in time. Everything seemed to be up in the air and in flux. I’d gone from keeping myself to myself, to all this shit with Xavier, Jupiter Cob and the Swan Club, the riddles and Pixie, and now, even the car.

Because the chaos of my upbringing—the whirlwind that was my mom, and Pixie’s line of work—my family had always been a source of complications in my life. Because of that, I’d actively sought to keep things simple, and keep a low profile, and made a conscious effort to avoid personal drama like the plague.

Yet here I was, embroiled in a whole lot of shit. It wasn’t me. Hell, now for the first time I was even involved in girl drama, with Cherie and her crap. I had never been that girl and never wanted to be again. I wasn’t exactly a tomboy, but I wasn’t into that girlie business, either. I’d sooner punch myself in the face than fight over a guy, especially when that guy was six feet of douche like Xavier Cross—a guy I didn’t even want.

Fuck my life.

With those thoughts in mind, I decided to bite the bullet, pressing send on the message. At that point in time, the assignment was the only thing I could even vaguely control, so I decided to go with it.

Xavier

I listened to Rocky’s voice memo so many times, I was beginning to wonder if I had OCD. All the while I ignored Drew’s incessant calls. Speaking of OCD, maybe it was him I should have been worrying about in that department, not myself. I was about to pick up and tear him a new asshole when someone started banging on the door. Jesus Christ. He really was obsessed. I now had him in stereo—or almost, except I had my ringer on silent—on the phone and at the door.

I had no intention of answering either. Instead, I turned up the volume on the show I was kidding myself I was watching instead of obsessing over Rocky. Predictably, the banging on the door got louder.

Sometimes… no… often, I really wanted to take a vacation from my own life, and I definitely needed time out from my friends. Actually, they were the ones who needed the time out. Like, the toddler kind where they had to go sit on the naughty step to think about what they’d done. I laughed, both at my own stupid wit, and at the number of nannies, au pairs, and governesses who’d tried, and failed, to put me, and keep me, in time out over the years. I’d never been a kid who took well to discipline, and I didn’t see that changing anytime soon.

“I know you’re in there, Xavier.”

Fucking genius. I wondered if it was the rising sound of a cold-case show blasting from my TV that gave me away. Or maybe it was the trail of light clearly visible under the bottom of the door. It took me a few seconds to take note of the fact that the voice wasn’t Drew’s.

“Fuck off, Kane.” I mentally added him to my shit list. It was getting longer by the day.

“Nope. Drew asked me to come talk to you.”

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