Page 24 of All of You

He looked at me—looked down at me, I should clarify, since he was a towering hulk of a man at six-foot-four. Nothing could make a guy feel dainty like standing next to this beast.

“This isn’t one of your?—”

“No. Definitely not.” My voice cut into his insinuation, made it clear I meant what I said.

“Good. I know you’ve been doing well, but I also know Jones’ birthday a few weeks ago…” He frowned.

“Yeah, it sucked. But I’m all right. Bec… she’s not okay. Maybe ask Erin if she can check on her this weekend. She’s probably traveling, but I get a feeling she’s not in a good place.” The familiar weight of dread settled in my gut at the mere thought of Bec.

Bec, Dillon Jones’ twin, had taken his death stoically. When I came back and began my two-month bender, she’d stayed steady, never letting a tear fall. Over the next year as I trekked my way back to equilibrium through therapy, routines, and anti-depressants, Bec had disappeared.

She traveled with a wealthy aunt every weekend, or close. She was friends with Erin because they worked at the education center on post, but Erin had expressed a similar concern over the last few months especially. Bec’s evasive tactics were becoming more extreme. I’d tried to talk to Erin about it, but she didn’t feel she could share any details.

I’d tried to call Bec that day, tried to ask her if she wanted to get together for lunch, but she’d shut me down. That false cheeriness in her voice had gotten under my skin—I hated there was nothing I could do to help her.

“I’ll talk to Erin,” Flint promised, and I knew he would. “Now go. And be the gentlemanly, entirely asexual being I know you to be when you’re with my cousin.”

He gave me a stern look, then turned on his heel and was gone.

I dumped all my stuff into my bag and tried to pull my thoughts up and out of myself. I’d been distracted most of the week, and today was ending in a shroud of irritability and anger. Not an unfamiliar emotional path, but it also signaled that the time had come for another visit to my therapist. I’d missed my appointment last week thanks to work nonsense and needed the stabilizing interaction of someone removed from all the swirling thoughts in my head.

Tuesday was my next appointment. I’d be fine—I wasn’t hanging on by a thread. I just felt the crush of pressure, needed someone to talk to, and was feeling more and more caged by my job.

I rolled my head side to side to stretch my neck, rolled my shoulders out to loosen them up, and started the car. The radio came on, and of course, there was Whit.

Her voice drifted through the speakers, slow and smooth and rich like warm maple syrup on a Saturday morning.

My God, her voice.

I’d heard “Call Me Back,” her song about being there for a friend, over and over again. It came from her first album—cute and a little jaunty, but the voice still hooked me. I switched the channel and let myself think about other things, fully aware that letting Whit’s voice sink into my head while I was feeling raw and frustrated would only serve to frustrate me more.

The night passed as it often did, with Thatcher coming over to play video games and eat pizza. I went for a run Saturday morning, made sure my suit looked good, and drove to her place around four-thirty. It was odd being able to just go right up to the door and knock, and yet, her house wasn’t a mansion. It was big, and nice, but not a gaudy palace occupying the space like so many houses in the nearby neighborhoods.

“She’s just finishing up, and I’m heading out. Come on in,” a woman with short blond hair and a black apron said. “I’m Amanda, Whit’s make-up artist. You’re Ben?” she asked as she walked.

I followed behind her into the kitchen.

“Yes. Ben Holder. Nice to meet you, Amanda.” I would have shaken her hand, but she wasn’t stopping. “Should I, uh… follow you?”

“Yes, come on. I’ll show you to her room.” She kept walking, her feet padding around the corner and out of sight before I could stop her.

“Um, are you sure she wants me in there?” I asked, feeling unaccountably awkward about going into Whit’s bedroom.

“Yes. Don’t worry. She’s used to having a million people in there. Damon’s finishing her hair.” Amanda stopped at a doorway. “Leaving, honey. See you in a few weeks, yeah?” she hollered, then shooed me through the door as Whit’s response bounced over.

“See ya, Mand.”

I followed the sound of Whit’s voice down a short hallway, past one doorway which led to a huge bathroom based on the glimpse of a gigantic bathtub, and farther down the hall.

“Ben! We’re in here!” This came from the room behind me.

I paced back and peeked into the bright white bathroom.

“Oh, hi. Sorry. Should I go?” I mumbled, seeing her sitting in a chair in front of a mirror while a stick-thin man with full tattooed sleeves fiddled with the hair on the side of her head.

“Are you done, Damon?” she asked, giving me a smile in the mirror.

“Almost… yes… yes. Let me spray you, and we’re good.” Damon sprayed her with hairspray, I assumed, and then stood back to admire. He walked in front of her and squinted, touched her hair in a few places, smoothing and tugging, and then gave her a pleased smile. “Perfect.”

---