Page 27 of Poetry By Dead Men
My jaw drops as Bobby winks at me, then strums the first note. The four girls who taunted me earlier turn as one to look in my direction, but I can’t pry my gaze from Bobby’s face. He owns the stage, commands it in a way I’ve never seen before. It's like it was built specifically for him, and even if I wasn’t already nursing this major crush on him, I surely would be after watching him perform.
He looks at me several times during the song, and every time, I almost black out, blood rushing to my head and sweat breaking out on my neck. His voice is intoxicating, and with every word I fall a little harder until I’m certain, as the last note rings out and his vibrato trails off, that regardless of if he feels the same, I am completely and hopelessly in love with Bobby Beckett.
NOW
August 2024
Would you just fucking listen to what I'm asking you to do?
You don't even care what I want. Don’t argue with me, Elizabeth. You know it's the truth.
—An unintentional poem by Harrison Rouchester during an argument with Beth Winters
Harrison's voice drops an octave, his spine straightening. "What do youmean,you need a few days to think about it?" The fork in his hand falls to his plate with a clatter, pinkish-red vodka sauce splattering across the white linen tablecloth like drops of blood.
"I just…" I take another sip of wine, stalling for time. Even after hours at the club racking my brain for a believable reason why I wouldn’t want to do the article, I couldn’t come up with a good excuse. There’s no explanation that makes sense.
At least, not without telling Harrison about my history with Bobby—something I still have no intention of doing.
How could I at this point? My lie of omission is too woven into the fabric that makes up Elizabeth Winters—the woman Harrison fell in love with. A woman so very different from Beth—the free spirited girl with the heart of a poet who trusted the entirety of her heart in her rockstar boyfriend’s callused fingers.
Harrison wouldn’t recognize that version of me, because after Bobby, being that girl hurt too much. I couldn’t take it, and so I’d slipped back into the skin I’d worn before him, my pain easing another degree every day as I settled deeper into my predetermined path.
“You justwhat?” Harrison practically hisses.
I put my wine glass down. “I’m just not sure the assignment is a great fit for my style of work. I don’t normally cover rock shows.”
“Your style of work,” Harrison scoffs, rolling his eyes and taking a sip of scotch. "I already told him we had a deal, Elizabeth. We shook on it."
"I know, but you didn't exactly ask me. I mean, we didn't even have a conversation before—"
Harrison slams his palms on the table. The candles flicker and the silverware rattles, and I suck in a sharp breath, every cell in my body on alert.
“Would you just fucking listen to what I'm asking you to do? You don't even care what I want!” He throws back another gulp of scotch. I crack open my mouth to tell him that’s not true, but Harrison stabs a finger in my direction as he stands, his chair flying back into the wall with a crash. His voice drops, his vein throbbing now. “Don’t argue with me, Elizabeth. You know it's the truth.”
The hair on my neck stands on end, my hands gripping the armrests as Harrison waits for me to say something, but I’m frozen in place.
I don’t know what to say, becausethisis not my Harrison.
He takes several deep breaths, his nostrils flaring, and I curl my shoulders in, trying to make myself small.
"I know you want to write," he continues. "You fucking yelled it from the top of the stairs before we left for the party."
My heart slams against my ribcage, my muscles tensing.
He heard me.
My shock must show on my face, because Harrison smiles. “I’m not an idiot, Elizabeth. It’s right there on our security footage. I watched it to see how much time you wasted looking for that fucking bracelet.” He leans forward, holding eye contact. "So you want to write, just notif it benefits someone other than yourself? Like, I don’t know. Your fiancé?" he accuses, beating an open palm on his chest.
"This has nothing to do with you," I say, careful to keep my voice gentle.
"So, you're just a selfish bitch, then?" he spits, picking up his rocks glass and throwing it at the wall behind me, missing me by less than a foot. The pain of his words is almost as sharp as the piece of glass that pierces the back of my arm.
Almost.
Tears fill my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. Harrison preys on weakness. I’ve seen it before in court, and I can sense his hunger for it now. For me to cower so he can make the killing blow.
I clear my throat. "I’m sorry. I didn't realize it was this important to you," I say calmly, like this is just another cordial conversation over dinner.
