The Fragile Line: Part One (The Fine Line #2) Read online

  “Shit!” I gasped, caught off-guard by my stupid reflex. I crouched down to inspect the damage.

  Cracked screen. Entire base bent. Even the battery was dented.

  I wrecked my phone. I wrecked my fucking phone. Because of Ryan. Because of me not being able to come to terms with the sick idea of Ryan with her. Because no matter how hard I tried to stop caring, I couldn’t seem to get the hell over it.

  Can’t get over Ryan. Can’t get over Logan. Why, no matter how hard I try, was it so difficult for me to remain detached?

  “Ugh!” I dropped the phone contents into the garbage. This day had just begun and already it was too much to handle. It needed to end. I needed to sleep.

  I added some cool water to make the bath bearable, took my clothes off, and stepped in. The soothingly warm water eventually washed away some of the frustration, but I remained restless, the anxiety in my stomach continuing to burn. It kept on flaring as I dried off and dressed into my comfy grey sweatpants and snug white t-shirt. And when I laid in my bed exhausted from the morning’s events and the sleepless night prior to them, the uneasiness persisted, keeping me awake.

  I don’t know what possessed me to do what I did next. Maybe it was the way he made me laugh this morning. Maybe it was the way he took my mind off the hurtful events from the night we “broke bread” at Ricci’s.

  I took my tablet from my bedside table, opened up Facebook, and messaged Matt.

  Come over

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ~Matt~

  Present Day

  “Mornin’, Sunshine!” I called out as Logan walked into the garage, beer in hand. I stepped out from under the hood of the ’74 GTO the old guy had me working on. “Old guy” was a term we used for our best customer, Gary, who had a collection of classic cars to show off to his rich friends. He never drove them, though. Always brought them into the shop on a trailer. If you ask me, cars like his are meant to be driven, not just looked at. What a waste.

  By chance, I was the one to work on the first car he brought in and since then, his contingency for business at Tanner Automotive was that I would be the only one to work on his cars. The guy had me doing everything from tune-ups to engine rebuilds.

  The digital clock on the wall read 9:30 a.m. I chuckled as I pulled out the drawer of my Craftsman tool chest and grabbed a spark plug socket and ratchet.

  “A little hair of the dog, huh?” I said, pointing the ratchet at his beer. “I hear you had a fun night.”

  “Not really,” he said solemnly as he sat at his desk and stared at the John Wayne poster on the wall in front of it. Logan’s dad was a huge John Wayne fan. “It was fucked up, dude. And not in a good way.” He swiveled his chair toward me and gave me a quizzical look. “What do you know about it? What the hell did you hear?”

  “Nothin’, man. I just got here as Pink was leaving, that’s all.”

  “What did she say to you?”

  “Jesus, Logan, nothing. Why all the fucking questions?”

  He finished the last of his beer in one swig and crushed it with his hands, tossing it to the wastebasket by his desk, missing by a foot. “I fucked it all up, man. It’s over. Liv is gone. What she saw?” He shook his head, “We’re done.”

  “Oh, shit, dude. Liv was here?”

  He nodded.

  “Wow, that’s kind of an asshole move, man.”

  His head dropped down.

  “What did she see?” I asked.

  He gave me a look like he had no intention of spelling it out for me. I sighed as I walked to the other end of the garage where the coffee pot brewed. I filled up my coffee and poured a cup for Logan. The guy is a good friend, but I couldn’t help but be irritated at him for being so stupid. Not only did he just fuck himself over, but Liv didn’t deserve that shit. What got me most, though, was that underneath it all, I was even more pissed about who he was stupid with. Why should I care if he got with Chloe?

  I shouldn’t. And I decided right there that I wouldn’t.

  “Alright,” I said, as I handed him his mug. “Tell me.”

  Together, we drank our coffee and tuned up the GTO as he spilled his story. What he could remember of it anyway—which wasn’t much. Turns out, if what Chloe told him is true, he’s as fucked as he thinks he is.

  “How can you not remember that shit, bro?” I stopped wrenching to ask him. “I sure as hell wouldn’t forget those pretty lips on me.”

  “You think she’s lying?”

  “Someone’s lying.”

  “You think I’m lying, dickhead?”

  “I don’t know, man. You should’ve seen her run out the way she did. In tears like that. Looked to me like she was the one who got hurt. You couldn’t have let her get dressed first? Before you threw her out? The poor girl was freezing.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me, Matt? The reason I don’t remember is that it didn’t happen!” He slammed his palms down on car. “It couldn’t have happened. You know me better than that. I threw her out because she’s a liar!”

  “Hey, no reason to beat up the car!”

  “Get the fuck out of my shop, dude.”

  “What?” I laughed in disbelief. “Look, I know you’ve had a rough morning, but you know damn well the old guy wants this done by tomorrow, and—“

  “You need to leave, man. I’ll take care of the car. Just get the fuck out.”

  I raised my hands in surrender, “Fine.”

  With that, I wiped my greasy hands on a blue shop rag, grabbed my coat, and walked out.

  My phone buzzed as I walked to my truck. A Facebook message. From Chloe.

  Chloe: Come over

  After the things Logan just told me, she was the last person I wanted to see. Besides, did she think I was her errand boy? That I’d just jump at her every request? Who did this girl think she was anyway?

  Me: No

  I threw my phone into the passenger seat and started the truck. It buzzed again as I waited for the truck to warm up. Now what did she want?

  Chloe: Fine. Forget I asked.

  Good. That did it then. I was out. Free of the melodrama that encompassed Chloe McCarthy. I should’ve felt relieved. Happy, even.

  The only problem with it was that this girl had been in the back of my mind for the last few months. Seeing her this morning brought her to the forefront. It triggered something that I didn’t even realize was there.

  Hell, hearing what Logan said damn near made me sick. And the worst part? Her supposed lies weren’t the only thing that gave me that reaction. The thought of him doing with her what I had pictured doing with her ever since our night at Ricci’s was what killed me more.

  I didn’t know what the hell to believe, and I needed to stop caring about it. But still. I couldn’t help but get excited over the fact that she wanted me to be there with her. And I was genuinely disappointed that I had to tell her no. With the story that Logan told me, there was no way I’d go running to satiate whatever visceral craving I currently had to be around her.

  My phone buzzed again.

  Chloe: The next time you feel the urge to tell someone to call you if they need you? Do me a favor. Don’t.

  “Ah, fuck,” I grumbled. I did tell her to call me, didn’t I? And I was being a dick.

  In all reality, she wanted Logan, not me. There was no reason for me to think about her the way I was thinking about her—it just wasn’t gonna happen. For many reasons. The primary one being I enjoy my drama-free life. And she was all drama. It was probably just my cock putting those thoughts in my mind anyway. She is a hot little piece, and I am, after all, a man. Who could blame me?

  I had nothing to do with whatever happened with her and Logan…and I could be a friend to both of them. Time to let those kinds of thoughts go.

  Me: You’re right. I said that. And I meant it. What do you need, Pink?

  Chloe: I need you to stop calling me Pink. You know my name.

  Me: But your hair. It makes total sense.

  Chloe: Wh
at if I say please?

  Me: Not gonna make any promises, Princess ;)

  Chloe: Seriously kicking myself for contacting you right now.

  Me: Aw, c’mon. You’re not mad at me, are ya? How about a truce?

  Chloe: Okay. Truce.

  Me: I’ll come over. But only on one condition.

  Chloe: I’m listening.

  Me: I get to call you Pink.

  Chloe: Fine, but if I hear Princess again, I might puke.

  Me: Damn, that was easy! Where’d your spunk go, woman? In that case, I’ve got another condition.

  Chloe: Not feeling too spunky today. What’s your condition?

  Me: You answer the door in your underwear when I get there?

  Chloe: Nice try. Um, no.

  Me: Hey Pink?

  Chloe: Oh God. This should be good. What?

  Me: Tell me that made you laugh.

  Chloe: Still laughing, you dope.

  Me: Good. I’ll be over in an hour.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ~Chloe~

  Present Day

  An hour? I had to wait an hour? What the hell was I going to do until he got here? I was already feeling stupid as hell for reaching out to him in the first place. I knew the second I hit “send” that it was a mistake. Who just asks some random guy to come over for no reason at all? Who does that?

  Okay, so maybe he wasn’t just some random guy, but other than seeing him this morning, we hadn’t spoked in two months. He did say I could call him, but I doubt he was actually expecting me to. At the very least, I could’ve asked him to fix my dishwasher or used some other excuse rather than my lame “come over” message.

  Wow, my game was completely off today. My exhaustion, mixed with my thoughts of Logan and Ryan, had worn on me in a major way, and I couldn’t think straight to save my life. I wish I could stop thinking all together so that I could actually get some sleep. God, I just wanted to sleep.

  I tried again, to close my eyes, but the thoughts behind them kept poking at me. Tormenting me. Forcing my lids back open. Finally, I grabbed my tablet, got out of bed, and walked to the main living area of my apartment.

  The place was little, but all I really needed. The kitchen consisted of a tiny, enclosed space, so small that if I extended both arms, I could touch the cabinets on both sides. A barely-there dining area outside of the kitchen shared space with the living room.

  The décor consisted of mismatched furniture, mostly from what I had obtained at Goodwill and other thrift stores. Leaving home and moving across town right after high school graduation three years ago had gotten me away from a situation that had thoroughly devastated me, and I had no regrets about it, but I’d be lying if I said paying the bills every month was easy.

  Waitressing—the only job I had ever known—had its ups and downs. I loved the flexible schedule that it allowed but hated the inconsistent paychecks. I started at Ricci’s in high school, and after everything went down with Ryan, I jumped at the opportunity to get away from it all when I saw a “For Rent” sign at the apartment building behind the restaurant.

  Soon after moving in, though, I realized that Ricci’s wasn’t going to cut it for making rent and bill payments every month, so I got a job at Luciano’s, a more upscale, downtown Italian restaurant. That’s where I’ve worked ever since.

  I peeked into the kitchen space and briefly considered tackling the mountain of dishes in the sink before quickly deciding against it. Dishes are my nemesis. They are best avoided. Especially now that my dishwasher was broken.

  Instead, I took my tablet to the couch and browsed YouTube, finally landing on The Tonight Show page. Jimmy Fallon always had a way of taking my mind away from reality. After several Hashtag clips, Thank You Note clips, Lip Sync clips, and interviews with famous people, my apartment buzzer finally sounded, startling me from my mindless YouTube escape zone.

  I set my tablet on the coffee table, and my nerves instantly took hold. What was I going to say to him? What if he asks why I wanted him to come over? I don’t even have an answer for that. My feet dropped to the soft carpeting, and I sighed. No matter what, there was no way today could get any worse, so I had nothing to lose. I went to the door and pressed the intercom button. “Come on up.”

  He knocked on my door a few moments later. I unfastened the chain lock and opened it. “Hey.”

  “Pink!” he grinned. That’s when I remembered why I wanted him here. Because with that one word, he made me feel normal. Made me feel like it was okay to smile.

  “Have you eaten yet?” he asked, as he whisked past me, the faint smell of soap, deodorant, and bread following him. He sat down on the couch, making himself at home like he had been here a thousand times before, and set the brown bag he brought in with him onto the coffee table.

  “You got Ricci’s?” I closed the door and took a seat next to him.

  “Yeah. I haven’t been there since we went, and I was hungry so…here,” he reached into the bag and pulled out a to-go container. “Spaghetti and meatballs.”

  I meant to say something. Anything. But nothing came out. People don’t do things for me. They just don’t. I’ve made a point to not be in a place where people do things for me. I didn’t want anyone to have any expectations of me and vice versa. I had forgotten how nice it was to have support when you need it. It felt incredible, like a reunion with a long-lost friend.

  Was there really such things as true friends? Or just people who pretend to care so they can get what they want? The latter seems more likely. Gifts are only for getting something in return. In my moment of weakness, I almost forgot that simple fact.

  What did he want from me?

  He picked up on my silence and turned his attention from the food to me. I’m not sure what he saw in my expression, but when our eyes met, his features softened. “It’s just food, Chloe. You don’t have to eat it. I just didn’t want to be rude and eat in front of you. I’ll take it home and have it later if you don’t want it.”

  I think that was the first time he had ever called me by my real name. It sounded incredible on his voice.

  “I—um—hang on.” I mentally kicked myself for stuttering.

  He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and kept his eyes on me while I walked to the coat hook between the entrance door and the kitchen space and grabbed the handbag that hung from it. I sifted through the contents and found my wallet. I took what I knew to be the exact cost plus tax of the dish, rounded up to the nearest dollar, and walked it over to Matt.

  When I tried to hand it to him, he opened his mouth to protest but stopped himself when I pressed my lips together and shook my head no. He hesitated, almost as if it would pain him to take it from me. He stared at me, trying to read my expression, but I didn’t want to explain my actions to him, so I stayed silent. Finally, he took the cash and stuffed it into his front pocket. I wondered, briefly, if he knew how much it meant to me that he didn’t make a big deal out of it.

  Continuing to empty the contents of the paper bag—two salads, his dish, two bags of bread, and some napkins—he said, “There aren’t any utensils. You got some?”

  Oh shit, I didn’t think I’d have to deal with dishes. “Um, no. They’re all dirty.”

  He looked at me like he was expecting me to say more. Finally, he said something. “Aaaand, you don’t have soap? Or a dishrag?”

  “No, I do. I just hate doing dishes. But I think I have some plastic forks. And knives.”

  “You don’t have a dishwasher?” he called out as I entered the kitchen to search for some plasticware.

  “Uh, I do have one. It’s just broken.” I opened the baggies and plastics drawer. “Here! Found some.” I took two forks and two knives back to the living room. “It leaks. My dishwasher. The door gasket is falling off, and I tried gluing it back on, but it didn’t work.”

  “What kind of glue did you use?”

  “I don’t know. Just glue. The kind you use in school.”

  “Elmer’s glue?�
��

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  His face tightened, clearly trying to mask a smile.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Nothing. It’s just that you don’t need to use glue on a dishwasher door gasket. Chances are, it’s just not lined up right, or it’s damaged. It’s an easy fix. Lemme take a look.” He stood, taking his coat off, and headed toward the kitchen.

  “No! Wait!” I called after him. But it was too late.

  “Holy shit, woman!” He gaped, wide-eyed, at the dish pile while putting his coat on an empty hook. His black t-shirt had a rock band on it that I had never heard of before. It granted a perfect display of the sleeve of tattoos covering his left arm and the few scattered on his right. It fit just tightly enough to show off his muscular build without him trying to overly exaggerate them. He turned to me with raised eyebrows, and I quickly met his stare so that he wouldn’t catch me gawking at the other parts of him. “You weren’t lying when you said you hate doing dishes.”

  I shrugged. “Told ya.”

  He fixed my dishwasher, the one I hadn’t been able to use for months, in a matter of minutes. We ate our food and talked about nothing important. Movies and music mostly. He used every opportunity he could to throw the word “Pink” into the conversation, but he stopped when he noticed me getting annoyed. Afterward, he talked me into doing dishes. We fit everything into the dishwasher that we could. As for the rest? He washed; I dried. It took an hour to finish.

  And during all of it, I felt okay. Kind of good, even. Still exhausted, but at least I forgot everything else for a while.

  “You look like hell, Pink. I should go so you can get some rest,” he said, as he dried his hands on a dishtowel.