Mister Dick

Are we forever or in between

How long can I hold you tight?

Won’t let go, hold with all my might

* * *

I stared at the sheet of paper tucked into an old notebook I’d retrieved from the top drawer of my dresser. It had been hidden beneath a bunch of old T-shirts, exactly where I’d left it. The blue cover was faded, with OPEN AT YOUR OWN RISK written in bold Sharpie across it. If ever there was an invitation for a stranger to do just that, this was it. The pages were yellowed, filled with doodles and poems and thoughts and fears. It had been years since I’d read these words. Years since I’d written them. I’d been a teenager wrangling with a lust/love combination that had hit me hard.

I’d forgotten about the notebook altogether and only found it because I was searching for an old Rolling Stones T-shirt. The shirt was nowhere to be found, but this treasure made from the mind of a sixteen-year-old was a surprise.

I read the words over again and felt the pain the girl I used to be had felt when Boyd broke things off. I read once that first love fades. That it becomes a whisper of memory. But as I stared at the scribbled notes in my hand, I realized everything I’d felt back then was still there, and it hadn’t aged well.

It was full of yearning and pain and uncertainty.

With a sigh, I tossed the notebook onto the bed and reached for the clothes I’d pulled out of my closet and slung across the chair near the window. A knock at the door made me freeze, but I didn’t get a chance to do or say anything because Zach breezed into my bedroom as if he owned the place.

“Hey,” I said, grabbing the edge of the towel a bit closer. “The knocking part’s bang on, but you’re supposed to wait for an invite before barging into someone’s bedroom.”

He walked past me and flopped onto my bed as if he had all the time in the world, and looked around the girlish room that was as much an ode to the past as the notebook. Seriously. It was as if a bottle of Pepto Bismol had exploded everywhere. He looked entirely out of place and winced, an exaggerated kind of thing. “I didn’t know you were such a fan of pink.”

“I’m not,” I replied, but when he raised an eyebrow comically, I couldn’t help but grin. “Well, not anymore. This place hasn’t changed since I was a kid. Now turn the other way.”

“You kidding me, girlie? I’ve seen you naked.”

“You have not.” Alarmed, I thought back to that night a few years earlier. New Orleans and Mardi Gras. There’d been Zach and music and vodka and maybe some organic shit that had gone down. Which meant there were holes in the evening, which made me nervous and kind of sick to my stomach. My expression must have reflected my thoughts, because Zach laughed.

“Relax. I mean nearly naked in some of your Instagram posts.”

“Oh.” I made a face. “I still need you to turn around.”

He did, and I quickly pulled on undies and a bra, a pair of old jeans, the kind that made you want to curl up in a chair with a good book, along with a plain black T-shirt and white Adidas sneakers. My hair was still damp, but I swept it up in a loose knot on top of my head.

“This is a good look on you.”

I whipped my head around. “What do you mean?” Zach was studying me with an intensity that made me uncomfortable.

“You don’t belong in New York City.” He hopped up from my bed. “Something about this place pulls down your walls. This is your natural habitat.” He shrugged. “Or something like it, anyway.”

“I’m not an animal, and besides, I like the city.”

“Do you? Or is it because that’s where your life is these days? A life that, as far as I can see, isn’t even close to fulfilling. It’s weak and empty, and you’re drowning in it.”

Okay. I’d brought Zach out here for a specific reason, and that didn’t include him lecturing me on a life that ninety-nine percent of the people on the planet would give their right arm to have. Didn’t matter that I was in the one percent who couldn’t care less. I’d achieved something. I’d made it to the top of whatever the hell kind of career I had. So what if some days, the only thing on my agenda was what to wear for an Instagram post and when my glam squad was showing up? So what if being paid two million dollars to appear at a party in Brunei was kind of embarrassing? How many selfies had I posed for? So what if letting my team tell me what to wear and where to be and who to be with was the easy way out?

So. Fucking. What.

Before I could tell him to go to hell, Zach was in my face. “Where were you this morning? Marta was annoyed because she’d made a shit ton of food, and so was Georgia because your buddy Boyd never made it down either.”

“Can you back off, please? I was in the studio.”

He was surprised. I could tell.

“You and Boyd getting busy in there or what?” He stepped back, and suddenly, I could breathe again. “You need to be careful with him, Echo. You know that, right?”

“What do you mean?” I cringed at the sound of my voice, which had a tone to it. A whiny, weak, and totally embarrassing tone.

“He’s your kryptonite. You told me so yourself that time we were together in New Orleans.”