Wanderlust (The South Beach Connection Trilogy Book 2) Read online

  “You're the only one who knows." Annie started to cry. A choke because she sucked the sobs into her lungs, denying them release.

  “Your parents knew you were on those anxiety meds."

  “That's all they knew."

  "You never told your dad?"

  "No." She wiped tears away, sniffled, and straightened. "I'm done. With all of it. I'm done."

  Tabitha squeezed Annie's palm. "I will always be the only one, hun."

  Annie's lips twitched toward a half smile.

  “Do you want to go get something to eat?”

  “Not really.”

  “Aren't you hungry?”

  “I guess." Annie shrugged.

  “What’s going on? If it's not the pills, what the hell is it?”

  “I just don't want to go out right now … on the streets.”

  “Since when does the city bother you?”

  “It doesn't." The sweet stink, bagels, cheese, bridge, leaves, trees, taxicab seats. "I don't know. This visit—” Annie stopped, shook her head, and held back another garbage bag full of tears. She never used to cry like this either. She used to be normal.

  “I have to take Marlon Brando for a walk." The dog made an appearance alongside stern Tabitha.

  Tab knew when to change the subject. Knew what Annie needed. Tab knew when to push and when to wait. The skill of timing was the hallmark of any good actress. And besides, Annie was like a fine wine. The cork might have been removed, but the tannins needed to breathe.

  "I want you to come with me.”

  Bright sky, green leaves, horns, and the occasional siren greeted the three of them. They hadn’t wandered far from the building. People were out, walking dogs, returning from the market, jogging. And there wasn't even a sign of the rain, unless you counted the leftover heat. Annie couldn't believe the damn heat. The shade from the trees did their best to refresh, but there was no escaping the sweat.

  “It must be record temps here this summer.”

  “Probably. I wish we could drive to the beach,” Tab said, starting to laugh. “Oh, I forgot, you live at the beach.”

  Annie grinned, her mind perusing the world of New York City. Her world — or it used to be, anyway. It all came back, or it had never left. The original pull, the vibe, the beat … the heat. It all came back sentimentally, without anxiety, without the heart-squishing fight-or-flight fear. It was there, and she inhaled and released it.

  Marlon Brando casually sniffed around the girls’ feet and toes, then toward the cracks in the sidewalk.

  “Are you meeting Beck tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, around noon." Beck, the pencil-thin former editor Annie had interned for. The man with the perfectly groomed orange goatee, wearing it like a trademark, a birthmark, a rite of passage. The man who tossed Annie the occasional freelance assignment. "How late do you work?”

  “Two.”

  “I don't know exactly when I'll be back.”

  “Take your time. That is, after all, why you came up here.”

  “I came to see you too.”

  “I know you did," Tab said, pulling a section of hair out from under Annie's shirt. “But your priority needs to be meeting curators.”

  “What about Wednesday?”

  “I couldn't find anyone to cover for me and have already taken off so much for the play.”

  “The play was really great.” Annie beamed.

  “Yeah? Thanks.”

  They paused while Marlon did his business. Tab prepared to scoop, glove on one hand, bag in the other.

  “What were your favorite parts?”

  Annie looked up at the sky, her palm over her forehead, blocking the light peeking around the white cloud along with the wonderful scene happening near her feet.

  “I liked the relationship between the mother and daughter." She glanced at Tab. "The actresses did a really good job — an amazing job — showing the emotions of the characters without even speaking.”

  “Didn't they?” Tab swelled with pride.

  “You did a good job." Annie poked Tab's arm.

  “Mmmm. My part was small,” Tab said, trying to assert humility, which was easier to do while tending to the dog’s poopy present.

  “I thought there were no small parts,” Annie teased.

  “That's right. ‘I am big…’” Tab began in her best Gloria Swanson voice.

  “Ahh! I love that! What is that from again?” Annie asked just as Tab finished the rest of the infamous line.

  “Sunset Boulevard,” Tab announced with a flare of vehemence.

  “You always make me laugh, Tabitha McAlester.” Annie smiled. “I've missed you.”

  “I've missed you, too.”

  The tea kettle whistled. The girls had returned from their walk and eaten. Marlon and Tom slept.

  Tabitha lifted the pot off the stove and poured the boiling water into two mugs.

  Annie walked into the kitchen and squeezed honey into her cup, stirring it with the spoon while dunking the chamomile bag.

  “You have some new pictures up on the wall.” Annie tilted her head toward the collage while continuing to steep.

  “I finally put some up from our ski trip. The one we took with my mom." Tab tossed the leaves into the sink.

  “How is she? Has she had that test you told me about?”

  “No, not yet." Tab lifted the mug to her lips and blew past the rim. “She is having it next week.”

  “I forgot."

  Tab looked beyond Annie's concern toward the living room. Heartache attempted to take over her usual fearless face.

  "I'm sorry."

  “She's in remission." Tab’s words took on a numbness.

  Seeming to silence the impending rage with an exhale, Tab only made eye contact with inanimate objects while Annie ran her hand down Tabitha's arm. When she reached those slender fingers, Annie squeezed them.

  Tab’s expression remained blank. Noncommittal.

  “Mom is fine,” Tabitha said, desperate with her stance and tone to change the subject. "She'll be fine."

  Fine, fine, fine. You know the line.

  Mug in hand, Annie walked toward the window, the one with the furnace beneath it, and looked at the Wall of Life. Her gaze stopped on a picture of herself with Tabitha taken just days before Peter’s accident. Uncanny … the smile lit Annie's eyes in the print the way she imagined it still did. But it didn't. Peace had been stolen by a thief named Death — never to return the same again.

  Tabitha took a seat in one of the two chairs across from the couch, the window, and Annie’s profile.

  “You haven't talked about your mysterious man, Annie. Did you think I forgot about him? What’s his name again?” Tab tapped her nails on the ceramic mug and smirked.

  Annie turned her head from the photo. "Very funny." She narrowed her gaze. "You know his name.”

  “Are you still seeing Cal?"

  “Have you just been waiting to ask me that?”

  “You've had me on eggshells all morning. I've been waiting for the right time.”

  Annie placed her mug on the coffee table and her butt in the adjacent chair.

  “Well, are you?”

  “Am I what?”

  “Annie!”

  “Yes, I'm still seeing him."

  Annie brought her legs toward her chest and wrapped her arms around them. Dwelling on the photo and the abandoned pre-life-altering smile, her thoughts were far from Cal.

  Shifting toward Annie, Tab put her hand on her friend’s knee and shook it gently. "And?"

  "And I don't want to kiss and tell. Not right now."

  "So, there has been some kissing to tell about?” Tab's eyes bounced like Tigger.

  As usual, Tab was just waiting for the details. The meaty, salacious details — any details.

  A fingernail found its way into Annie’s mouth, and she nodded, but her insides frowned while trying to feel any detail-detail-detail about Cal. But he was a ladder to the stars, and she stood at the bottom rung.
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  "This is a good thing here. Don't deny yourself the joy of talking about it." Tab smirked again.

  Annie scoffed. "You’ll say anything to get what you want." She rolled her eyes and smiled. "Some things never change."

  She glanced at the collage again, eyes darting back and forth from Tab to a girl once called Annie … light to dark … present to past.

  Her stomach filled with sick as she put her head to her knees and started to cry without sound.

  Tabitha moved to the ottoman at the foot of Annie’s chair. "I'm sorry.” She stroked Annie’s hair. "I shouldn't have pushed you to talk about him."

  Stealing a quick peek at Tab, Annie said, "No," then sniffled. "It's not that."

  "What is it then?"

  Define it.

  Annie buried her face in her knees again.

  Define the uneasiness. The nothingness. The somethingness. The blank emotions which beat a monstrous fist on the door to her heart.

  Propping her head up, Annie heaved. "Being here with you"—she inhaled sharply—"in this apartment again." Her thighs and hands shook. Her voice raised. "Being in this city"—she swallowed a gulp of air—"I can't stop thinking about Peter."

  "Annie..."

  "No. No. No. He's everywhere." She flung a hand out and waved it around. "The streets. The wind. He's here. It's here. I feel his death here like I never did before, or maybe I did. Did I not grieve him enough or ever? When will it end? My memories of being with him aren't here, in this apartment. Why can't I stop remembering how I felt and where I was when he fucking died?" Hyperventilating, she waited for it to dissipate, still catching air in gulps. "I wasn't a good enough sister. I let him down. I should've been—"

  "Bullshit. You were. You are."

  Annie didn’t believe those words. She always thought she and Peter had been close, but maybe it had been death that made them closer. Death had made him a legend. She loved him. It hurt.

  Tears streamed down Annie's silent, stonelike face. "I hate this. This is not me. I cry all the time."

  "This is you.” Tabitha grabbed a box of tissues from the coffee table. "Look at me. This is you. Crying doesn’t make you weak."

  Annie scoffed as she took out a swath of Kleenex, blew her nose, and wiped her face. Her chest still moved up and down in quick succession.

  Tabitha pulled the stool closer to the seat, leaned into her friend, and pulled Annie's body into hers. She held her until the beat of Annie's heart become steady — until her cries subsided and the shaking stopped.

  "I had one.” Annie sat up. “…in front of him. The first attack in a couple of months, and it happened right in front of him."

  "Any guy worth his salt would understand. Believe me when I tell you crying is not a sign of weakness.”

  Annie didn't know what to believe. She didn’t even know where to rest her eyes. They shot around the room like loose cannons.

  Salt... Was Cal worth his salt? Was he going to put up with Annie’s bullshit? Would she put up with his? She must've exhaled enough breaths to put out a forest fire.

  "Where's your purse?" Tab looked around. Annie pointed. "Do you still have that picture in your wallet?"

  Hope flickered in Annie's eyes. "Yes." She knew the one.

  Annie stood, dropped the crinkled tissues on the table, and retrieved her wallet from her purse in the corner. She only kept two pictures in it. One with her first car and the other...

  A picture of her older brother and his younger sister.

  Annie had been a teenager, braces fastened to her teeth, with a smile so bright the sun glistened off the metal. And Peter … well, he had been the same as ever: handsome. His sandy-brown hair over his forehead, his arm tight around Annie's neck, little bits of freckles on his nose and cheeks.

  His smile took care of me. He looked after me. He spoiled me. He needed me. He loved me.

  God, his love was unconditional, and he had never been afraid to say the words aloud.

  Clutching the photo between her thumb and forefinger, Annie closed her eyes. She could hear him, his voice … I love you, Annie.

  "Why don't we take a walk?"

  Annie’s eyes popped open. She put the picture away and then sat at the end of the couch. "We just took a walk."

  "What about your work down South? Show me the photos you've been taking. Hey, what about your Facebook? Did you do the photography page?" Stern Tabitha had returned. "Annie..."

  Ignoring the question, and the sound of her name being spoken like a chastisement, Annie booted up the laptop.

  The girls finished their tea, and then Annie opened the picture folder. She showed Tab Key Largo, the fish, the beach, and Cal. The only photo she had of him was the imperfect-perfect selfie. She endured a few more of Tab's prying questions and an astonished, "Fuck, he's hot. He's forty-five? Looks thirty-five to me. Jesus, Annie." And then Annie opened a different picture folder … and another … and another. Folders full of family photos.

  Annie told Tab things she hadn't thought about in a long time.

  The simple things.

  The way Peter had loved to lick the knife after he made a peanut butter and banana sandwich.

  The way he’d focused with the concentration of a neurosurgeon when he played guitar chords.

  The way he’d held his hand, palm out, in a straight line when making a superfluous point.

  The way he’d worked tirelessly to restore the antique bike he eventually crashed.

  The way he’d talked about wanting to be a father.

  Annie practically choked on her own saliva.

  Peter had tried for months with Trisha, his girlfriend, to make a baby. It was a secret not even her father knew. Now, Tab knew. It felt good to talk about it. It was good to talk about him.

  An old normal became new.

  On Tuesday and Wednesday, Beck — aka Mr. Theodore Becker — introduced Annie to several gallery owners.

  The curators were mostly friendly. The art on the walls was beautiful. The galleries were quaint. Just what she preferred. However, only one requested Annie's information.

  Disappointment came with the territory. Ambivalence directed at her work often encouraged Annie, lighting a fire of ambition in her soul. Besides, the rejection she encountered could never take away the joy she experienced when capturing the images on her camera in the first place, and fuck, that was exactly what she intended to do to lift her spirits.

  Both afternoons, after leaving Beck behind, while Tabitha worked her real-world job, waiting tables at a local café, Annie walked the streets of New York City alone but with accompaniment — the perfect companion hanging by its strap off her shoulder, waiting patiently, gently nudging her from inside its case, always ready.

  Annie walked block after block, taking photo after photo, never weary of taking pictures in the city because no two places looked alike — not even sites she might’ve seen only once before or others dozens of times. Retracing her city was like reading a beloved book for the second, third, or fourth time. There was always a new passage to discover. A new way of seeing the words. The city was as old as it was new.

  She shot pictures of buildings while lying on her back on the ground, framing the sky, the sun, the clouds. She snapped walls, bricks — yes, the chasms — extreme close-ups, capturing exactly what they were made of, blurring their existence, making them almost impossible to identify.

  She photographed hundreds of people, maybe more, traffic lights and taxicabs, cracks in the sidewalks, flowers and food for sale. The people were the most engaging, though. They were brilliant, their energy contagious and stimulating.

  The differences we had weren't all that different.

  The unusual and the unique blended together over the sidewalks, in the subways and on the streets, creating a quilt, a human patchwork of shared experiences, each piece bound to the other, and despite the differences, the insides were the same — the same sadness when hurt, the same aching loneliness, the same excitement of the unknown. All of u
s were trapped by death and freed by life — living, breathing life — and nothing seemed more alive than New York City.

  The stink. The sweet.

  Thank God she could see reality through the lens of her camera.

  Thursday morning, Annie’s final day of her trip, Tabitha slipped out of the bedroom without making a peep. She closed the door with a towel wrapped around her head, puppy dog slippers adorning her feet.

  “He never wakes up when you take a shower, huh?”

  “Holy shit, Annie.” Tabitha jumped. “You scared me. I didn’t think you’d be awake yet.”

  “I couldn’t sleep.” Annie set aside the computer and stood. “Is Marlon snoozing?”

  “Yeah. Tom walked him early when he came in from work. They sleep like babies together. T puts his earplugs in and turns on the fan. I swear it’s Marlon’s breathing that keeps him dead to the world, though. They both snore. Way louder than you." Tab imitated the obnoxious sound.

  “Shhh. You’ll wake them." Annie giggled. "And I do not snore."

  “Oh, yes, you do. You should hear them, though. Like a train. You'll probably hear it through the door soon. It’s quite a scene." Tab stood in the kitchen, preparing coffee while glaring at the closed bedroom door. "You should sneak a picture of them.”

  “No," Annie replied, laughing. “I’ll let them sleep. Besides, I think I took enough pictures this trip.”

  “You amaze me."

  “What?”

  “You never seem to bore of taking photos of New York. Don’t you have about a gazillion by now?”

  “It always looks fresh." As Annie shoved her hands into her jean pockets, hair slid across her face, covering an eye. “There is always a new angle. The city still surprises me.”

  “Yeah, well, it surprised you this time for sure." Tab grabbed a bowl from the cabinet and a spoon from the drawer.

  Sitting on the stool, Annie shifted her eyes, wishing to forget the reason for the unease. The return to the scene.

  “Did you eat?”

  “I had cereal.”

  “Me too." Tab pulled the box out and shook the contents into the bowl.

  “When are you going to take that damn thing off?” Annie asked, staring up at the purple towel adorning Tab’s head.