Magnolia Parks: Chapter 40

It was a few days before I went to her house—and they were fucking long days too. I don’t do good with long days, don’t do that good without Parks either. I have a penchant for filling the space she leaves with shit things, that’s what Henry said to me last night when I took home a girl from Madrid.

Not that the girl was shit. She was nice, hot. Engaged—bit shit, I guess, not really my problem though. Didn’t think about it again after a couple of lines.

Parks didn’t text me though, and that’s weird. Weird for us. We’ve always done this thing where if something’s off between us, one of us caves, tries to restore the balance. I’ll text her a bee. She’ll send me an article from Nat Geo. Neither of us did that this time and I’m a bit scared to let myself think about what that might mean.

I stand outside her door and listen. Bridge is in there with her. “Stupid dress,” Bridget declares. The sound of a page turns. “Stupid dress. Stupid dress.” Page turns. “Stupid dress.”

Magnolia hacks. “Your head’s cut—” Makes me smile. She says that because my dad does. It’s an Irish saying. “—That’s Valentino at his best.”

“It’s still stupid. So is that one.”

“I have that one.” Parks sounds annoyed.

“So it’s extra stupid then,” Bridget says and I can imagine the look on her face.

I sniff a laugh as I listen to them. I miss them both, admittedly in very different ways, but I miss them, and I know their conversation could go on forever so I round the corner. I knock-knock at the door, stand in the frame. Parks glances up from the bed. Blinks a few times. Swallows. Her perfect face is a balanced mix of relief and nerves. Our eyes hold for a few seconds. She puts her hand over that little B necklace she’s wearing that I got her. A good sign.

“Can I come in?” I ask.

Her face falters. “You’ve never asked before if you could come in…”

I shrug, shoving my hands in my pocket. “Never felt like I needed to.”

Magnolia and I stare at each other and there’s only been two times in our lives where there’s been shit this big between us. When I cheated. And the other time when I fucked up pretty bad—climbed through her window at 11 p.m. on a school night to say sorry, invented the Tobermory plan, kissed her ’til the sun came up.

But I don’t have balloons and I can’t kiss her.

Parks does this weird hand gesture, telling me to come in. It’s permissive and dismissive all at the same time. Bridget lets out a long, low whistle, takes a sip of her coffee, watching us closely.

“Okay,” Magnolia says and rolls her eyes. “Can you sod off now?”

“Rude.” Bridget huffs as she rolls of her bed. Walks by me, jumps on her tiptoes, kisses my cheek.

“Miss you, buggerface,” she says, poking me in the stomach as she leaves.

Parks sits on the edge of her bed, hugging her knees to her chest. I stand in front of her, fold my arms over my chest. “Hey.”

She sniffs a small laugh and shrugs her shoulders. “Hey.”

“You didn’t call.”

She glares at me a bit. “Neither did you.”

“You have a boyfriend.”

“And your hands were very full…”

My eyes pinch a bit. She’s exhausting. “You ran away from me,” I tell her.

“I did.” She nods, nose in the air.

“And then you had sex with him,” I say.

She nods slowly once. “I did.” Our eyes catch and the edges of her face go sad. Or soft? Shit. I hope it’s sad. I want to fight with her, feel the closeness I feel when we do—when we say things we shouldn’t and go too far and the other night when she shoved my face away it broke me and made me fly at the same time, because she can only hate me how she hates me because she loves me how she loves me.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

This small laugh come out of her like a choke. “I don’t know.”

She’s not.

Her mind is so busy, I can see it—it looks like a Richard Scarry book.

“Are you sad?” I ask.

She wrings her hands. “I’m lots of things.”

I want to reach out, touch her face. Pull her into me, hold her tight… I would have a week ago but now I’m not sure I can. She feels too far away for me to fix. I know why and I could boke if I thought on it too much.

“Are you into him?” I ask, my voice low. “Properly?”

She scoffs, tugs on her earring—ones I bought her last time I was in New York. Little diamond hoops. Don’t know by whom. She’d know.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she says eventually.

I give her a look. “Yes, you do—” But she just stares at me, blinking. “Fuck.” I press the fist of my hands into my eye socket.

She stands, grabbing my wrist, looking for my eyes—she finds them, doesn’t say a thing. Just stares up at me, looking a little scared. I push some hair behind her ear because her hand on my wrist says I still can.

Shake at the girl of my dreams. “What the fuck is going on with us?”

“I don’t know.” She sighs. “Do you know?”

This annoys me and I pull away from her, scowling.

“How the fuck would I know what the hell is going on—you’re the one holding all the cards.”

She breathes a breath all the way out and glares up at me.

“Well, that’s not true though, is it Beej? Because you’re the one withholding information that had the potential to make things different to what they are—”

That hits different and I wonder whether it’s true… If I told her, would she move past it? “Would it have changed things?”

She squares her shoulders defiantly. “I’d have thought so.”

Fuck.

But I can’t. So I dig in.

Shove my hands through my hair. “I gave you an answer.”

Her face looks like I’ve hit her. She swallows and her eyes go glassy.

“And if that’s your answer, then here’s mine: We’re done.”

Someone could have hit me in the stomach with a pole.

Her mouth twitches and the glassiness of her eyes spills over a little. Fucks me up worse than it does her because she can’t see her own face when she’s crying but I can. Those fucking emerald eyes. I’d sell my liver on the black market to stop her from crying, sell everything I own, rip my heart out of my own chest—but I think I’ve already done that.

I shake my head at her, trying to level my breathing. “You don’t mean that.”

She carefully presses her tears into her own face and then looks up at me, face proud, eyes resentful.

“No. I don’t.” She clears her throat. “And I hate you for that.”

16:42

Jonah

Oy

What’s the go with you and Parks?

Any joy?

I don’t know man. It’s a fucking mess.

She’s into him.

Actually?

Yeah I reckon

Shit

Yeah

It’ll go right, man.

It’s you and Parks. You always figure it out.

Yeah

You’re alright though, yeah?

The boys said you were racking up a bit in Greece

Nah I’m fine.

Okay

Fine people don’t often do drugs alone.

Just… for the record.

Right, yeah. Good point.

Oy, how’s that crime syndicate you run going?

Good man. High stress but yeah, I mean. I’m not racking up alone in my hotel room, so…