AVERY (The Corbin Brothers Book 2) (32 page)

I roamed the streets for hours, trying to find the pieces of my broken heart. Nate was dying and I loved him. No. Nate was dying and I hated him. No. I didn't know what I felt.

What I'd had with him was real for me, but now it seemed like just a relationship of convenience for him. If he'd known that he was dying, it made sense for him to try to coerce someone into living with him. That way, he could have a distraction until the end, and then a free caretaker to see him out. Someone he could use and then discard.

Me. I was good at getting thrown out like trash.

The wind dictated my direction down the streets. I found myself in Central Park, but the couples holding hands, the children shrieking and dashing around, the bright colors of the flowers were too much. I was too shattered inside to stomach much joy around me. Maybe I was destined to be alone and miserable.

I mulled the idea of being homeless again and it didn't sit well. I was older and wiser now, and understood the dangers much better than I did when I first ran away from Jack. Still, I wouldn't go to a shelter. I'd been there before and vowed never to go back.

Extremely aware of the wad of Nate's money in my purse, I did the most sensible thing I could do. I opened a bank account. Practical Brenda and Jeff would've been proud of me. A checkbook and debit card stuffed securely into my wallet, I stopped in a coffee shop for a break from my aimless walking. I needed a new place to live, I realized.

I sipped a latte and flipped through a free neighborhood publication that the coffee shop offered in one of several wire racks. I stared at the pictures of rock bands performing and scanned over the words in the stories. Nothing seemed to matter to me anymore, even though this morning I had been sure I was in love.

I perked up a bit when I turned the page to the classified section. Pulling a stub of a pencil from my purse, I began to circle promising employment opportunities. I paused when I reached the personals.

"Roommate wanted for furnished apartment," one of them read. "Must be female, neat, non-smoker, non-drinker, no drugs, quiet."

I circled the number several times and then the rent amount. Nate had given me a lot of money for my "services." If I made it stretch, I could pay rent for two months while still buying food. I couldn't get anything fancy, of course, but I knew I could be frugal enough to make it work. I finished the last of my latte and found a pay phone, dialing the number for the roommate wanted ad.

"Hello?" came a wary female voice.

"Yes, I'm calling in regards to a roommate wanted ad," I said politely.

"Fuck off," she said.

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, are you actually calling about the ad?" she asked, sounding chagrined. "People have been calling me all morning, telling me that I'm boring, I’m uptight, I'm anal, I'm blah blah blah. I'm sick of it. I'm getting them to remove the ad next week, roommate or no."

"So you still haven't found a roommate yet?" I asked hopefully.

"Nope."

"That's because you were waiting for me," I said, excitement filling my voice. "I'm everything you put in the ad. I can move in immediately. We could meet in person today, if you want."

"Is this some sort of joke?" she asked.

"No," I said, shaking my head emphatically even though she couldn’t see it. "My name is Jasmine. I’m neat, I’m quiet, I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, I don’t do drugs. I'm your new roommate."

And that's how I met Anne. She was a no-nonsense 30-year-old with close-cropped red hair and a serious collection of cats. There were no less than five in the apartment. A ginger one lounged on the back of a hair-covered couch while a tuxedo one scaled Anne’s denim-covered leg before settling on her shoulder, perched like a parrot. I stared into its green eyes, which were coolly assessing me.

"Are they going to be a problem?" she asked me, the tone of her voice suggesting that they better not be. “My last roommate didn’t like them.”

"Of course not," I said, though I'd never owned a pet in my life. They all seemed civil enough. No less than three curled around my legs simultaneously. “I like animals.”

"When do you want to bring your stuff in?" Anne asked, sounding relieved.

I grinned as nonchalantly as I could. "This is it," I said, holding out my arms and indicating my purse. I’d stuffed a few essentials into it before fleeing Nate’s condo. "I'm very low maintenance."

Anne frowned, crossing her beefy arms. I could see part of a tattoo protruding from below the sleeve of her T-shirt. "You have the cash for rent, don't you?" she asked.

"I have checks," I said, tearing one out of the book. I’d already made it out to her in the exact amount of the rent for one month. "It won't bounce, I promise. I just opened the account today. Cash it. You'll see."

Anne took the check and examined it before looking up at me slowly. "Are you in some kind of trouble?" She narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

Trouble? Only for my entire life.
Sister, could I tell you some stories,
I thought, but wisely decided to go with another route.

I smiled apologetically. "I'm going through a big breakup."

Anne held up her hands. "Men are pigs," she proclaimed. "Say no more. Unless you want to. I can empathize. You're welcome to stay here as long as you like--as long as the checks clear and you are who you say you are."

"Thank you," I breathed. "You're a lifesaver."

My room was furnished, which was a blessing. I wondered if it was Anne’s furniture or whether it belonged to the roommate who hadn’t been able to handle all the cats. The bed, chest of drawers, and tiny closet were more than enough for me, the girl who didn’t have anything but rent money and a broken heart.

The rest of the apartment was small and a little outdated. The kitchen had a stove and range but no microwave. The ancient refrigerator contained equal parts people food and cat food. I learned to walk carefully when I moved around the apartment—there were always felines underfoot.

Overall, Anne tried to keep her home clean, but it was nearly impossible to do so with all the cats around. If they weren’t shedding their fur over every surface, they were kicking litter all over the linoleum floor in the kitchen. They knocked over their water and food bowls constantly, shredded any sheet of paper lying around, and occupied my lap the moment I sat still.

As soon as I got settled in and saw the state of Anne’s apartment, I fell into cleaning mode immediately, sweeping two times a day and keeping the litter box pristine after I watched Anne do it once. I wiped down every surface of the kitchen with hot, soapy water after I noticed the tuxedo cat prancing along the countertop. None of the cats were disciplined, but I realized they were probably some substitution for something missing in Anne’s life. She’d called men pigs and collected cats instead. It sort of made sense—trading animals for animals.

“You’re really good at this,” Anne said one evening, stunned to sit down on the couch and not come away furry. I’d refused to believe it was past saving, running a tiny vacuum over the upholstery and having to change the bag twice before I’d gotten all the cat hair.

“I’ve been a cleaning lady in several of my past lives,” I said, trying not to think of the most recent one. Thinking about Nate cut me to the bone.

I walked a lot over the next few weeks, crossing and re-crossing streets while trying to exorcise the demons that were threatening to consume me over Nate. I thought his betrayal would get easier to stomach with time, but it only got worse and worse.

A full month passed and I nervously wrote another check for rent and gave it to Anne. I’d been calling businesses that had listed their help wanted ads in the same circular I found my new roommate in, but none of them seemed willing to hire someone with no experience besides a nightclub waitress. I was extremely eager to avoid doing that again, but I felt as if my options were running out. What was going to happen next month when I could write a check but it would bounce when Anne tried to deposit it?

Glumly, I began calling bars, offering my services as a cocktail waitress. I got several offers, but resisted committing to anything. Weren’t there any other options?

One night, while petting one of Anne’s cats and feeling more than a little down about my situation, she cleared her throat. “Have you found a job yet?” she asked.

“Not yet,” I said, “but I’m looking.” I hoped she would leave it at that, but I was disappointed.

“Are you doing okay with money?”

“The check cleared for this month, didn’t it?” I retorted. Why was Anne so concerned? I wasn’t in the mood to get needled about my financial situation.

“It did clear, but I was just worried,” she said. “You seem to be eating only peanut butter.”

I sighed, feeling a rush of gratitude toward my roommate. She was only concerned about me—and rightfully so. “I’m so tired of peanut butter,” I admitted.

Anne laughed. “Well, I have good news for you,” she said. “The bookstore I work at needs to fill an open position immediately, and I told them my roommate would be willing to come in and work.”

I perked up immediately. “You did? I love books! I organized a whole office full of them once!”

I felt the pang of loss immediately when I thought back on accomplishing that task for Nate. Had that really been only four weeks ago? It seemed like yesterday when I was so excited about finishing it, hugging him, sharing my body with him. It hurt so bad to think about being with him. Love had converted almost entirely to pain.

“Come in with me tomorrow,” Anne was saying. “We’ll let my manager meet you, but I know you’ll be hired right away. They’re super desperate for help and can’t really go through a long hiring process.”

“Thanks for this, Anne,” I said sincerely. “You won’t regret it.”

The bookstore was an independently owned business, a welcome alternative to the big box chain stores that usually dominated the market. It had a fiercely loyal clientele and did well in serving its niche market. In one corner of the cozy store, there was a small coffee shop, brewing free trade beans from around the world. Overstuffed chairs dotted the floor, encouraging customers to sit with their purchases and read. The walls were covered with quotes from books both famous and not famous. I could bet that they were favorite quotes of the people who worked at the bookstore.

The counter at the front of the store where people purchased their books contained one old-timey register. It was mostly for show, Anne explained, but it did still function for cash and check transactions. For credit cards, there was a scanner. I liked the atmosphere immediately. It felt warm and inviting, like a place for curious minds to gather and expand. The manager adored me, especially when I showed him how he could better organize a display table to make the books easier to find and more visually pleasing than before.

“You have a real gem here, Anne,” he said.

She nodded and I shrugged, a little embarrassed. “I just really love books,” I said.

I learned the cash register fairly quickly, but it was the stocking that I truly loved. I loved to run my fingers over the new books, freshly shipped from publishers, and find them homes on the shelves. I liked to take stock of the very same shelves, seeing which books had sold, thus finding new homes on other people’s bookshelves, and needing me to fill the newly emptied slots. I knew where every volume was in that bookstore and could help customers find anything as long as we were selling it.

I pulled cash register duty one day as a new shipment of books came in. Anne was opening the box in the tiny storeroom behind me as I rang up sales.

“Hey, Jasmine,” she called. “Got your book in here.”

“Which book is that?” I asked. I’d also started reading all of the books I could get my hands on. The bookstore gave me a discount, but I’d also discovered the public library, too. There were lots of books that I considered “my book.” I couldn’t pick a favorite.

“Check it out,” Anne said. She tossed me a copy of the book in question, titled “A Message to Jasmine.”

“Very funny,” I called back, then choked on my words when I saw the name of the author.

Nate King.
Nate. King.
Maybe it was just some screwed up coincidence, I told myself, my hands trembling as I held the book. It couldn’t be
my
Nate King. Well, certainly not the Nate King that
had
been mine. Could it? I opened the book to the first page and gasped.

“To the real Jasmine,” the dedication page read, under which was the photo of me holding my arm up below the Statue of Liberty, and grinning. I remembered that day well. Lady Liberty had been closed to visitors, but we still strolled around her island home. I had always meant to go back to see if she was open.

My God. It really was Nate’s book. I was holding the culmination of all of his sleepless nights in my grasp. The book he was rushing to finish before he died of cancer. This was it.

Compulsively, I turned to where the narrative began. The book was classified under fiction even though it was called “A Message to Jasmine” and was dedicated to me. What did it contain? I started reading.

This is a story about a girl who was cursed. From the beginning of her life, she was doomed to die. She had to accept her fate, just like her parents, her parents' parents, and her parents' parents' parents.