Of course this would happen to me. I should have known better.
Why did I think I was special? I'm such an idiot. He didn't even need my help getting out of jail.
Yeah, so positive self-talk isn't exactly my strong suit, but when you're constantly getting smacked down by life, it makes you realize that some things are better left alone. I should have known that having any kind of relationship with someone like Boone was a joke from the beginning.
Why did I even let myself start to think . . .
Hope comes out of the bathroom, leaving a cloud of hair spray behind her. "Babe, I gotta get to the bar for a meeting and to train a couple new people. Are you sure you want to come in tonight? Is your ankle really feeling okay?"
I look up at her from my sprawled position on the futon where I've been throwing my pity party, and toss my phone on the coffee table.
One good thing in my life? I have an awesome friend.
"You know I love you, right?"
She tilts her head to the left, but her hair doesn't move, courtesy of the hair spray. Which makes me think of Pearl and her Aquanet with a stab of nostalgia.
"Are you drunk? Because you can't come to work if you're already-"
"No, I'm not drunk. I'm just telling you how much I appreciate you, and how lucky I am to have you. Thank you for everything you've done. Even when I'm swirling down the drain in an avalanche of shit, you're right there throwing me a lifeline."
Hope crosses the room and leans down to hug me. "You weren't swirling the drain, girl. You were staging a prison break." She stands straight again and looks me in the eye. "You've been trapped for so damn long that you don't have any idea what it's like to be free to think about doing anything but working like a slave at the Fishbowl. Maybe you should take some time away from the tabloid shit and think about what you want. You could go to school, get a certificate of some kind, or just get a different job."
Hope's words kick-start my brain in a way that's almost too overwhelming. Working at the Fishbowl, and now the White Horse, is all I've ever known, and thinking about anything else is a hair away from terrifying.
My best friend must read my fear all over my face. "Look, you don't have to decide right now. The job at the White Horse is yours for as long as you need it, but I really think you should take this chance to figure out what you really want to do."
"I'll think about it." I force a smile to my lips. "But, seriously, you said it-working behind a bar is all I know. I understand the rhythm and the flow. It's easy and feels like home to me. Anything else . . . is really hard to imagine."
"Take a couple hours. You don't have to be in until six. Open-mic night starts at eight, so you might want to bring your earplugs because some of those poor bastards are terrible." She glances up at the ceiling. "But thank God for Auto-Tune . . . because that means record labels don't need artists to have a decent voice if they're marketable. Anyhow, you good driving your car tonight too?"
My Javelin has been parked on the street near Hope's place since the day I quit the Fishbowl.
"Yep. No problem. I can drive. Thank you for everything, Hope."
"Love you, girl."
"Love you more."
As soon as the door shuts behind her, I lift my feet onto the futon and wrap my arms around my knees.
What do I want to do? Hell, what do I like to do? Who do I want to be? It's sad I don't have answers to any of those questions.
In a rare moment of solitude, I let my mind wander. It goes straight to Boone, and I want to kick my own ass.
I know tabloid pictures can skew the facts of what really happened, and there's a good chance that Boone didn't do a damn thing wrong, but it still cuts deep to see Amber Fleet wrapped around him like she has every right to be there.
Why am I even surprised?
The moment one thing starts going right in my life, of course it's bound to go down in flames in a morbidly spectacular fashion.
Ripley Fischer doesn't get to have the fairy tale. I'm just a homeless girl with a dead mom, a lying bitch of a cousin, and a dad who'd just as soon slap me around as crack open a beer. My life is never going to be one of those inspiring stories. It's just the same as it has always been-one step above shit.
I don't know why I thought this thing with Boone would be any different.
It's over. Now the only thing left to do is to clean up the mess that dragging my shit into his life caused.
But even if it's over, I have to clear Boone of the charges Brandy brought. Maybe he didn't need my help getting out of jail, but that doesn't mean the security feed isn't going to help him get free of this crap. Then I can walk away with a clean conscience and forget this whole thing ever happened. Or just remember it late at night while I'm wishing my life was different.