Come Undone (The Kellys of Key West Book 2) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  I WILL FOLLOW

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright ©2015 by Nancy Hardy

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review. Participation in any aspect of piracy of copyrighted materials, inclusive of the obtainment of this book through non-retail or other unauthorized means, is in actionable violation of the author’s rights.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and registered trademark owners or all branded names referenced without TM, SM, or ® symbols due to formatting restraints, and is not claiming ownership of or collaboration with said trademark brands.

  Cover photograph and design by Cover Me, Darling!

  Book design by Pink Ink Designs

  To my Brendan, my first-born and only son. Things have never been easy, but they’ve been worthwhile. Though your autism keeps you from speaking, you communicate volumes with your eyes, your grins, your hugs. Your smile lights up not rooms, but lives, and I am so glad you are part of mine.

  To Hollywood and Beanie. I would have finished this book a lot sooner if not for you two little goofballs, but I wouldn’t trade a minute of your questions or snuggles or pleas for more playtime for anything.

  And always to Jay. For taking a chance on a single mom with a special little four-year-old way back in 2001. You’re a serious pain in the ass sometimes, but I love you and can’t imagine my world without you in it.

  “Like many artists, Key West musicians often self-medicate to numb feelings of failure or to piece together, temporarily, shards of shattered dreams. In this way, they are not unlike the rest of us.”—Trini Díáz, Songs in the Key of Paradise film school documentary project

  New Year’s Day

  The Welcome Inn

  Homestead, Florida

  I’M GOING TO THROW UP.

  The nausea may have been induced by the dozen donuts I’d consumed, followed by the bag of white -cheddar popcorn, topped off with a chili-cheese dog. Or maybe it was the six-pack of beer I drank, which I should not have had at all since I’m nineteen. But the clerk at the gas station wasn’t much older, and between my flirting with him and showing him a little cleavage, he forgot to ask for my ID.

  I don’t even like beer.

  I’d hoped the foul stuff would help me vomit after I binged on all the disgusting junk.

  My last food orgy was about two years ago. I’d never purged because sticking my fingers down my throat made me shudder. However, one ill-fated college party taught me how many beers it took to make me sick. It was the perfect solution for ensuring all the calories from this binge did not stick to my thighs and ass.

  All the emotions I’d been doing my best to work through these past two weeks had come to a head, gnawing a hole in my gut. Which I filled with food.

  So here I am in a bland, but thankfully clean, cheap motel in Homestead. An empty popcorn bag crinkles beneath my leg, and a donut box is crushed under my arm as I move to find a comfortable position on the floral bedspread.

  I want my head to stop spinning. I’d conveniently forgotten this side effect on my quest to not digest any of the thousands of calories I’d inhaled.

  My stomach muscles are being stubborn, like they’re clenching to keep the food down, reminding me of how low I’d sunk so quickly after taking two years to climb so far.

  I hate my body so much in this moment. The disgust has nothing to do with the fifteen pounds that have settled on my five-foot frame in the past four months.

  My head pounds too, the blood in my temples throbbing so hard it thumps in my ears—a rhythmic, annoying thud.

  One, two, three.

  Pause.

  One, two, three.

  Pause.

  “Trini! Open the door. I can see you through the crack in the curtain.”

  Wait, what? That couldn’t be him, but the voice sounds like Mac. He’s only lived on two islands his entire life: Ireland, and Key West. And in the dozen years since we’d met, he has never left Key West, save for a handful of doctors’ visits in Miami with his mom.

  Thump, thump, thump.

  “Trini! Come on!”

  It is Mac. I push myself up on wet-noodle arms, shaking and sweating at the exertion. As I roll my legs over the edge of the bed, my knees buckle. I grasp at the air to steady myself, and my hands connect with the rickety nightstand, which crumbles and crashes as I collapse to the floor.

  The yellow jar lamp shatters. My hands sting when I push on the floor to stand, shards of mustard glass piercing my palms.

  The wall vibrates. Are my neighbors having noisy afternoon sex again, or are they banging to tell me to be quiet?

  I pull myself up on my knees when the door bursts open, the frame splintering with a loud crack. A breathless Mac stands there, his lanky form heaving.

  He kicked in the door. I didn’t think he had it in him.

  Then again, he’s done a lot in the past twelve hours outside of the “Mac” mold.

  He closes the door behind him, clicking the dead bolt since the now-busted lock won’t latch.

  “God, are you okay?” He rushes to my side, his normally spiky reddish-brown hair falling in limp strands onto his forehead. Mac kneels down and takes my blood-smeared hands in his, pulling the larger shards of glass out. His gaze darts around the room, then he yanks off his button-down shirt and wraps the olive-green fabric around the worst of my two hands.

  I was numb before he walked into the room.

  Now I’m sad. Sad the food only temporarily filled the chasm of need. The satisfaction from bingeing grows shorter every time.

  But mostly I’m devastated he found me like this. I’d always been so adept at hiding my binges and the guilt-ridden, tear-stricken aftermath that followed them. Mac and my mom knew about the binges, but this is the most pathetic state anyone’s caught me in after one.

  My eyes burn with shame, and I stare up into my friend’s face. His hazel eyes fill with concern, and when I hang my head again, he lifts my chin.

  “Keep your head up, you always say to me, right?” A soft chuckle vibrates in his chest, and his gentle humor is a warm blanket on my cold, frozen soul.

  What a mess. Sometimes I don’t deserve him. Don’t deserve anything good in my life.

  He pushes a few strands of loose hair behind my ears and wipes away my tears with the pads of his thumbs.

  “Thank y–” Oh no. Not now. No, no, no.

  My insides churn. The burning from the pit of my stomach inches up, scalding my esophagus before exploding in a sour tsunami of semi-digested chunks of chocolate and chili and popcorn.

  All on Mac’s clean white T-shirt.

  Rock, meet bottom.

  Happy fucking New Year.

  “The best advice I got from the struggling musicians? ‘When
life knocks you down, don’t wait. Get up immediately and kick life back in the ass.’”—Trini Díáz, Songs in the Key of Paradise

  Two Weeks Earlier

  Key West, Florida

  “ARE YOU EVER GONNA finish this shit? We’ve got a party to get to.” Dean pulls his phone from his pocket and checks the screen. “We should be there by now.”

  I hit “pause” on the video editor on my laptop. As the documentary footage about the music scene in Key West goes silent, I spin in my chair and cross my arms. “By shit, I presume you mean the work on my film?”

  I expect him to flinch at the sharpness of my retort, but he continues to stare, expression unchanging. “Yeah. Why do you have to work on this crap all the time?”

  “Why do you disrespect what I do? What I want to do?” My face grows hot and my palms itch. And my stomach. Ugh. Conflict with Dean always makes me so nervous I want to vomit. Or at least eat my weight in cookies.

  A residual effect of my binge eating disorder. I haven’t fed my emotions with food in a long time, and Dean is clueless about my struggle with bingeing. I’ve never seen a reason to share, since I’ve been managing my emotions and impulses so well. Also, if he knew … it’s one more strike against me—the formerly chubby, curly-black-haired Cuban-American girl in the sea of tall, thin, blond cheerleaders Dean had dated through high school.

  He steps forward and pulls my arms from my body, squeezing my hands in his. My skin tingles at the contact. He nods at the computer screen behind my head. “Your movie can wait. Come to the party with me. We’re only home together for a couple more weeks.”

  He rubs his thumbs in little circles on my palms, and my body struggles to resist.

  I moan, ready to jump up and follow him anywhere he asks. But I want to get this footage reviewed and annotated now so I can start editing. “I really want to go. I do.”

  “Then come.” He presses his lips to my forehead and my insides melt.

  “Mmmmm. Okay.” I push at him. If he stays close, I’ll never get my work done. “You go. I’ll be there in an hour. Ninety minutes, tops.”

  He crosses his arms and pouts.

  Pouts.

  It’s one of the most unappealing things he does.

  “Fine.” He waves his hand at my monitor again. “I know what’s important to you now.”

  My stomach convulses. “Not fair, Dean. You blew me off for your friends the night you got home from school. Did I say a thing to you then?”

  He drops his arms and his shoulders relax. His bright white grin spreads across his way-too-beautiful face. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  He leans in and cups my face in his hands, but I pull away, still stinging a little from his hurtful words. Instead of letting him kiss me senseless, I say, “I’ll be at the party soon. Thanks for understanding.”

  Ha. He’s never been understanding about my passion for movies, most notably for what he calls “boring” documentaries. The Thin Blue Line. Super Size Me. Inside Job. The Paradise Lost trilogy. These movies changed the world—freed the wrongfully convicted, exposed shady financial practices that collapsed world economies, and addressed the health risks of fast-food consumption, prompting restaurants to be honest about their menus.

  Dean believes the sole purpose docs serve is to put him to sleep.

  He walks out with a wave of his hand. I turn back to my screen to review my interview with “Crawley” Crawford, a singer-fiddler who came to Key West in the 1970s with his partner, Rob. The “live and let live” attitude of the conchs—Key West natives—allowed Crawley and Rob to live openly and peacefully. I cry when he says, “My music, and my Robbie, saved my soul.”

  The moving words are why I make my movies: to one day help change the world, or at least change someone’s perception of unfamiliar cultures and people.

  I re-watch the interview and record narrative to transition between Crawley’s interview and his performance. Checking my reflection in the dresser mirror, I swipe at the eyeliner smudged by my tears, and then twist my long hair into a loose knot at my nape.

  Satisfied with my appearance, I grab my purse and head to the party at Greg’s. Dean should be happy I’m getting there well before I told him I would. The front porch is overflowing with athletes and cheerleaders, Dean’s high school friends returned home from college. Laura, one of Dean’s ex-girlfriends, sneers at me over her plastic drink cup. “Oh, goody, look who’s here. Your boyfriend is upstairs in Greg’s room.”

  I don’t get her emphasis on boyfriend. Maybe she’s still jealous of me. So ridiculous. She’s all long legs and straight blond hair and perfect teeth from nature, not braces. She could get any guy she wanted, but she still wants Dean. I opt for the high road instead of stooping to her mean tactics. “Thanks, Laura. Hope school is going well.”

  I open the front door into the narrow hall of the house and take the stairs to the right. I follow the hall to the end and knock lightly. Don’t want to interrupt the “bro talk” Dean might be having with his best friend. No one answers, so I walk in to find Dean with someone. Not Greg.

  A girl. Stretched out on the bed. Next to my boyfriend. “What the fuck, Dean?”

  The redhead in the snug white dress gasps and sits upright. Dean jumps off the bed, tucking his shirt into his shorts. He rubs the back of his neck. “Hey. Trini. You’re early.”

  My chest clenches, like he’d grabbed my heart with both hands and squeezed. I don’t want to cry, but a few traitorous tears slip out when I spit the words at him. “I see this.”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  I hold up my hand to stop him. “Don’t.”

  Then I bolt down the stairs, slipping a few times in my haste. I practically fly from the porch steps, but Laura’s words chase me down the street, biting at my heels. “I guess she found him.”

  Her vicious snicker, mingled with her friends’ derision, is an ugly reminder I’ve never fit in with the popular crowd.

  I run as fast as my short legs can carry me, which is not swift at all. I hate running, and never perfected my stride. My lungs burn, and the stitch in my side nearly cripples me, but it’s not enough. Dean’s large hand clamps over my shoulder and spins me to face him.

  “Hey, hey. Where are you going?” He shakes his head, his bright blue eyes wide.

  I open my mouth and clamp it shut almost immediately. My mind goes blank. No words can describe the burning rage and sadness inching up my throat. “Are you mad? Mad about what happened at Greg’s? She’s his cousin. I’ve known her since we were little kids. Her parents just got divorced, and I was trying to comfort her. Nothing more.” He wraps his arms around me. I stiffen, but he doesn’t let go. I swallow the nausea and accept his explanation. Because the alternative—to reject the flimsy excuse and fight back—is too overwhelming.

  He releases me and takes my hand in his. “Let’s go. Back to your house. I don’t want to spend what little time we have together fighting.”

  He winks, and all my resolve is lost. I’d rather make out than make trouble.

  “Okay.”

  We slip in through the gate at the back of the building housing my mom’s store and our living quarters. My room has a separate entrance at the top of the stairs. I push the door open, and Dean nudges me through, then onto the bed, presses his lips to mine, but his kiss is cold. Distant.

  “Are you okay?” I search his face for an answer, not sure if he’ll be truthful.

  “Yeah. Shhhh. No more talking.” He pulls his shirt over his head, and my mouth goes dry.

  Right. All I want is to feel. More precisely, to feel him. He lies down next to me on the bed. His hands glide over my body but freeze after his fingers squeeze at my waist.

  Dean rolls over, his heat snatched away. The antique wood of the bed creaks under his weight as he sits up on the gingham-covered mattress.

  “I can’t do this.”

  I bolt up behind him in the bed, my heart hammering a wicked beat in my rib cage.

&nbs
p; “Do what?” My eyes burn, and I choke back tears threatening to spill over.

  He casts his gaze to the floor, which is good because if I stare into his clear, hypnotic eyes, my anger would dissipate. “Pretend I’m okay with this.”

  He waves his hand at me, avoiding eye contact.

  “Pretend what?” I stand, sliding in front of him. “Dean, are you … breaking up with me?”

  “No. I mean, not if you …” He scratches at the back of his neck, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling.

  I take a deep breath, but my lungs squeeze and keep oxygen from reaching my brain.

  He’s breaking up with me. Oh. My. God. I never, ever thought we’d break up. When we started dating over a year ago, I imagined that if he ever did want to leave, I’d throw myself at his feet, begging him to stay.

  What else would the former fat girl do if the quarterback tried to leave her?

  His torso heaves on a massive sigh. “Since we went away to college, well, you’ve put on weight. Can you lose the extra pounds by spring break?”

  I stop in my tracks and shake my head hard, incredulous at his words. I scan the room for a heavy and dangerous object to throw at his head.

  Yeah, I’ve put on weight, but the stress of college, the lack of time to work out … Anyway, when you love someone, you don’t care if they’ve gained a couple pounds.

  Or fifteen.

  The skinny girl at Greg’s house. Was he trying out my replacement in case I refused to comply with his request?

  When I whip back around to go off on him, his shoulders shake. Is he crying?

  I climb back on the bed, sure he’s about to apologize for what he said when a laugh erupts from his throat. “Wow, I was worried the words would be harder to say.”

  My sanity teeters on the edge of a cliff before diving headfirst into the valley of crazy below.

  My leg whips out from underneath me, and I literally kick his ass out of bed. His substantial football-player body hits the floor with a satisfying thud. I’m short, but I have big feet, and for once they turn out to be a blessing.