Remembering Phoenix

  By

  Randa Lynn

  Copyright © 2016 - Randa Lynn

  All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this book may be reproduced, copied or transmitted in any medium, whether electronic, internet, or otherwise, without the expressed permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, locations, and names occurring in this book are the product of the author’s imagination, or are the property of their respective owners and are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locations, or persons (living or dead), is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All trademarks and names are used in a fictitious manner and are in no way endorsed by or an endorsement of their respective owners.

  Contains sexual situations, violence, sensitive and taboo subjects, offensive language and/or mature topics.

  Recommended for ages 18 years and up.

  Cover Designer: Kari Ayasha, Cover to Cover Designs

  Editing: Jenn Wood, All About the Edits

  Interior Designs and Formatting: Brenda Wright, Formatting Done Wright

  To anyone who has ever felt like they were free-falling, with no savior in sight. We all have wings, some of us just have to dig deep and find them.

  And when you do, you’ll soar...

  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

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Epilogue 2

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Always

  OCTOBER 15, 2013

  I don’t know why people say life is funny. It’s not.

  Life is cancer. Just when you think it’s all smooth sailing, it ruins you.

  I strum my fingers along to the beat of the music as I take the last gulp of my beer. It’s a song full of color, and cheer, and happy. And I hate it.

  I was happy once, with a life I’d do anything to keep… I think.

  I imagine I used to wake up in the mornings and make chocolate chip pancakes and pour a glass of orange juice without the pulp. I hate pulp in my orange juice with its thick, chunky texture. It makes me gag. I bet Phoenix hated it, too. But what do I know?

  Nothing.

  I know nothing because that is all I remember—nothing.

  Annoyed, I stop strumming my fingers. I hate everyone dancing to the happy song with their smiling faces and laugh lines around their eyes.

  I hate the beams of light shooting from wall to wall, all bright and colorful like it’s Christmas time.

  I hate everything today.

  Everything.

  Two years ago today was the day everything changed for me.

  The day everything was taken from me.

  I wave to the bartender, needing alcohol to help blur my heartache. “What can I get you?” he asks. I look up at his extremely tall, extremely skinny, frame. His rectangular glasses sit atop his overly large nose.

  I know a nose never stops growing. I know eyes always remain the same size throughout life. I could tell you what the square root of a number is without a second thought, but I couldn’t tell you what I did for my twenty-third birthday, or any birthday before that, for that matter. I couldn’t tell you what my worst fear was growing up, or what it felt like when I fell in love for the first time.

  I couldn’t tell you anything, because I don’t know the answers to any of that. Life took those simple pleasures from me.

  I jump as a hand brushes my arm, startling me from my reverie. “Ma’am? What can I get you?” the big-nosed bartender repeats.

  “Oh. I’m sorry. I’ll have two shots of whatever is good and strong. Lay it on me,” I answer as he walks down to grab some shot glasses.

  Within seconds he’s back at my side. “Tab, or you tapping out for the night?”

  I grab the cash out of my clutch and count it. Shit. I’m twenty shorter than I thought. I sigh. “I’ll tap out. I don’t have my—“

  A hand reaches across me, halting me mid-sentence, and grabs both of my shots. Dumbfounded, my eyes follow, watching as a guy downs them one after the other. “Excuse me?” I bark, shoving his arm.

  He tosses a hundred dollar bill at me before looking at the bartender. “Get her whatever that was I just downed, plus me two more. I’ll pay for all of them.”

  Rolling my eyes at his audacity, I grab the money and hand it to Big-Nose. “He’ll also pay my tab off.” I turn to the rude, arrogant prick who jacked my alcohol. “Thanks, asshole.”

  A smug, pained grin hints on his face as he sits down on the barstool next to me. He shrugs his jacket off and hangs it on the hook underneath the lip of the bar. He runs his fingers through his golden brown hair, disheveling it more than it already was, before rubbing the slight stubble peppering his jawline. If I wasn’t pissed off at everything, including him, I would find him attractive.

  If being the operative word here.

  The shots magically appear in front of me. Making sure my drinks don’t get stolen again, I quickly grab them both, downing them one after the other. The burn of the alcohol makes its way down my throat. It numbs me, but only for a second. God knows it won’t numb me forever. I’ve tried.

  “That good?” the guy beside me asks smugly.

  I cut my eyes in his direction and flip him off. He grins. He grins, and laugh lines appear at the corners of his eyes. I automatically hate him.

  Laugh lines mean happiness.

  My mouth snaps in a straight line. Bitterness boils inside of me because he has laugh lines, meaning he has reasons to smile in this world. Or maybe I’m bitter because there is nobody in my world to make me smile. At least no one I can remember.

  “Sorry I stole your shots. I really needed them. Bad day,” he confesses, before throwing a shot back. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m Slayter, by the way.”

  I scoff. “Bad day, Slayter?” I spit his name out of my mouth like it’s vinegar on my tongue. “I’m sure it’s just been awful. Your girlfriend having her monthly visit so you can’t get any for a few days?”

  His stone gray eyes delve into me, like they’re trying to read me, trying to know me. Oh, the irony of it all.

  “I wish,” he clips. “My fiancée left a month ago, taking my daughter with her. Only for me to find out today via paternity test, she wasn’t my daughter at all. So now I’m without a fiancée, which I can handle, and I’m without the little girl I raised for nine months, which I can’t.” He shakes his head, lost in thought. I feel bad for the guy, almost enough to not hate him.

  I don’t have any clue what to tell him. “Yep. Sucks a little worse than what I was imagining,” I spit out, sounding every bit as sincere as I feel, which is not at all.

  His eyebrows scrunch together as he looks at me, tapping his fingers on his chin. “Yeah.” He sighs. “Only being able to live with her memory, and not her, for the rest of my life, is going to fucking kill me.”

  I roll my eyes, unable to stand his pit
y-party of one any longer. “Yeah,” I sneer. “I’d also imagine living with no memory at all for the rest of your life sucks, too. But you wouldn’t know, would you?”

  I slam my hands on the bar as I get up from the stool, kicking it back with all my might. The metal legs screech along the dirty, concrete floor before it topples over. I knew coming to this place was a bad idea. It’s been two years today, and my emotions are everywhere. Every little thing is pissing me off.

  I went to bed last night with his picture clung to my chest, praying, hoping, wishing today would be the day I would wake up and remember. Remember everything, good and bad. At this point, I don’t care what it is I remember, as long as I have something to grasp on to. I just want something to be able to tell me, “Charlie, this is who you were when you were you. This is what your life consisted of.” But no, I woke up this morning with a memory as blank as the day I woke up from my coma.

  With tears in my eyes, I storm out of the bar. The cool October breeze nips at my face, chilling me. Leaning against the black brick wall, I grab the photo out of my jacket pocket. It’s worn, torn on the edges from constantly being carried around. Even though it breaks my heart, I can’t help but to look at it every single time I feel like the weight of the world is suffocating me.

  I rub the pad of my thumb over the photo, closing my eyes, hoping this will be the last day I have to live with this black hole of pain in my chest. A tear trickles down my cheek as the pain completely consumes me. The pain of loss, of emptiness. The pain of not remembering the absolute largest part of who I am.

  Or who I was.

  “Phoenix,” I whisper, “please help me remember.”

  After getting out of the shower and drying myself off, I take my hair down from the top of my head, combing my fingers through my long, blonde tresses. I’m thankful I have little to do for it to become appropriate for the evening. The mirror is fogged from the steam of the shower. I take my finger to it. Writing I heart you in the fog is habitual. I’m still unsure why I do it, but I can’t help it. I guess some part of me wishes he’ll see it. Maybe even some piece of me thinks he does.

  I take a deep breath and suppress the sadness inside.

  There’s no time for that here. Not this weekend, at least.

  I hurry into my bedroom and slip on my little black dress with my nude pumps Lizzie insisted I wear. She tried to get me to wear a bright dress, but I refused. Black. It’s my signature color.

  “Lizzie! What time do we need to be at the church?” I yell.

  She comes scrambling into my bedroom. “Holy crap! We’re going to be late.” She throws her navy lace dress on before running back out of my room, her heels clanking against the floor with every step.

  I finish putting on the last of my makeup. I’d go makeup-less, my hair in a bun, and my Chuck Taylor’s on, but Lizzie would find it repulsive. Sometimes I wonder if we really are sisters. She’s so prim and proper with her attire, while I am anything but. She’s tall and skinny, whereas I’m shorter, with meat on my bones. Her blue eyes and dark brown hair makes her look like a goddess, while my pale skin, blonde hair, and green eyes just make me average.

  How I wish my life was average.

  I smooth the dress down as I look at myself in the mirror. The loose waves of my hair cascade around my shoulders. Ridiculous. I look ridiculous and way too done up for a wedding rehearsal. At least I think I do. I’ve never been to one that I can remember.

  “I’m ready, Lizzie,” I say, peeping around the bathroom door. The fog on the mirror has disappeared. Gone. Just like him.

  My sister turns to look at me. Her blue eyes shimmer with unshed tears. Her eyes leave mine and travel to the bathroom counter. That’s when I see it. It’s sickening how much a single toothbrush can cause so many emotions to well inside a person’s body. It’s even more sickening to think I haven’t touched it in over two years. “No. Not today. Not right now,” I demand. I can’t do this today. I can’t get myself in my dark state of mind and spiral down into my pit of sadness. Not this weekend, the most important weekend of my little sister’s life. I won’t be the blanket of gloom over everyone else’s happiness.

  She fans away the tears with her hand. “I’m sorry. I just saw it, and it just brought back so many memories.” She blurts the words out before she ever has time to think. It’s like a shot to the gut, a lightning bolt straight to the heart. “Oh, God. Char, I’m sorry. I’m such an idiot,” she cries, coming in for a hug. I wrap my arms around my sister’s back, comforting her, when all I want to do is go shut myself in my room, hiding away from the world and all the reminders that come with it.

  Memories. The one thing they say death can never take from you. What everyone fails to mention is sometimes life does that very thing.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing down every bit of hurt and anger trying to escape me. I know she didn’t mean to say it. I don’t fault her for having a memory. I won’t—no, I can’t—punish her for something that happened to me, something she had absolutely no control over. “I’m so sorry,” Lizzie whispers. “I didn’t mean to. I just, I…” she trails off, unable to come up with the words to say. I get it. I wouldn’t have the words to say either if the roles were reversed.

  She unwraps her arms from me, dabbing the bottom of her eyes with her hand. I wave my hands at her, trying to make it seem like a much lesser deal than what the smothering ache in my chest is telling me. “It’s no big deal,” I lie. “This is supposed to be your happy weekend, remember? No tears unless they’re happy tears.” I force a smile, cheering my sister up.

  She smiles. “You’re so good to me. Thank you for being my maid-of-honor, even though you have no idea what one does. But, I’m not sure I do either, so there’s that,” she jokes.

  “That makes me feel better.” I wink, thankful for the reprieve from the heaviness of what just occurred. “Let’s get to the church. I’m starving, and rehearsal dinner is only a run-through away. At least that’s what Mom said when I called her earlier.”

  Lizzie and I get to the church an entire fifteen minutes early, giving her enough time to check and make sure the decorators are doing exactly what they should be. So far it looks like one huge mess on the stage, but apparently all is going well because there is no yelling or cat fights going on. The fact we are in a church could very well be these people’s saving grace, however, because Lizzie has been so bitchy with all things wedding related.

  “Charlie.” I turn my head and see my mother walking towards me. Her long, dark hair kept in a neat up do. Lizzie looks just like her, and if looks are any indication to aging genes, Lizzie has it in the bag. Mom is over fifty, yet she doesn’t look a day over thirty.

  I get up from the pew, straightening my dress as I do so, and greet my mother. “Hi, Mom. You look beautiful.”

  “Thank you, honey. You look lovely, as always. How long have you two been here? Where is Lizzie?” she questions, looking around the church.

  I laugh. “She went to make sure the decorators you hired were doing their job correctly.”

  “Yes, well, I’m sure they are. I only got the best for our little girl.” She turns her attention from the front of the church back to me. “One day I’ll be able to do this for you, I hope.”

  She looks at me, a sad smile on her face. I want to tell her no way in hell, but I won’t. I don’t have the heart for it. “Yeah, well, I’m just trying to make it through each day right now. I wouldn’t put it in your planner anytime soon.” I smile, hoping to keep her from dragging it on any further. I feel like we’ve had this discussion every-other-day since Lizzie got engaged a year ago.

  I’m saved when Lizzie calls out for Mom and me to come up to the front.

  We make our way to her as she talks to the wedding coordinator. “But will the doors go here? I want the old doors we found splayed in the background. The two with windows in them, I want those directly behind Stetson and me.” Her arms fly around animatedly as she speaks. Lisa, the wedding coordinator
assures her the backdrop will be exactly like she envisioned, right down to the very last detail.

  I decide to step in, because I don’t want to see my sister become overwhelmed and cry. The only tears to be shed are happy ones. So I’ll push away my issues for the weekend and try to straighten out hers. “Liz, let’s go wait in the lobby for everyone. She’s got it under control, I promise. Let her worry about the details. She knows exactly how you want everything. Okay?”

  She takes a deep breath as she looks from Lisa back to me hesitantly. “Okay,” she breathes out. “Let’s go wait on everyone, shall we?”

  “We shall,” I reply, making our way into the foyer.

  “Are you both staying at home tonight?” Mom asks, walking up behind us.

  I look at Lizzie the same time she turns and looks at me. We’re both pleading with each other silently.

  I love my mother. She’s been so incredible and kind these past two years. But my God, she is overbearing at times. She acts like we are helpless puppies, unable to do anything for ourselves. I can tell by the panicked look on Lizzie’s face—she doesn’t know what to say to get out of this. No worries, I’ve got this handled.

  “Uhm, actually we were supposed to go out for drinks after this with the rest of the bridesmaids and groomsmen,” I lie. The tension in Lizzie’s shoulders suddenly eases as she gives me a small, grateful smile. She gets out her phone, fingers flying across the screen. I’ll take it my lie is no longer classified as a lie when Lizzie winks at me, tucking her phone away. “I thought I told you that last week, but with my mind, I probably forgot. It’ll be late when we get home, so we’ll just be over first thing in the morning for breakfast.”

  At the mention of breakfast, Mom’s face perks back up. “Oh, I get to make my two girls a wedding day breakfast feast. I can’t wait. I don’t get to cook big meals very often anymore, and you know how I used to always… Never mind.” She shakes her head, embarrassed.

  “Mom. Stop. I don’t remember, but you have a million photos of us growing up. The pictures don’t lie. You loved to cook obnoxiously huge meals, I know that much,” I say with a smile.