Paper Hearts

20

The phone rang three times before the person on the other end picked up, and the second I heard her voice, I started to cry even harder.

"Rachael," I said, in-between gasps, "Rachael, I really need you to pick me up."

"Vicki?" She asked, a note of fear creeping into her tone. "Are you okay?"

"No," I said, my voice thick with tears. "I went to a party and I don't have a ride home and I'm covered in beer and if a cop finds me I'm probably going to jail—"

"Vick, calm down. Where are you?"

Her voice was even and measured, and I swiveled this way and that, catching a glimpse of the street signs surrounding me.

"Hartsford Boulevard," I said finally. "Near Tammy Harrison's house."

"Dammit, Vicki, okay. Calm down and stay there—give me five minutes."

"Thank you," I said, sounding pathetic even to my own ears. "Thank you so much."

"Don't mention it. Stay safe; I'll be right there."

So I waited, sitting my alcohol-soaked self on the sidewalk and trying to push the thought of Luke Callaway from my mind for as long as I possibly could.

_________

Rachael pulled up right on time, the headlights of her minivan shining in my face and illuminating me in all of my smeared-makeup glory. I now had a roaring headache—which was thanks to the crying and the beer smell—and I could hardly see straight.

"Oh, God, what happened to you?" Rachael asked as I opened the passenger's side and plopped down into the chair.

"Elle Dunst made up a kissing game," I said, my voice tremulous, "And I lost."

"Bitch," Rachael muttered, and I gave a weak laugh. She shot me a sideways glance, asking, "Where's Luke?"

At this, I groaned.

"He played the game, too. And completely made out with Elle Dunst, right after he kissed me like someone kisses their grandmother."

"Damn," she muttered. "Ouch."

"Yeah," I said, through a sigh. "Needless to say, Elle got her revenge. I left right after she got someone to pour the keg over me. Luke's probably still there. With her."

At this, I felt myself beginning to cry again, and I gave a small cough.

"Sounds to me that Luke Callaway isn't really a fake boyfriend for your mom's wedding anymore," she said, her voice hushed. "You really like him, don't you?"

I hesitated. I'd never really thought about it. I'd spent time with Luke every day, learning everything about him, talking with him and enjoying his company, all under the pretense that what I was doing was soley for the wedding. But, as Rachael looked at me, and I looked down at myself, sticky with beer and tears, I began to realize that after all of this time, I had grown used to Luke Callaway—and somewhere along the way, I had managed to fall for him.

I cursed loudly upon realization of this fact, and Rachael just looked at me with growing sympathy.

"Oh, Vick," she murmured. "In love with your fake, playboy boyfriend. I knew he wasn't the right choice."

I didn't.

"Come on, I know you want to cry," she said, throwing an arm around my shoulders. "Go ahead. I know this must hurt like hell."

So I did. I burst into tears right there, in the passenger's seat of Rachael Whims' minivan, covered in beer and cursing myself for falling in love with someone who so obviously didn't love me back, and never had. I could literally feel my heart breaking; it was as if someone were tearing it into a thousand little pieces, and I was helpless, I could not stop them, I felt every little thing that I had grown to cherish and nurture being torn right out from under my feet, and I was falling, falling, falling through a cold and endless sky, screaming for help when no one could hear me, when no one would be there to save me, not even the one person I thought I could trust.

"I'm sorry," I told Rachael finally, "I was acting like such an ass. I shouldn't have jeopardized what you and I have; I was so blind and stupid and naiive—"

"I forgive you, Vicki, and I always will." She told me, removing her arm from my shoulder and smiling sadly at me. "I'm sorry things had to happen this way."

"Yeah, well," I said, sniffing. "Me, too."

There was a beat. Silence. I straightened myself up and asked,

"Thanks for being here. I—maybe I could crash at your place? I don't want Dad to see me like this."

"Sure," she said, pulling the car into drive, "But first, there's something we need to do."

________

The cashier at Grayson's Market looked at us like we were crazy—Rachael's hair was tangled and wild from sleep, and I was, well, covered in beer—and we were buying two dozens of eggs at about 12:15 A.M.

Once the transaction was finished, Rachael paid, and we ran through the almost-empty parking lot, jumping into her car and driving back to Tammy Harrison's house, where the music was still playing and Luke Callaway's truck was still sitting in the street.

"You ready?" Rachael asked, her playful nature returning as she lifted the egg carton with a cheeky smile.

"Yes," I said breathlessly, anger and hate and sadness and everything else coursing through me as I stared at the truck, the truck that he so often drove me around in, the truck that had brought us here, to this hellhole of a night.

"Okay, then," my friend said, unbuckling and handing me a carton as she kept one for herself. I sidled out of the seat and into the street, the cold air whipping around my damp skin, leaving me shivering, but I was suddenly too rage-filled to care.

I popped open the carton and pulled out a perfectly round egg, turning it over in my hands a few times before chucking it at the car. It hit the side with a satisfying crunch, yellow liquid running down the paint, the shell breaking into a thousand little pieces.

"Hell yeah!" Rachael cheered, and I grinned at her, throwing another.

This one hit the windshield, splattering it with the thick substance. I threw another, and another, and another, never missing once, my throws getting harder and harder as I went, unleashing the anger and frustration and utter despair that I felt whenever I pictured his mouth against Elle Dunst's...

All too soon, I was out of eggs, but Rachael handed me her carton, and I kept going, cursing under my breath and speaking with each egg I threw.

"Damn—you—Luke—Callaway!" I said as the eggs splattered all over the car, speaking as loudly as I dared, my voice hardly rising above the music that blared inside the house.

"That's how it's done!" Rachael whooped, and I threw the carton onto the ground, stalking back over to the minivan and sliding inside. Rachael started it up and sped away.

"How did that feel?" She asked loudly, rolling the windows down so that I could stick my hand out and feel the air rushing in, energy and excitement churning in my veins.

"Incredible," I told her, the rageful tears beginning to dry on my cheeks. "Thank you."

"You're welcome!" She called back, and as her red hair flew in her face and she sang loudly along on the radio, picking a stray eggshell off of her hand and throwing it outside, I felt a rush of warm gratitude for Rachael Whims, who—no matter what happened—I knew would always be there to help me.

"Damn you, Luke Callaway," I said softly to myself, again, as I let the night air rush over my face and erase what felt like years' worth of pain from my body, erasing the thought of Luke himself from my mind and from myself.

And, just like that, I was falling out of love.

Or so I thought.