Count On Me

Moving On Again

SATURDAY, JANUARY 3, 2015 | 8:45 PM | FOUR

I stumble out of the warehouse and lean against the worn concrete wall, dropping my duffel bag next to me at my feet. I don't know if I can go back into that place again. I was going to stick around for one more fight, make a little more money to tide me over until I settle into yet another new life and find a job, but I don't think I can do it.

I always knew it was dangerous, and I didn't think I much cared. But that danger became a real-life nightmare two weeks ago. I had just won my fight at the personal cost of a concussion and was in the locker room resting then cleaning up; I don't know if it would have been better or worse had I been there to witness it. Worse, I think.

There was surprisingly little commotion, the conversations of other fighters sickeningly casual as they drifted into the dilapidated locker room. But it didn't take long to work out what had happened. I knew it would be a bloody fight ― that was inevitable when Amar went up against Max. I just had never imagined how horrible the outcome could be.

Amar made it to the hospital alive. I don't know who drove him there, only that he was pushed out of the backseat in front of the Emergency Room entrance before the SUV sped away. He made it to the hospital alive, but he didn't stay that way long. He was dead before I arrived to the hospital. Amar's boyfriend, George, was already on a last-minute flight here before the doctors came out to break the news.

I stayed there in the hospital waiting room until George arrived a few hours later. I had never even met George before, and I had to tell him that the man he loved was dead. But, though we were strangers to one another, it didn't feel that way. It was like we already knew one another through Amar's stories and George seemed determined to pick up the reins and continue taking care of me just as Amar had.

We got to know each other for real, not just through stories, as we packed up the apartment. George told me there was nothing worth staying here for with Amar gone, that he will go back to Portland to be near his sister Tori and put down roots there. And that's when he told me that there's a place for me there, too.

It seems that Tori had developed a fondness for a guy about my age, Zeke ― a friend of her receptionist at the tattoo parlor ― and Zeke was in need of a new roommate. I balked at first, skeptical that this guy could really be willing to let a perfect stranger move into his apartment. But, though the rent is cheap, George explained that Zeke can't afford to continue without a roommate and refuses to ask his family for financial help, that he couldn't even afford to go home for Christmas this year. Apparently, given the circumstances, George's word was enough for Zeke to agree.

The cold wind howls through the alley and I pull a beanie down over my ears and shove my hands into my pockets. My frozen fingers brush against a slip of paper with roughly torn edges and I pull it out in confusion. Seeing the number scrawled across the strip of paper, the image of a classically gorgeous girl, skimpy clothing showing off all her... assets... pops into my mind: the way she brushed up against me as I pushed my way out of the fight club, the seductive smirk she threw over her shoulder as she walked away, swinging her hips. My stomach clenches in guilt as I remember my eyes scanning down her body. I tear up the slip of paper and release it into the wind.

It's stupid, feeling guilty for noticing another girl. It wasn't ever that I was actually interested in the girl; even if I were looking for that sort of connection with someone right now, she really wasn't my type. Too... well... too slutty, to be blunt. My type, I scoff internally. As if I've ever exactly had a type. When I think of my type, one image flashes in my mind every time, and that's Beatrice. And it was never about her blonde hair or the incredible grayish-blue of her wide eyes, or her slender body and modest curves. Not that I didn't appreciate those things. But it was never really about that with Beatrice. It was always about all the things that made her, her. It was always about who she is deep inside, as if I were most attracted to her mind and her soul, and the fire of her spirit that I occasionally got to glimpse.

Before I know it, I have my cheap, prepaid phone in my hand and am dialing her number. It isn't saved in my contacts, but rather, I punch in the digits from memory. I will have to leave this phone behind when I move, just to be safe and continue evading Marcus, but for now, this is a number she should recognize. Which makes me wonder if she will answer.

I glance at the time once more before I press send; I had one of the first fights tonight so it's still early. Just before 11:00 in Chicago, so it shouldn't be too late to call. She's probably with Susan, Megan and Tess, I think as I bring the phone to my ear and listen to it ring, enjoying their last night of winter vacation before they return to Erudite Prep for a new semester.

I feel a little sick to my stomach as it continues to ring, the longer I wait the more sure that Beatrice is choosing not to answer. I shouldn't be surprised after my call to her a few months ago, but that last little bit of the conversation, her plea that I keep myself safe, I was certain she still cared.

At the fourth ring I've nearly given up hope, about to pull the phone from my ear and end the call before her voicemail can pick up, when the ringing suddenly stops and I straighten with hope.

Until― "Hello?" The voice that reaches me is decidedly not Beatrice's. Nor is it any of the girls I expected that she would be spending the evening with. No, this is an unfamiliar man answering Beatrice's phone, and suddenly that sick feeling is back in full force.

"Hello?" the guy repeats, then huffs. "Dude, are you going to call and just not say anything? Cause that's kinda creepy, you know. Like, stalker material."

After a quick exhale, I sputter, "Uh, no ― sorry ― uh... I just, um..." Another breath, deep and slow this time. "Is Beatrice there?"

The guy snickers under his breath, but doesn't explain what could be so funny about my question. "Yeah."

After a beat, impatience and irritation seeping through into my voice, I prompt, "Can I talk to her, then?"

I'm stunned, not to mention incredulous and frustrated, when he simply says, "No."

"No?" I repeat. "But you just said she was there. Who are you, anyway? Why are you answering Beatrice's phone?"

"I'm, uh, I'm Rocco," he says, sounding a little too amused. "Look, Tobias, she's here, she just doesn't want to talk to you. And I know she already told you that, last time you called. Nothing's changed. Let her go, man."

I stand there in shock, slack jawed as the call ends with a muffled click. Rocco? Who the hell is Rocco? What the hell kind of name is that, anyway? Who is he to her?

I straighten and push off the wall, firmly pressing my lips together and clenching my teeth. Rocco is someone new, obviously, or I would have met him or at least heard of him when Beatrice and I were still together. I knew all her friends. And given that it's late on a Saturday night, and she allowed him to answer a call she didn't want to take ― I try to ignore the extra stab of pain at that thought, she wouldn't even take my call ― they've gotten pretty close in the time they've known one another, in the few months since I have been gone.

All that draws me to one inevitable conclusion: Beatrice has moved on. She's over me.

And maybe it's time for me to forget her, too.

-----------------------------

A/N: Only took me a week this time! So, what do you think? Big hints here as to how Tobias and Tris will meet again, and it's coming pretty soon. Not next chapter, but soon. Let me know what you thought of the chapter, and thanks for reading!