Her Dead Boyfriend, page 1
HER DEAD
BOYFRIEND
BY C. FITTON
First published in South Africa by Kingsley Publishers, 2024
Copyright © C. Fitton, 2024
The right of C. Fitton to be identified as author of this work has been asserted.
Kingsley Publishers
Pretoria,
South Africa
www.kingsleypublishers.com
A catalogue copy of this book will be available from the National Library of South Africa
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-7764468-2-7
eBook ISBN: 978-1-7764468-1-0
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For Karen and Jack
Prologue
Gripping the countertop with her fingertips, she pulled herself up to a standing position. Her heartbeat hammered her head like a fist; her breathing ragged. If only it was a dream − a horrible nightmare, but a dream all the same − and she could make it disappear by simply opening her eyes. She would wake up, and it would all be over.
But there would be no easy escape. A cold sweat prickled her skin, trickled down her back, and pooled at the base of her spine. The room tilted. Reaching out a shaking hand to steady herself, she stained the surface of the milky-white marble countertop with a bloody palm print. Her throat constricted; she was drowning under icy water. She heard a strangled cry. It seemed to come from somewhere far away. But when the same voice began to mewl like a baby, she realized, with a start, that it was coming from inside of her. Her knees buckled. The walls closed in. Her vision narrowed to a pinhole. She saw flashes of light and her world went black.
Chapter 1
A dull light leaked in through the purple-paned window in the foyer. It cast a sickly hue, making my hand blotchy and blue like a corpse. A year had passed since the accident, but I still clutched the doorknob with trembling fingers each time I ventured outside the walls of my Beacon Hill Brownstone. Calming my nerves with a deep breath, I turned the knob and yanked open the solid oak door. Dark-gray clouds cloaked the sky, so I pulled on a khaki rain jacket and cinched down the hood. Walking outside, I locked the door and descended the steps. Magnolia and lilac blossoms perfumed the chilly, spring air, but the thick canopy of trees spawned eerie shadows on the narrow, cobblestone lane.
I walked the few short blocks to Jacked Up Coffee, but when I reached the hip, industrial café, I hesitated outside. I adored my best friend, but if I detected even a hint of pity in her eyes, it would be unbearable. It had started to drizzle, and cars whizzed by on the busy street, splashing me with water, from the puddles formed. I knew that the ever-punctual Fiona Fraser would be waiting for me inside, so I drew a deep breath and wrenched open the heavy glass door.
The tin ceiling, exposed light bulbs and hardwood floors created an edgy, yet warm atmosphere inside the café. I scanned the crowded space until I spotted Fiona’s familiar blond bob. Pasting on a smile, I weaved my way through the maze of rustic tables and the sea of heads, bowed over laptops and cell phone screens.
Fiona was radiant and pretty in florals and pinks. “I’m so glad you came,” she said, jumping up and throwing her arms around me. “You’ve been such a recluse, since—” She cut herself off, touching her golden hoop earrings.
Since the accident, she meant to say. Visions of blood and broken glass flooded my brain and a vice-like pain gripped my head. Pulling away from Fiona, I pressed my fingertips to my temples.
Fiona fixed her concerned cornflower-blue eyes on me.
“You’re as white as a ghost! Why don’t you sit down, and I’ll get you a glass of water?”
“No, I’m fine.” I glanced down at the foamy heart shape poured on Fiona’s latte. “I just need my caffeine fix.”
I walked up to the marble counter and placed my order. A row of freshly baked pastries caught my eye, but I forced myself to look away. Months spent alone at home with nothing to do, but grieve, meant that I’d put on a few pounds. But the sweet scent wafting in the air had weakened my resolve.
“An Americano, and one of those, please,” I said, pointing at a pinwheel-shaped cinnamon bun, smothered in cream cheese icing.
The barista ground some beans, then knocked the portafilter to even out the fresh grinds. Steam hissed from the machine; the noise rattled my nerves. I took deep breaths in and out. If I couldn’t even make it through a simple coffee date with my best friend, how would I survive an entire day at work?
My manager, Dave, at Pemberley’s – a popular independent bookstore – had called a week ago and asked if I was ready to come back. He said the bookstore was busy and was short-staffed; furthermore, my colleagues missed me. At first, I’d been reluctant. But when he suggested that I try a part-time schedule to start off with, I’d agreed. I was due to start tomorrow, but standing here in the coffee shop with my temples throbbing, I doubted my decision. Maybe I still wasn’t ready…
The barista placed my order on the counter, and I walked back to the table. I hung my damp jacket on the back of the wooden chair, then sat down.
“That looks yummy,” Fiona said, eyeing the sugary pastry.
“Please help yourself.” She broke off a small piece and had a tiny nibble. I peeled off a doughy layer, stuffed it into my mouth and swallowed. A comforting warmness filled my belly. Ever since the accident, I had felt empty inside. I knew that filling my stomach was only a temporary alleviation, but it was better than nothing.
Fiona sipped some of her soy milk latte and peered at me over the rim of her cup.
“Tell me the truth. How’re you doing?”
“I’m surviving.”
I scooped a pill bottle out of my purse and shook a green-and-white capsule into my palm.
Fiona cocked an eyebrow. “You’re still taking those?”
I nodded, popped the antidepressant in my mouth, and swallowed it with coffee.
“Just be careful.” She narrowed her eyes into slits. “You don’t want to become addicted.”
I knew she meant well, but Fiona had no idea what it was like to be in my shoes. Shoving a piece of bun in my mouth, I almost gagged on its sickly sweetness. Then I slurped some coffee and wiped my lips using the back of my hand.
“You spilt.” Fiona pointed a neatly manicured fingernail at my chest.
I looked down and brushed the crumbs off my black T-shirt.
“Have you done any writing lately?” Fiona handed me a napkin. “You don’t want to let all that talent go to waste.”
I shook my head. “No, I haven’t felt much like writing…”
“That’s too bad.” Fiona pursed her lips with raised eyebrows.
I bristled. There it was—the pitying look that I’d been dreading.
“You know, Sean would want you to move on with your life.”
A sliver of resentment slid under my skin. How would Fiona know what Sean would want?
A silence fell between us.
Finally, Fiona leaned towards me. “What about your job at the bookstore?”
“My boss called me,” I said, “and I agreed to go back part-time.”
“That’s great news. You’ve been holed up all alone in your house for way too long.”
I glanced over at two young girls at a neighboring table, studying their cell phones and gossiping and giggling. Would I ever feel that carefree again?
“How’s school going?” I asked. “You must be counting the days until the summer break.”
Fiona sat up in her seat. “You’ll never believe what happened. One of my students brought his pet rat to class in a Tupperware® container. They were writing a test, so the room was quiet, but I could hear a strange sound. Turns out, it had gnawed a big hole through the lid.” She laughed. “I told him to take the rat home, but I found out later, he just put it in his locker.”
“Unbelievable.” I mirrored her laugh. “By the way, how was that art show last week?”
Fiona sat up and a grin unfurled on her face. “Actually, I’ve been dying to tell you what happened.”
“I’m all ears.”
Fiona sucked in her lips. Pink circles appeared on her cheeks.
“Don’t keep me in suspense.” I shifted in the hardbacked wooden seat.
Fiona hesitated a moment, then placed her palms on the table. “I met someone.”
A gnawing began tearing at my insides. I dropped my eyes, then tore off a piece of bun and pushed it around my plate.
“You look upset…”
“Not at all.” I conjured up a smile. “I want to hear all about him.”
“Well, if you’re sure… His name is Mark and he came up and asked me what I thought of one of his favorite abstract paintings.”
“What did you say?” I prompted her, pushing the sliver of envy to the back of my brain.
“I told him I didn’t get it. He said that was the whole point, that it was supposed to spark my imagination. I said it looked like blood spatter from a crime scene—” Fiona clapped a hand over her mouth. Her cheeks reddened and the blush spread down to her throat. “Sorry, I’m an idiot.”
“It’s okay. I’m not going to fall apart every time someone mentions the word blood.” I mustered a smile. “But you’ve just reminded me… the medical examiner finally finished her report on Sean’s death.”
“Oh my God.” Fiona’s face fell. “Did you see it? What did it say?”
“According to the ME, he died from a traumatic brain injury, when his head hit the windshield.” A lump formed in my throat.
“Did the police ever figure out what made him swerve off the road?”
A nerve twitched in my temple. “They said there’s no way of knowing for sure…”
“And you still can’t remember what happened?”
I shook my head. “My memory’s a gaping black hole.”
“Why on earth wasn’t he wearing a seatbelt?”
We locked eyes.
Why was Fiona asking so many questions? Sean was my dead boyfriend, not hers.
I swallowed another mouthful of coffee. “Why don’t you tell me more about Mark?”
“Are you sure you’re okay with me talking about this?” She knitted her brow. “I don’t want to upset you.”
“Why would it upset me?” I hunched my shoulders and stared past Fiona, at the distressed brick wall of the café. “You don’t need to tiptoe around me. That just makes me feel worse.” I forced the corners of my mouth in an upward direction. “So, tell me. Did Mark ask for your phone number?”
“Yes, he did. And, after an hour of drinking and flirting, I gave it to him.” She beamed at me from across the table, almost levitating off her seat. “And he sent me a text the next morning!”
“That was quick. What did he say?” I twisted a lock of hair around my finger.
“He asked me out for dinner Friday night, to that five-star seafood restaurant on the waterfront. I’m counting the minutes until the weekend.” Her voice crackled with excitement.
Sean and I had eaten a lobster dinner at that very same restaurant the night of the accident. My eyes thrust shut and an image of him appeared in my mind. He’d looked like a little boy, with that white plastic bib tied loosely around his neck and butter dripping down his chin. Tears pressed behind my eyelids.
“I really like him.”
Fiona’s voice jarred me out of my reverie.
“I’m so happy for you.” I pressed my fingernails to my palms. “What does he do for work?”
“Mark’s an emergency physician at City Center Hospital.” Fiona twirled one of her hoop earrings. “Doctor Mark Rankin. Can you believe it?”
A pin pricked my heart. “What does he look like? Is he cute?”
“He’s gorgeous. Tall, with dark hair, and perfect teeth. Oh, I almost forgot. We took a selfie.” Fiona scrolled through her phone, then thrust the screen in my face. “Isn’t he just to die for?”
I leaned forward and my breath hitched. The steel-blue eyes. The dark hair. The strong, chiseled chin. A shiver shot down my spine, as my eyes fixed on the screen.
Doctor Mark Rankin was a dead ringer for Sean—my dead boyfriend!
Chapter 2
After the coffee date, I headed straight home. Once I was inside the house, I hung up my wet jacket, then flopped down onto the floor and my pug dog, Keeper, scrambled onto my lap. Her cocoa-brown eyes stared up at me from a wrinkled, black face. All the tension that had built up during my coffee date melted away. I scratched Keeper behind the ears, then rubbed her silky-soft belly.
“You always make me feel better, Keeps.”
Mark’s resemblance to Sean was probably just a trick of my grief-stricken imagination. Shoulders hunched, I let go of a long breath. I gave Keeper a final pat, then stood up, and waltzed straight to the kitchen. Whipping open the freezer, I grabbed a tub of caramel ice cream. But the cinnamon bun still sat in my stomach, making me feel full to the brim, so I shoved the container back in the freezer. The gloomy weather had chilled me to the bone, so I plopped a bag of chamomile tea into a cup and switched on the kettle.
Moving to the living room, I melted deeply into my wingback chair and placed the steaming, hot tea onto the coffee table. I brought the reading lamp to life with a switch and its golden glow illuminated the built-in bookshelves on either side of the wood-burning fireplace. After sipping a few mouthfuls of soothing herbal tea, another long breath of air seeped out of me. Listening to Fiona drone on indefinitely about her teaching career and this new guy she’d met, was the same as a hundred tiny paper cuts to my heart. Keeper nuzzled her flat, button nose against my shin. Bending and reaching down to touch her fur, I said out loud, “What do you think I should do, little one?”
Fiona’s admonishing words replayed in my mind. “Done any writing lately? You don’t want to let all that talent go to waste.”
I placed the teacup on the table and took my laptop off the coffee table. But instead of searching websites for creative writing programs, I opened Netflix. A medical drama flashed on the screen, and Fiona’s voice echoed in my mind, again: “Mark’s an emergency physician… Doctor Mark Rankin. Can you believe it?” Jealousy coiled deep inside me, like a dangerous and venomous snake.
Exiting Netflix, I googled Mark’s name, then clicking and selecting the images a dozen photos of Mark appeared like a movie on the screen. There he was – Doctor Mark Rankin – clothed in a white lab coat and a stethoscope snaked around his neck. Sporting a pin-striped suit, Mark was at a charity event to help the community. Mark in a red polo shirt, playing golf. Him in a tux at an opera. Mark hiking, sailing, fishing. I zoomed in, enlarging one of the pixilated images and leaned closer to the screen.
Then, I slammed the laptop shut and traipsed back to the kitchen. With a tight-fisted grip, while my mind twisted like a tornado, I gave into the comfort, dug in to ice cream and stuffed my gaping mouth.
Chapter 3
As I walked to work the next morning, I stuffed away all thoughts of Dr. Mark Rankin. I focused on the pink, purple and white blossoms on the trees lining my route through the residential streets. I strode through the open glass doors of Pemberley’s Bookstore, determined to make a fresh start with my life.
The store manager, Dave Perkins, was waiting for me just inside the entrance.
“It’s great to have you back with us,” he said, giving me a tight hug that lasted a few seconds too long.
“It’s wonderful to be back at work.”
“I know I said you could start part-time,” he said, releasing me from his grasp, “but I really need you back full-time.”
“Not yet,” I shook my head. “I’m still coping with my boyfriend’s death…”
“But that was a year ago.”
I flinched.
“Don’t you think it’s time you moved on with your life?”
Did he think grief was like a dripping tap that I could simply turn off at will? But before I could respond, Dave had already shifted his attention to a young female employee who was standing on the top step of a spindly rolling ladder. She was dusting the upper shelf of the Regency-style, floor-to-ceiling, wooden bookcases. Now, Dave stood directly below her, peering up her skirt.
The young woman glanced down and caught Dave ogling her. Her face turned beet-red and she swayed on the ladder.
“Careful.” I rushed over, gripping the rails to help steady her descent.
“Better get back to my office.” Dave slinked away.
The young woman dismounted the last step. “Guess it wasn’t the smartest idea to climb up a ladder when I’m wearing a skirt.”
“Don’t blame yourself.” My eyebrows raised. “But watch out for Dave. He can be a bit of a sleazeball. I’m Erin, by the way.”
“My name’s Suzy, and thanks for the warning.” Her cheeks were still flushed a beet-red.
“We, women, have to watch each other’s backs,” I said, shining a smile at her.
Later, on my afternoon coffee break, I headed to a café down the street with Maddie Bain, another co-worker at the bookstore. She had spikey, black hair and a green snake tattoo that curled around her wrist.
“‘I have measured out my life with coffee spoons,’” I said, after we had placed our orders.
“I love TS Eliot,” Maddie said, beaming at me. “Do you write any poetry yourself?”
The barista pressed the fresh grounds with proficiency into the portafilter.
“No, not poetry. But it’s my dream to write a novel one day.”
“That’s amazing. I’d buy it.” Maddie’s eyes glowed. “And I’d come to all your readings.”
“First, I need an idea. And then, the hardest part of all, I actually have to start writing,” I groaned. “Ever since I won a writing prize at college, my mother’s convinced I’m going to be the next Harper Lee.”
